Debra Lee
The Priest’s Prayer
Dressed casually, I sit in the front pew of St. Erasmus Catholic Church in a southern county. My black shirt, shoes, and pants are adorned only by my collar and stole. Confession begins at four and I read my breviary as I wait. I hear a few people enter the building, moving along the left aisle. I’m surprised when I hear a masculine voice very close to my ear.
“Pastor. I need to make a confession.”
I don’t respond.
The voice adds, “In the box.”
I turn slightly, encountering the side of a hood, attached to a sweatshirt on a genuflecting person, and say, “There are a few people ahead of you, waiting for the scheduled time.”
“This is a matter of life and death.”
I stand, genuflect, and head to the confessional.
The others stand and form a line in the aisle. The hooded figure spends a long time in the confessional, then exits the church.
#
Sunday morning very bright. The song comes unbidden to my mind as I wake. I sit up quickly. The sun shines through the window. When have I ever slept until the sun was up? Vacation with Randy several years ago? Is that him ringing the doorbell? I rest my head in my hands. Maybe I sat up too fast. I feel confused. Lester Mano comes to mind. Yesterday’s confessor. Criminal information that I cannot share with anyone. The doorbell rings again and now the phone is ringing. What time is it? Sunday. Mass. I stand and open my bedroom window. As I lean out, I loudly proclaim, “I overslept. I’m coming.”
Five minutes later, I rush out the backdoor of the rectory and enter the church through the sacristy. As I don my priestly garments, I tell the altar servers, “Have the deacon lead everyone into church. I’ll join you at the altar.”
And like that, the day is put in order.
#
Sister Angela summons me after Mass. The parishioners that are not having coffee and donuts in the cafeteria congregate in the school yard while kids run around them. CCD classes should be starting in a few minutes, but Sister Angela has not unlocked the classrooms. Even though she’s unlocked the school, the padlock hangs on the gate preventing entrance.
“This is vandalism, Father. As you can see, everything is still locked up. I already talked to Mr. Ferguson. He insisted, and I believe him, that the men stayed in the little house out back last night. They heard a bouncing basketball for a while, but around nine o’clock they saw the young man leave the yard through the rectory gate . So whoever did this,” she emphasized this, “came in the night. They would have had to climb over this fence and squeeze through that little opening. Unless they found an open window on the street side of the school.”
“Or broke one,” I say, “I’ll send someone to see.”
I look around the yard and finger summon two altar servers. “Ask your mother if you can run around the corner and see if there are any broken windows on the school. Oh, there’s your dad. Mr. Johnson, I was just asking the Geralds.”
“I heard. I’ll walk with them. Is there a problem Father Mike?”
“We’re looking into it.”
“You know you have two minutes until the next Mass.”
“Well, I can’t start without Geraldine and Gerald and they’re doing me a favor.”
The father smiles.
I look at my watch and turn. Marguerite Shefley is passing by on her crutches. I ask her, “Would you please tell the choir to entertain the congregation for about ten minutes and tell the deacon that we’re starting late?”
“I’ll tell the choir leader to tell him, Father. I don’t talk to Deacon Jones.”
I feel my eyebrows rise in response, but someone is seeking my attention by tugging on my left arm.
Sister Angela says, “Mr. Ferguson said he called Mr. Titus to come take care of this before the children and teachers come in. Oh, there he is now.”
“Good Morning, Mr. Titus. Thank you for coming in. I was just taking Father Mike to see. Someone, an adult or several adults used the little toilets in the children’s bathroom or brought fecal matter with them and made a mess of the place.”
“This is a police matter,” I say. “I saw Craig Smithers in church this morning. Let me see if he’s still close by. I raise my robe and reach in my deep pocket for my phone. “I have his number. I’ll ask him to come back or at least ask for advice.”
“Is something wrong, Father?” Curious folk are beginning to notice the crowded yard and the blocked entrance to the school.
I hold up a finger as Craig answers his phone.
“Yes, Craig, there is a bit of vandalism here in the school. I. Okay, thank you.” To the people standing around, I say, “He’s still in church.” I swivel around and look toward the church, “Here he comes now.”
“Father Mike, you got a Mass to say,” Craig says. “I’ll handle it. A police unit is on the way. When are they going to give you some help here? We never like the other priest, but you can’t be in so many places at once.”
“I appreciate that. Where are my altar servers? Did they come back?”
“Here we are Father,” the twins say, so close, they’re practically glued to his back. “The windows are okay.”
