A state of disobedience

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

"Maaaaan," whispered Julio. "Whoever thought Padre could look so . . . so . . . nasty?" he asked with more than a touch of admiration and pride.

Miguel turned to look. There, alone in the sun, stood the priest. Atop his head, a green beret. Clothing his body, faded but crisp green fatigues, the clerical collar still visible. Over his shoulders was draped the harness that all boys know to be a warrior's battle equipment.

In his left hand, grasped at the balance firmly but not tightly, was the rifle.

For the first time since his beating the priest had regained the young, vigorous look that belied his years.

He made a motion with his right hand circling over his head. He had used the sign before, to call the boys together. Old habits die hard.

One by one, and by twos and threes, the boys and some few girls began to gather around the priest for their orders.

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