DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A FICTIONAL STORY MEANT TO BRING FORTH THE AMIGONIAN CHARISM

“Hand, now!” 

I commanded the words, my hand hovering, poised to strike the boy’s open palm. My eyes burned with fury, my lips curled in an angry snarl. In that fractured second, I wanted nothing more than to force respect into a space that had completely lost it. That was until a firm, gentle grip clamped around my wrist. And… everything stopped 

Let me tell you the entire story of it all: before the mud, before the shouting, and before my hand was even raised, there was only the Rule. 

I have lived strictly under the Rules of St. Benedict, to follow schedule, to make my work become worship, and to observe discipline. That’s all that I ever knew and it was ingrained in my very spirituality. Ora et Labora… A fundamental of the very discipline I followed and I took it seriously, so seriously I tried to search for a way to become further productive. Until I came across an opportunity; there was an event under the Amigonian brotherhood. Curious, I joined it under the guise of learning its spirituality. 

After packing my things, I took a long, grueling train ride just to get to their seminary. There, I didn’t sign up as a detached observer or an elite guest—no, becoming a true participant was the

ultimate goal for this experience. I knew I could never fully claim to understand their world without actually living their culture, and learning to be truly humble was the first step. 

Teenagers were doing their own things just to get by, faces glued to phones, playing instruments, doing tag on the dirt, gossiping, throwing slang words I had never heard before, and mocking one another. Some even bumped their elbows against me. It felt less like a house of God. Instantly, I felt out of place. I stood frozen, my mind instinctively judging the raw, unruly environment around me. 

An Amigonian postulant came to me, asking where I came from. I told him that I hail from the quiet mountains, where my Order resides. As we walked along the edge of the fields, we chatted about Scripture and theology. I leaned closer to him to ask a question as we came close. “Brother, I like how you gather youth to become closer to God. I wonder where you found them, is it by invitation or announcement?” 

“It’s a mixed bag, really. But mostly are from rehabilitation centers, juvenile prisons, and orphanages.” 

“So you gathered different youth to converge here and become close, isn’t that going to be a problem when it comes to discipline and order?” 

“We have our methods. Here’s your room.” He opened the door to a large room lined with mattresses, not beds; it was different from where I usually slept with my brothers. They were mostly torn and shriveled; pillows were makeshift of sewn cloth and thread. I looked back at him as I left my luggage on the floor. 

“You really embodied humility in poverty, the legacy of St. Francis.” 

“Yes…”, the Amigonian tucked some of the pillows and smoothed them. “It is something we are proud of; it grounds us to feel the struggle of others so we may open ourselves to them. For

resources, we only relied on donations, charity, and God’s grace to live by. That is already enough.” 

Soon, teenage boys came pouring into the room. Right before they could rest their bags on the floor, the brother pulled out a basket. 

“Your phones, would you please, children.” 

A collective groan echoed through the hallway. One by one, the teenagers reluctantly fished out their devices and dropped them into the basket. I, too, stepped up and surrendered mine. The basket quickly filled to the brim with glowing screens and tangled headphones. The Amigonian Brother just smiled warmly as the teenagers complied, unfazed by their resistance. He then told us to prepare for lunch later at the refectory. 

I envisioned walking in two-by-two, heads bowed, sitting in solemn rows to eat our bread while listening to a holy reading. Instead, I walked into a wall of noise. The Amigonian refectory was a market square disguised as a dining hall. There was no pulpit. There was no silence. Teenagers yelled across tables, banging their plastic cups, arguing over portions of rice, and laughing loudly. The order was not present; the prayer too was immediate as it was treated like a joke. 

But what shocked me most was the Amigonian brother. 

He wasn’t sitting apart in a seat of honor. He was right in the thick of it, squeezed onto a crowded bench between a boy with a bruised eye and another with faded street tattoos. The brother was laughing heartily, gesturing wildly with his fork, and speaking to them in the same rapid, rough street slang they used. He even let one of the boys casually swipe a piece of bread right off his own plate; instead of a reprimand, he chuckled lovingly as he patted each of them. A sight that confused me.

After the meal, as the youth ran out to the courtyards, I cornered the brother by the washing bins. My voice trembled with suppressed disapproval. 

“Brother… May I ask, why did you let your habit be shriveled? You even spoke words that I haven’t heard before, and laughed while eating.” 

“Because it makes me grow closer to them. It’s the connection that is important despite the chaos”, he smiled and chuckled while answering. 

“Indeed, somehow there were friendships that were formed”, I looked slightly away. “I have to go tend the others; they need a point guard”, he left after washing the last plate, heading to the court to play ball with them. 

Meanwhile, I sat at one of the benches. There I brought out my copy of the Rule to realign myself with humility; it was peaceful. Until a group of teenagers approached me, their expressions dripping with challenge. 

“What’s in that book? Secrets? A diary? Let me read it.” 

“Return to your quarters”, I continued reading, not looking at their eyes. 

Before I could react, their leader snatched the book away. 

“What’s so important about it?” 

“Give back the rule… now.”, This time, I stood up. 

“Dude finally stood up.” 

“He’s angry now, alright.” 

“Do it, bro.. Do it” 

They laughed and mocked me; I did my best to calm, but the situation was dire. I must have the rule back, and they must not- RIP

It was torn… the Rule was torn; centuries of divine order were violently torn out and scattered into the mud like worthless trash. This wasn’t just a book; they had desecrated the very foundation of my soul. I could no longer contain… I have to do it. 

“Disrespectful children! How barbarous… you should be ashamed!”, I roared loudly They backed off, their mocking faces turned into whimpering ones. 