#
After Mass, I look for Marguerite Shefley to see what beef she has with the deacon. She’s been coming to St. Erasmus since she was a child and I’ve never heard her complain about anything. Even now, she’s waiting patiently for the hospital to let her get back to work. They’re forcing her to retire because as a registered nurse, she can’t work while on crutches. If they’d repaired the elevator like the employees asked, no one would have gotten hurt.
Several people stop to chat and ask questions.
“Wait here, I’ll be right back.” I’m going to help Mrs. Shefley. She’s trying to get in her car.
“We’ll go,” several people say.
“Father Mike,” Mrs. White says, rushing up. “do you have the new address for the house blessing this afternoon? We slept in it last night, but it needs to be blessed.”
“Four o’clock,” I say walking away, though I don’t remember her giving me an address, just the neighborhood. I still want to talk to Mrs. Shefley. Someone tugs my robe. I turn, thinking it’s Mrs. White and confront an angry couple.
“You can’t have that boy running around the church like that. He could hurt someone,” the man says.
The woman asks, “What’s wrong with him anyway? The mama looks retarded and acts like that’s standard practice for a child. They got medicines for hyperactic kids.”
“And he started moving during the most sacred part of the Mass,” the man continues.
I stop. Nurse Shefley is driving away. The family of visitors walk up. “Welcome to St. Erasmus,” I say, shaking hands. The angry couple move away.
“You don’t have to go,” they say, “we can wait our turn.”
“We said what we wanted to say. We know what Father Mike is going to say. It’s not his house.”
“That young man was a little frightening,” the visiting mother says.
One of the children asks, “Does he play football?”
Guessing the child’s age, I ask, “Do you play football?”
“No, I’m going to play basketball when I get to middle school.”
“He’s tall for his age,” his sibling says.
“You’re almost to middle school?” I ask the boy.
“No,” the boy says as if I’m an idiot for even thinking it. “I’m just 10.”
“Well then, you’re older than Sebastian, he’s only seven or eight. He’s a little tall for his age.”
A lesson. Short and brisk. Sometimes, that’s all it takes.
My stomach growls as I see several members of the choir approaching from the church. Sister Angela is coming across the yard. I hold up my index finger asking her to wait one minute. I promised to walk through the school with her as she locks up. Sister Barbara is waiting, blocking the entrance to the school, though several people seem to want to enter.
Back in the rectory, two people wait as they talk to Mr. Jefferson, the head usher.
“It’s locked up, Father,” he says, handing me a small key. “I’ll be on my way. My grandma is in the hospital. I know you’re busy, but if you could come by, I know she’d like that. I don’t think she’ll be coming out. She’d prefer you over the hospital chaplain.”
“We’re just waiting for holy water, Father,” one of the women says. “There isn’t any in church.”
“You have something to put it in?” I ask.
The woman holds a plastic bottle with holy water stenciled on it.
“You’ve got to put some water in it.”
“I know, that’s what we came for, but there isn’t any.”
“You can get some in the kitchen,” I point behind her.
“I don’t see any, Father.
“Turn on the faucet.”
“That’s just regular water.”
“Fill the bottle, then bring it to me.”
Looking completely puzzled, she does as she is told. I bless it and say, “Y’all have a good day.”
I’d better get a quick bite before I go to the house blessing.
#
I open my eyes slowly in my small room. Monday already. How quickly the days go by. “Good morning, God,” I say.
I’ve spent ten years waking in this twin bed on the second floor of St. Erasmus’ rectory and only once has it ever been daylight.
“I’m tired. I’m sure Sister Immaculata Marie is tired, too, but she’s over there waiting for me to get up and say Mass at the convent. She’s already unlocked the door so old Mrs. Young and her daughter can enter the chapel. They’re over there praying the rosary as the sisters file into the chapel. Do people ever think about us? Do they not think that we might need rest? Or do they think that taking the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience make us members of the Justice League?
“After Mass, the nuns will have breakfast, get dressed, pray for strength to make it through another day of rigorous dealing with student personalities, parents, and the interruptions that accompany a school day. Then after school, there’s tutoring, cleaning, and preparing for another day of the same. Back in the convent, they have to prepare their own meal, correct papers, read essays, prepare for another day of teaching and do the things that housewives did a century ago.
“And I. After mass, I’ll come back here and someone who knows their job is more important than mine, will be waiting for me at the rectory door because to them, this is not a job. They will have a complaint about the way I did something or said something, or need a special prayer, or need me to act as an ombudsman to their spouse that left them for lack of understanding. Through breakfast, the phone or doorbell will ring, then it’s off to school to teach religion and sociology to teenage boys. After school, there’s basketball, questions, tête à têtes on the way to the car, then back here for confessions from people who can’t wait until the scheduled time. Is it choir practice tonight or confirmation practice, or is there a couple coming for some advice on why they have to go to Engaged Encounter or how to get out of doing whatever is required by church law? Which group meets tonight? Men’s auxiliary? Women’s auxiliary? Society of someone? Eventually there will be a meal, evening prayers, papers to grade, phone calls, maybe an emergency, last rites, then bed in the morning, only to rise a few hours later and begin the journey again.
