He had large hands. Like a father. And he was really a father, a Padre as Livier said. A franciscan monk and priest in his brown frock having a thick rope as a belt around it. Basically I don’t like churches. Neither catholic nor protestant one. Instead of something holy all I see around them is rather like a business and they act rather like corporations.
But this “Padre” and that Franciscan church (the photo shows an other church in Budapest) in Gyongyos touched me. He was so calm and his voice made me calm, too. Writing to the large book registering our datas he used those old fashioned large letters and when he suddenly disappeared he left the door open and from the dark corridor fresh cool breeze arrived.