The Four Last Things
An Advent Short Story
This story originally appeared in the inaugural edition of Everyday Epiklesis. You can find the full publication below, complete with a wonderful selection of poetry and essays by an incredibly talented bunch of Christian writers.
It was the third week of Advent when a letter arrived at St. Bartholomew’s Church, a small parish nestled in the mountains outside Montpelier. The return address showed the bishop’s name, which could hardly be good news.
Inside was a short message addressed to Fr. Thomas, priest of St. Bartholomew’s for over two decades. Admittedly, Fr. Thomas rarely heard that title used of him anymore. These days, he had taken to responding to questions about his career by saying that he worked either for a wedding venue or a funeral home. In some ways, both felt truer than calling himself a pastor with his flock all but gone. The writing had been on the wall—or, rather, the empty pews—that the church had little time left. If the bishop were not so busy, Fr. Thomas suspected the parish would’ve been closed years ago. Perhaps, he thought, it just hadn’t been worth the effort.
Until now. For the letter read that this would be the final Christmas for St. Bartholomew’s, and the bishop expected him to take his retirement. This parish would be his final outpost.
It wasn’t a surprise, exactly. Nor could Fr. Thomas say that he was altogether reluctant to retire. And yet, since the letter had arrived that morning, he’d been restless. Even now, he tapped his fingers anxiously on his wooden desk, eyes scanning the letter from top to bottom, bottom to top, and even checking to see if writing had appeared on the empty reverse side of the paper. Still nothing.
Glancing out the window, his eyes beheld the vesper light, and he shook himself out of a stupor as he rose to put his boots on. The walk from the parsonage to the parish was short, but the combination of old legs and falling snow made it seem longer than it used to be.
When he walked through the doors of the stone church, he glanced around to take in the church that had once filled him with awe. It had been too long since he’d looked up to see the wooden rafters, or even the stained glass at either end. The closing door echoed through the sanctuary, but the silence didn’t sound sacred anymore—just a reminder of all that was not there. He’d felt his faith falter over the years with the falling attendance, and he wondered what would become of it when those slabs of oak on rusted hinges closed for the last time.
The thought would’ve frightened him in his early days, but now it flitted through his mind without much concern.
He’d struggled to concern himself with much since Claire had died. Their 49 years together were still far too few and each day without her far too long. It was her memory, her love of the parish and its people, that caused him to sigh as he rested one hand on the rounded edge of the final pew. What would she say if she saw me now?
He should’ve known better than to ask such questions. It was easier to slip the metal flask out from the inside of his coat pocket than linger on that particular question. As had become his habit, he set the flask on the pew as he opened the prayer book and said the opening psalm with whiskey-tinged breath. Whether out of habit or an ember of faithfulness, he found he couldn’t keep himself from morning and evening prayer. The words were a part of him as much as the liquor and lingering grief.
When he’d finished, he looked at the advent candles by the pulpit. The past two Sundays not even faithful Mrs. Johnson had been in the congregation, the snow keeping her at home. He’d preached to the church mice, but they showed little sign of repentance. Still, he’d lit the candles and said the prayers before sitting and watching the wax drip down till he’d passed out in the pew.
Now, after saying the final words of evening prayer, his knees cracked as he rose to his feet and shuffled toward the exit. Stepping out into the cold, he didn’t bother to lock the doors. There was nothing much to steal nor did thieves abound in the sleepy northern town. Plus, he would’ve had to take his hands out of his pockets for that.
He walked with his head bent into the bitter wind, and, with his eyes on the ground in front of him, he almost missed the hazy light from a fire around the back of the church. Pausing, he debated whether it was worth investigating, but something about the thought of Claire that the whiskey hadn’t fully washed away had him trudging through the snow toward the decrepit sheds.
It was there that he found a man huddled under the roof. Hands outstretched, he was warming himself by a fire made with what appeared to be old planks of the shed. The man’s back was turned to Fr. Thomas, and he didn’t hear the priest approach over the sound of the wind.
“Excuse me,”Fr. Thomas said, his tone a mix of annoyance and apprehension.
The man turned to him, looking amused. “Have you come to join me, Father?”
“What?” Fr. Thomas began, then cut himself off. “No. No, I haven’t come to join you. What are you doing out here?”
The man was disheveled, with a wild beard and unkempt hair, his jacket held together by duct tape in several places.
“Just waiting.”
