Treasures of the Darkened Soul

Albiérti Guilmartín was the son of a good man. Albiérti’s life was not significant. He died of a stroke at the age of seventy-five. There were no mourners at his funeral. The newspaper misprinted his name in his obituary—to the chagrin of absolutely nobody.

When he was three, he was given a harmonica and took up music as a profession. By the age of seven, he had abandoned his love of the harmonica to become a man. Life is hard for the son of a migrant field worker—especially when that field worker is a good man.

Let me forewarn you, reader, there is nothing redeeming about this story. Any man or woman who clings to ignorance in the pursuit of hope should read no further. This is a story about a human being—and the son of a good man.

By grade school, Albiérti realized that he would need a nickname. He did not have a strong name like Mark, or a normal name like John. But he did not want a normal name. He was not a normal person like Mark or John. The name Alti would suit him just fine, he thought. It was a special name for a special little boy—at least that’s what his father said when he suggested it to him. Alti had learned not to think so highly of himself, but liked the way his new name sounded.

When he was older and applying for work in the city, he realized that his heritage might be keeping his phone from ringing with calls from prospective employers. He needed a strong, normal name. So he became Albert Gilmartin. It was only a change in name.

There was nothing for Alti in this life. In school, he was perpetually the odd-man-out. No smarter or stronger or more attractive than the kid next to him, he kept quite to himself. He needed glasses. His father was a good man, but that wasn’t enough for the insurance company. There’s little money for fathers who work the fields, and much less for the sons of those fathers.

Alti had a mother, but not really. The woman who married his father long ago was not the woman who lived in his father’s house and ate his father’s food. This woman, at one time a vibrant young thing, had been eaten away by years of poverty and struggle. It turns out beauty and character, vitality and perseverance, do not always come in pairs. Yet, Alti’s father told her he loved her every night and every morning. Something about the way she rolled her eyes made Alti sad inside.

When he was fifteen, Alti’s mother died. Nobody was surprised by her death. Suicide is a fatal affliction whose final effects can take years to develop. When the symptoms are spotted, they can sometimes be treated. But there is no cure for suicide once it sets in fully. And there is no honor for a man whose wife or mother will not fight for their own cure. Alti’s classmates reminded him of that often.

There is a special brand of cruelty that disfigures the human soul. It is so pure in its sheer force that it can only be dispensed during adolescence—the time during which its effects are most notably inflicted, mind you. Alti was no stranger to this cruelty. His father was a good man, but there is only so much good men can do for young men before these young men become old men. And old men never change.

Love is character’s midwife. Alti’s father knew this, and showed him affection in whatever ways he could. But Alti could not see his father’s love for what it was intended to be. To make things worse, Alti perceived this great strength as great weakness, spurning all receipt of it from his father after the age of twelve. When his mother died, Alti’s father wept. Alti looked with disgust upon a good man. This was his undoing.

At eighteen, he left home to find work in the city. His father desperately wanted him to stay at home, because Alti’s father lived for him. Alti lived for himself. The city seemed a perfect place for someone like that. It was.

When you’re eighteen and the son of a field worker, the lights of a city seem to burn more pure than the starry summer skies of your country upbringing. It doesn’t take long, however, to realize that perception does not always equal reality. After awhile, neon lights and busy streets instill the same monotonous depression of simple, country living. And loneliness thrives in crowds.

He never wrote to his father. Ignorance had helped him defeat his father’s love while he was at home, and distance only fed that ignorance. Love, it seemed to Alti, was not something you wanted in your life. It seemed a hassle and a burden. His father had loved his mother dearly, before and after she ended her life. This life was to be lived through sheer strength, or not at all.

Besides, when he was twelve, he did know what it means to love. His mother, not beset with the ravages of her lethal depression, had cared for him as a small child. And as a grade-schooler, she feigned interest in the little things that brought joy to Alti’s heart. One such thing was a girl named Mara. She was beautiful, and Alti knew it. But so did all the other boys; and they were much smarter and stronger than he.

This did not deter Alti’s interest in Mara. He watched her in silence—waiting to see if she would glance his way. He hoped that someday she would turn to him and profess her undying love. But Alti had never been one to read fairy tales, and thus didn’t realize that only princes and princesses live happily ever after.

One day, he bought her some candy, presenting it to her with all the confidence of a paper doll—which, incidentally, was all the confidence that he could muster. When he is twenty-one years-old, working in a factory, and living in a dirty apartment complex, his heart hardens with the memory of Mara. It makes him despise his father’s love even more.

His father never told him about princes and princesses. Instead, his father told him about hope for the future and love for the people around you. As Mara rolled her eyes at him that day, love and hope fell deathly ill in the heart of that little boy, and they were buried silently with his mother’s corpse, beneath his father’s tears.

Little more is to be said about the life of Al Gilmartin. He was not significant. He went to your school, ate at your restaurant, worked in your office, and lived in your neighborhood. He did not talk to you. He did not smile at you as you walked by, exchanging glances. He did not bring you flowers when you moved in next door, and he did not attend your church on Easter.

His is a life marked by loneliness. No measure of curiosity would lead you to stop him on the street and ask him about his life. If you asked him about it, he’d tell you that that’s how he would wnat things to stay. If you tried to talk to him, he wouldn’t be friendly. It takes a lot time and patience to enter his world—more time or patience than most anyone is willing to afford.

Albiérti Guilmartín is the mission field. There is no glory on earth for the one who makes it their mission to bring him to Jesus. Only a dedicated, devoted, humble follower of Christ even has a chance of penetrating the walls in this man’s soul. No mere human has a sermon powerful or a microphone loud enough to drown out the perpetual lies that have blackened this man’s heart.

The only type of human whom God has equipped with the tools to reach such a soul is one who has accepted the spiritual office of a Neighbor. There is no pulpit or love offering associated with this office. They are not allowed a table in the back from which to sell their life-changing message. They are not brought to the front and recognized for their outstanding giftings—even if they were, they would be quite embarrassed. No, there is no earthly glory for the office of a Neighbor.

“But many who are first will be last, and many who are last will be first.”
- Matthew 19:30