The Patron Saint of the Broken Places

Tonight, let me take you away to a place far from Los Santos for a brief moment, dear reader. This myth starts soft and quiet, in a place that hums with a presence that you can only find in quiet spaces of sanctuaries — the energy of a cathedral made of trees.

If you have not had the pleasure to travel through the Appalachian mountains, dear reader, you are missing out on a wonder of the world. Our next Myth hails from these hills - covered in morning mists, valleys deep and winding, and yet cities and civilization always find a way to hunker down in them and find a stronghold in the mountains. I've traveled through some of these mountains - from Michigan to Massachusetts, starting in the foothills in Ohio, across Pennsylvania, until you break through the peaks to crash back down upon coastal plains.

But these hills are old. They're cousins to the mountains of where my family hail from in Ireland, dear reader. It might be why I felt drawn to this next Myth. So let me take you back to a small place outside of Pittsburgh.

Abraham's family was not exactly the richest, but they certainly were not poor in spirit in any sort of the name. His Father, an honest man who worked in the steel mills of Pittsburgh, and his Mother — dear reader, I wish you could've heard him when he spoke of her.

A God fearing woman as you might find in these mountains: she saw and spoke of the end of times. Quoting Revelations, marking the days that the Kingdom of Heaven would return. Surely those hills could get the glimpse of Heaven first with how high they are. These apocalypses, however, while terrifying to most, was really the drive of a woman who loved her children so fiercely that she wanted to prepare them for anything the world could throw at them.

And by God, I think she did it with Abraham.

Before we dive deeper into the history that is Mr. Cronkhite, and why I gave him the title of Saint of Broken Places, I need to bring you to when I met Abraham.

Back to when I made a damn fool of myself.

Seeing quotes of Revelations on my phone at 6 in the morning was not what I was expecting to wake up to. 

My sleep pattern had been shot for a few days after arriving in Los Santos, and with little thought, I responded with a bit of sass.

"It's too early to be reading Revelations quotes…"

I put the phone back down. Giggled to myself a little because my humor clearly was the best at this time of day — no one could ever challenge me on that.

Bling.

Ah, my hubris gets me again.

What followed was a series of texts between an anonymous Birdy account, quoting at each other scripture. At the time I thought I may have hit a nerve on accident: after all, I grew up Irish Catholic. Scripture is Scripture.

Now more awake, and less of a joker, I scrolled through their previous posts.

Maybe this person just needed a good word for them?

I reached out again, wishing that wherever they were, they had a good day, and overall well wishes. They blessed me in return.

As I rolled over to go back to sleep desperately for another hour, my phone went off again.

"I see you are a writer."

The individual behind the anonymous Birdy account politely introduced themself; a veteran with over 20 years of service, and time spent in FEMA helping others through the worst of times. And he thought I might be interested in his story…

Well, he was right.

At this point, dear reader, I had already met one interesting individual through Birdy - why not another attempt?

So after setting a time, one with enough time for me to drink at least two coffees, I went to Legion Square's lounge to run this interview.

And what unfolded in those few hours, dear reader, it is rare for me to not be able to focus enough to take notes: I am glad I recorded it.

As I mentioned before, Abraham hailed from the mountains in and around Pittsburgh. His Father an honest worker, and his Mother, is a woman I would honestly have love to meet— even if I fear she'd scold me seven ways from Sunday up and down.

They were raised to be so sufficient, and not only that, Abraham's family instilled in him the drive and need to help his neighbors. Did not matter who they were; if they needed a hand, you damn well help them.

A foundational rock that would be the basis for the older gentleman who sat across from me at that lounge.

He took me through his time in Somalia in the early 90's: deployed on orders of peacekeeping and humanitarian aid. Operation Return Hope, based on my research later on. This wasn't our war, but Abraham was certainly exposed to some of the worst.

During his time there, a story that set the tone for the kind of man I would come to know him as was as he recounted the day he found a combatant after an ambush where they had to return fire.

This man wasn't a soldier; he was just a man who took up arms to protect his home. He was stranded, injured, and propped up against a building after a wave of fighting had finally ceased and ultimately, dying. With a few gestures, the soldier was asking for water, Abraham left him his canteen.