“Hands, now!” I commanded, my voice booming off the brick walls like a thunderclap. “Now!” The absolute terror of the command broke them. They trembled from the shock, their bravado completely evaporating into the night air as they held their palms open, trembling. «You think this is a game?» I snarled, stepping into his space. «You look at me and see an easy target? You’re already this old and still lack discipline!” 

“No” 

“Open them wide! All three of you!”, I shouted. 

I threw my arm back, my palm flat and rigid, poised to strike a lesson of absolute discipline into them. I wanted to break their arrogance. Force respect if I ever have to. As for the leader, his face shifted instantly. The mocking armor vanished, replaced by a cold, hardened mask of survival. He didn’t run, didn’t even put his hands up to fight back. Instead, he simply flinched, tightening his jaw, shutting his eyes, and bracing his open palm for the impact. 

Right before I could smite their palms, a strong grip held back my arm. I turned to look at who dared to stop me from enforcing discipline. But the words died instantly on my lips; it was the Amigonian brother. His face was streaked with silent, heavy tears. He didn’t speak a single word, breathing heavily; his face reddened. 

“Mercy… Brother, mercy please”, tears wear gushing from his eyes as he held my arm back. “Why do you delay my discipline? Look what they did to the Rule”, I pointed at the torn papers

He looked at the Rule and gulped; he knew it was indeed a big deal. 

“I ask forgiveness on their behalf, these children… Although they may be rowdy and barbaric as you say, they have been suffering for a long time and were deprived of love and compassion from their environment.” 

I calmed down but kept my stern stare at him, slowly I remembered I had broken a rule. Regret came to me. I sighed and lowered my arm. 

“I apologize, I let myself be consumed by my outburst and I have gravely… almost hit a youth.” “We’re sorry too”, the leader bowed in turn. 

“Tsk, what you ripped was something of value to me.” 

“And it’s our fault for… for thinking it was an ordinary piece of paper.” 

“Let me have those”, the Amigonian tried to reach for the torn Rule. 

He pieced the pages, and bit his lip while finding a way to fix the book. Immediately he ran to his office to grab: Needle and strings. 

Pierce, pull, knot… a rhythm of mending. I watched how this postulant fixed the Rule. 

“Here”, he hands the Rule and slowly took it from his hands. 

I looked at it, no longer the same but was held by thread. I fell silent, and turned to look at him. “Thank you, thank you… again, I apologize and I humbly accept yours”, I bowed. 

«Come,» the Amigonian brother said softly, gesturing toward the main building as he wiped away his tears. «Let us go inside.»

Instead of sending the shaken boys to their dormitory, the Amigonian brother gathered them, along with the rest of the youth from the compound, and guided them toward the small, unassuming concrete structure at the edge of the grounds. 

I followed at the back of the line, my heart still hammering against my ribs. In my monastery back home, entering the chapel was an entry into majestic, predictable grandeur; gilded altars, soaring stone arches, and a strict, unyielding silence. But as we pushed open the squeaking wooden doors of this field hospital chapel, there was no grandeur. The air was humid, smelling faintly of floor wax and recent rain. The youth shuffled into the pews, their usual rough shoving and cynical whispers completely swallowed by the heavy residue of what had happened in the courtyard. 

The Amigonian brother did not head to the altar or don a formal liturgical vestment. Instead, he pulled up a plastic stool, picked up an old, scratched acoustic guitar, and sat right in front of them. He struck a chord, and a warm, resonant melody filled the bare room. He began to sing. He sang songs of radical mercy, of a Father who runs down the road to meet a prodigal son, of God’s call to the lost sheep. His voice wasn’t polished like a cathedral choir, but it was enough to touch the hearts of these teenagers. 

As the music washed over the pews, I witnessed something profoundly supernatural. 

The tough street armor began to crack. The leader, the very boy I had slammed against the brick wall, buried his face deep in his calloused hands, his shoulders shaking violently as he wept. Beside him, teenagers, punks, and self-proclaimed delinquents who had spent their lives surviving on violence began to break. Some tried desperately to fight it, biting their lips and staring at the ceiling to hold back the tears, but one by one, they gave up their bravado. Boys

with hardened eyes and street tattoos fell to their knees on the cold concrete floor, weeping openly, yelling out through their tears that they loved Christ. It was a chaotic yet beautiful explosion of raw repentance and absolute surrender. I began to wonder… How? 

As the final chords of the song faded into the soft sound of the boys’ sniffling, I turned to the Amigonian brother. My voice was barely a whisper, stripped of all my former pride. 

«How…» I choked out, gestures toward the kneeling youth. «How did you do it?» “Love.” 

“And the basis?” 

“Remember Luke 15:4-7, ‘⁴ Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them—what does he do? He leaves the other ninety-nine sheep in the pasture and goes looking for the one that is lost until he finds it. ⁵ When he finds it, he is so happy that he puts it on his shoulders ⁶ and carries it back home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says to them, ‘I am so happy that I found my lost sheep—let us celebrate!’ ⁷ In the same way, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine respectable people who do not need to repent’. That’s the reason… We go to look for the sheep who gone astray to bring them back to the flock.” 

I smiled gently at his answer, the profound truth of it washing over my soul. To the world, or even to my strict, structured idea of order, it might have seemed entirely unrealistic to see how fast these rowdy, hardened teenagers could be broken down and redeemed in a single evening. But sitting in that humid, simple chapel, listening to the echoes of their tears, I realized that God’s love operates on a completely different timeline. It is urgent. It is reckless. It is overwhelmingly powerful.

«Truly the Lord said so…” 

I looked down at my hands, cradling the mended, rough-threaded Rule. For years, I believed that guarding the ninety-nine inside the fortress of the monastery was the highest form of holiness. I thought the mud was something to be avoided. But staring at this ragged group of boys, a soft warmth finally broke through the heavy, rigid ice in my chest. 

“So… This is God’s love?” 

“Yes… it is.”