F.P. But how?
P. He sends rain when I don’t want it, and when I would have some rain the very stars glow like the sun. Now He swamps the newly sown fields or parches everything, or sends a cruel wind or snow to kill the flocks, and little He cares. And if I would sue Him for damage done by lightning and thunder, hail and frost, who is to find out His dwelling and summon Him! He cares for no one, and will do as He likes. He might do me good and no one a penny the worse, but not a bit of it. And so I say He has a grudge against me, and if you doubt it you have but to look at my year’s harvest.
F.P. Do you think, then, God lives with you?
P. Look you, padre, what I say is, let Him temper the winter’s rages, and let the corn ripen, but He in his spite without gaining a farthing by it, sends rain in January and frost in April, and summer heat in February, mists in the month of May, and hail in mid-July. I toil till I drop, and He in whose care I am makes it ever worse for me.
F.P. Consider if you duly pay Him what is His.
P. I would pay my tithes willingly enough if He in sheer malice did not damage what is His and mine.
F.P. And do you ever pray to Him to free you from these troubles?
P. Much store He sets on my prayers. I pray quite enough. I don’t know how it is, but everything is done at His good pleasure. He killed my father and my master, and then my wife. Ask yourself why He should kill my aunt with all her charities, and leave the tax-gatherers, who plague me daily.
F.P. They say there is no better gift than good advice. Do then as I bid you: conform yourself with the will of God, and make good sense your mirror.