A pause. Fr. Thomas expected him to continue, but when he didn’t, he swept one hand out in front of him, asking, “waiting for what, exactly?”
“Aren’t you a priest?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything and nothing, I suppose. In any case, I’m waiting for the end. Or perhaps the beginning. Both, I think!”
With a roll of his eyes, Fr. Thomas said, “Just don’t burn the shed down, ok?”
He began to walk away when the man called after him, “you’re not going to stay?”
Without so much as turning around, Fr. Thomas simply shook his head and walked up the hill to his small parsonage. The street lights cast an orange glow on the snow, but he could’ve made his way with eyes closed.
Once inside, he lit his wood stove and leaned his neck against the back of his worn leather chair. Most days he never made it to his bed after sitting in that chair. He knew it was bad for his back, but so was the cold and being old. Neither of those seemed to change so why should he?
He loosened the collar around his neck and enjoyed the burn of liquor down his now-free throat. It was a Saturday, and, as usual, he found himself wondering if anyone would show at church the next day. It was a coin toss, but he struggled to call heads or tails—couldn’t decide which he wanted.
A few more sips of whiskey, and he expected to slip into the embrace of sleep. But it refused to come. His flask was empty by the time he trudged to his bedroom. With one arm, he shoved aside a pile of laundry that, even if it had been clean when he put it there—and he couldn’t remember for sure—it was now wrinkled and in need of washing again. His eyes betrayed him when they fell upon the photo of Claire on his nightstand. It stabbed him every time he saw it, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it either. It was easier to simply sleep in the chair.
Whether it was the passing glance at her portrait or something else, sleep evaded him once more, and he felt the rising frustration at being awake that fuels so many sleepless nights. It was a spiral he couldn’t escape.
It was 2 a.m. by the time he rose from the bed. He gave up on finding the release of sleep having glanced at the clock five times in nearly as few minutes.
His hands shook as he refilled his flask causing the amber liquid to drip down his hand. Cursing he turned to wash it off in the sink, only to find the dishes piled so high that there was no room. Pushing them aside, the plates clattered loudly in the night. Too loudly. The noise set his teeth on edge and made him push at them harder, sending a stack careening off the countertop and shattering on the floor. His fingers curled toward his palms as the muscles in his arms tensed at the too loud noise. Knuckles white, he gripped the countertop to steady himself but it only made his shaking all the more evident to him.
One too many. It had just been one too many. One too many drinks. One too many hours without sleep. One too many things going wrong on this God-forsaken day. One too many days. Days without her. Days with himself.
He was tired. So tired that he wept, alone in his kitchen, for the first time in a very long time.
After some time—he couldn’t be sure how much since time passes differently on the floor—he heard a knock on his door. As a rule, no one came to his door, especially not in the middle of the night. At first, Fr. Thomas sat still.
Could’ve been the wind, he thought.
But then the knock came once more.
By the third time, he dragged himself to his feet, running his hand through the remaining wisps of hair atop his head. He squinted through the peephole, but it was too dark to see. Turning on the porch light would indicate he was there, and he couldn’t play his cards quite yet.
He was still making his plans when a man’s voice came from the other side, “Fr. Thomas, sorry to disturb your vigil, but I need to show you something.”
The voice was at the edge of familiarity, just barely beyond the realm of his consciousness.
Against his better judgment, Fr. Thomas opened the door.
On the other side of the doorway stood the man from the fire.
“What do you want?” Fr. Thomas asked.
“I need to show you something.”
“At this hour?”
“Indeed,” the man responded, smiling as though it were perfectly normal.
For reasons he couldn’t quite understand, Fr. Thomas acquiesced.
“Oh, you’ll want a jacket,” the man said quickly, and Fr. Thomas obliged, grabbing a scarf for good measure.
The parsonage and parish were located along the main street of the small town. Nothing was open at this hour, but the man led him toward the shops nonetheless.
“Where are we going?” Fr. Thomas asked as they walked in and out of light and shadow.
“To see the first of the last.”
More riddles, the old priest thought.
Fr. Thomas was too lost in thought to notice that they had stopped walking. The two men stood in front of an old house with a broad white porch stretching across the front. He knew this house.
“What are we doing at Mrs. Johnson’s house?” the priest asked.
But before waiting for an answer, Fr. Thomas stepped forward. The light to the living room was on. Strange, he thought. What would Mrs. Johnson be doing up at this hour?