"I don't know what came over me," Abraham said, "but it was kind of the first time that I really personally gave something of mine to somebody. I left my canteen with him when we hopped back in the truck. I'm sure he didn't last long after that, but he didn't die thirsty."

"At least some kind of small kindness, no matter what that man went through, at least that would clear your conscience, right?" I asked.

With a heavy sigh, Abraham continued, "Yeah, I mean, it really did teach me something though, you know. At the end of the day, no matter who's calling the shots, no matter who has the gun pointed at who, we're all people, you know. We all make decisions, we all have to face consequences for those decisions. Everybody deserves a shot at redemption, you know. I guess that's where my, uh, my cheery worldview comes from in the face of the end of it all."

It led into a story about how he and a friend had gone hunting together a world away from Somalia. The deer they found injured was in a bad way, one where its survival was nil. He wanted to do everything in his power to save that animal, but his friend, and he admitted, maybe rightfully so, thought it was best to put it down to end its suffering. They tried, but the animal did succumb to its wounds. While he believed that his friend was ultimately right, his perseverance was another shade of what kind of man Abraham is.

He will not give up, even when the odds are against him; if it means he can help change one being's life for the better, he will try.

It's something I grew to admire about him as he continued his story.

After spending twenty years in the US military and disillusioned with it, he switched gears to operating within FEMA. He figured that he could accomplish more with empty hands than with a gun.

And I have to agree with him.

The deployment that stuck with him the most was to Haiti following a devastating hurricane. He and his team helped move supplies, rebuild homes, and navigate flooded roads filled with wrecked vehicles. That military driving experience from a span of 20 years? It made him one of the few people comfortable operating vehicles under those conditions. So comfortable in fact he became a symbol of hope: playing guitar music over the radio with his windows down; people eventually learned that the sound of his approaching truck meant food was coming.

The person who remains most vivid in his memory is Bernice, a mother of four whose husband died during the storm. She had lost her home, her husband, and any sense of security. Initially frightened and distrustful, she would not allow Abraham’s group to approach closely. Rather than forcing themselves into her space, they left food nearby, reminded her that God loved her, and returned consistently.

When they returned later to just check on them he recalled Bernice sitting on the remains of her steps, waiting. Her children laughing and playing with a partially deflated ball in the mud. When she saw his truck, she smiled for the first time. Dear reader, the smile he had when he told this story of Bernice and her children.

I cannot capture in words the warmth in tone or expression of the memory that was playing out before me. That moment, more than any grand rescue, represents what the work meant to him.

His experience in Haiti became a vow. Whenever Abraham encounters someone he can help, he intends to do so—even if that means giving away the shirt on his back.

So then that left me with a question: a long tenure of going to the farthest reaches of the planet, to the worst of conditions, why did he come to Los Santos?

"I never really built a life of my own," He admitted to me.

His parents are secure and stable back in their home in the mountains; he's in his early 50s, and just looking for a place to settle down. He continues to want to do outreach and help those in need in Los Santos, but he is a man who has, in my belief, deserved every sense of the word, peace.

He might not be on the front lines now, and he might not be driving a truck through disasters, but the man cannot stand by and watch as others suffer.

His faith, throughout this conversation, had always been a ballast that kept him afloat. His Mother's words and teachings after so many years remained at the forefront of his mind. Given that we met with him quoting the bible, I asked him, as I do so many others, what story or myth do they carry the most? But in his case, I asked him: What Psalm do you aspire to?

If you've never heard Psalm 31, and this is the Catholic version, I will clarify, then I suggest you go and read it. For me, it was like being back in the pews in Boston when I was a child. The tone and rhythm of the words being read is something that some people have — and he's got it. And it has always brought a sense of peace when done right.

But the one line that is most important to him is this: “Because I was silent my bones grew old; whilst I cried out all the day long.”

A warning of the evil that grows when one sits and just lets the pain and suffering of others go on around you. If you can help, help. A psalm my own Mamao would echo.

When I left Abraham, I will admit, I had no idea what I was in for when I responded to that Birdy message that morning. But what I did take out of it was the wonder of meeting a man that I truly do believe could be counted among saints in this world. It is rare to find people who want to help just for the sake of helping, and it being the right thing to do.

I said a silent prayer as I left. I prayed that more men in the world were like him.