Quietly, he stepped onto the porch and peered into the window. There, inside the house were Mrs. Johnson’s three children. They crowded around her, each with their hands on her. Even through the foggy glass, he could recognize the shuddering breaths of grief.
Fr. Thomas spun on his heels. “Is she dead?”
The man nodded slowly.
“What happened? Why? How did you know?”
Rather than answer, the strange man simply held up a hand, then motioned for him to come off the porch.
“Leave them, for now.”
Numb in more ways than one, Fr. Thomas trudged after the man who was already walking back toward the church.
Something was off about all of this. With a growing sense of frustration, Fr. Thomas stopped in the middle of the street, grabbing the arm of the man.
“Who are you?”
“We must keep going,” the man said with a sigh.
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Three more,” the man whispered, then continued walking.
When they reached the parish, the man went around the side of the building, back toward the sheds.
To Fr. Thomas’s alarm, the fire still blazed.
“You let the fire keep going while we were gone?”
“Should I have let them freeze?” The man’s voice had an edge to it for the first time.
Confused, Fr. Thomas moved ahead slowly. Laying by the fire was a young woman with a baby held to her chest.
The priest glanced to his companion and whispered sharply, “who are they?”
“Two,” the man said and held his eyes. “They are the ones who have been sleeping in your church every night for the past week. It’s cold in there, you know? But it’s colder outside. Neither are as warm as your spare room.”
“I didn’t know!” Fr. Thomas tried to whisper, but his words woke the woman.
Her dark brown eyes bulged and she shuffled away from him, baby gripped tightly in her arms.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Fr. Thomas said quietly. He showed her his open palms, trying not to make any sudden movements.
Her eyes moved rapidly between the two men.
“Would you like to go inside?” the priest asked. “It’s warm. I, I can get you some food.”
When she didn’t respond, the man said, “Está bien. Puedes confiar en él. Te lo prometo.”
Slowly, she rose to her feet, pivoting to keep her body between the men and her child.
This time, Fr. Thomas didn’t need the man to show him the way. He led them up to his house, mind racing. The girl—she was so young. Younger than Claire when they’d met. But she had the same eyes. They glowed amber in the firelight, and he couldn’t shake the image from his mind.
A week. They’d been sleeping in the church for a week, and he hadn’t known it. How?
When they reached his house, he showed them to his spare room and put on a kettle for tea. Fr. Thomas watched the man whisper to the young girl as she sat by the wood stove. The priest jumped when the kettle began to whistle, and he hurriedly looked for three mugs. His hands shook again while he poured, but this time he managed not to spill.
As he placed mugs in front them, he looked to the man and said, “please, tell her that whatever she needs, I’m happy to help. No one should be in the cold at Christmas.”
In response, the man smiled deeply, set a hand on Fr. Thomas’s shoulder, and whispered, “three.”
The events of the night flashed through Fr. Thomas’s mind. Mrs. Johnson. The woman in the cold. And now the tea. Suddenly he looked at the man with recognition. Fear settled in him as he wondered what the fourth would reveal.
“The fourth. The last of the last things. What is it?” His voice shook as he asked.
Gently, the man walked guided Fr. Thomas away from the wood stove and back to the kitchen. The man pointed to the shards of the plates that still littered the kitchen floor, the place where Fr. Thomas had sat, curled into himself not long ago.
“You know the fourth. You’ve built it brick by brick and bar by bar these past few years.”
The truth hit Fr. Thomas with such force that the air rushed out of him.
“What can I do?”
The man looked over at the baby asleep on the woman’s chest, then beyond to the church, barely visible through the window.
“It is Advent is it not? Have you been waiting? Have you been watching? Will you know what it is when it’s in front of you? The end, and the beginning. Both, my friend.”
This is Advent without sentimentality and mercy without soft lighting. I love how judgment never storms in shouting. It just keeps showing up as attention. As presence. As the thing you can no longer pretend not to see. The brilliance here is that the reckoning isn’t cosmic fireworks. It’s a sink full of broken plates and the slow realization that grace has been knocking all along, quietly waiting for you to open the door. Hope doesn’t arrive as absolution. It arrives as responsibility, and somehow that makes it holier
When you described death as something that should “make the present more present,” that hit hard in a good way. And your reflections on judgment didn’t feel distant or abstract, but like an invitation to live with honesty and love right now. Ending on beatitude as both a promise and a practice was really good.