“You know me, God. I am committed to my obligations and my performance is impeccable. I offered my whole life to you as a prayer a long time ago. You also know that I am tired. These bones have been on your earth for so long, they need a rest. I have given you 50 years of dedicated service. I want respite. I want You.”
I turn on my side in the dark and heave my legs over the side of the bed. I slide my feet into slippers. Standing in the dark, I head for the bathroom across the hall. The rectory is empty. Three other bedrooms stand unused. I am alone, always, despite the numbers of people that I serve. Alone with God. Most times, that’s enough.
Dressed, I walk across the street to the convent.
“Good morning, Sister Angela. Yes, I’m good. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
I touch the shoulders of the Young women as I pass them and kneel before entering the sanctuary. I pray my morning prayers, then walk behind the altar and don my stole. I flash back to the first time I wore the garment. My ordination, the best day of my life. I see the decorated cathedral. There seems to be an ethereal golden light in the sanctuary and I know God is present. Not just in his usual way, but in a very real physical way. My parents and siblings sit close to the front of the church. In my heart, I know that I was put on this earth for just this reason, to serve the church, the people of God on earth.
I look at my watch when someone clears her throat. I walk out and begin Mass. The spring in my step is not as bouncy as it was 50 years ago, but thank you God, I have no joint problems. Only my spirit is flagging. My very soul is ready to quit.
Back in the rectory, I turn on the small counter TV, set at the opposite corner from the toaster. I look at the coffee pot but think about Saturday’s confession. I should eat something, but I have no appetite. Maybe an energy bar, my mind says, as I think about dealing with Anthony Douglass this morning. Anthony’s antics are original and entertaining. His peers appreciate his creative humor. I did too, the first ten times, but that was months ago.
I look in the fridge. Nothing looks appealing. I think of possible breakfast foods – cereals hot or cold, eggs, meat, cheese, smoothie. Nobody was waiting at the door when I returned and so far neither the doorbell nor phone has rung. This would be a good time to cook something. I take the egg carton from the fridge, reach for the butter then put it back. I haven’t had a poached egg in forever. I think of Mama in our kitchen at home and begin to move smoothly about the kitchen. I get a small skillet, put two slices of bread in the toaster, and get the vinegar. The black pepper and salt are already within arm’s reach of the range.
Mama was very organized in the kitchen. Five kids and a husband, she made it look easy. Dad got whatever he wanted for breakfast. Mama prepared it joyfully because he appreciated every little thing she did. As we got older, we put our own lunches together for ourselves and the younger ones. We stayed out of Mama’s way as she took biscuits from the oven and buttered them, or made pancakes or waffles. Sometimes it was oatmeal or cream of wheat, grits and eggs with sausages. She kissed each of us as we left the house for work and school. The only way we knew what Mama did after we left was if one of us got sick.
“Now, to get the poached eggs on a plate without breaking the yolks. Ah, Mike you’re a superstar.” I wash the pan and put everything in order before I sit down. I brush the breadcrumbs into the trash and wipe the toaster tray with a paper towel. As I bow my head, I immediately think of Lester Mano. “Thank you, God, for the food. Now please get Lester out of my head.”
I lose myself in TV shows - Mr. Ed and Petticoat Junction - and sigh when it’s time to pack my bag. “Thanks, God, for a relaxing interval.” I put my hat on, throw my jacket over my arm and open the door.
A man is standing there, finger poised to ring the bell. “Mr. Bostic, what can I do for you this morning?” I ask as I close the door behind me and head for my car.
“Ah, man, you closed the door. I was going to ask you to sign this for me. I didn’t want to get here too early. Have you got a few minutes?”
I get in the car and start the engine. “You know I’ve got to get to school.”
“But Father Mike this is important.”
“I know. You told me that Friday evening when you called and said you’d be right over. That was a few days ago. I put the car in gear and begin to move slowly.”
“Ah man.”
I don’t look in the rearview mirror. I have no qualms about not going back inside. Mr. Bostic always needs something at his convenience. He is the only important person in the world and he seems to think that I work for him. One of a hundred.
I press a button and the rosary CD slides in. “Mary, please help me to calm myself while I meditate on the mysteries.” Immediately, my mind moves from the CD to thoughts of my childhood when I got my first rosary. It came in a first communion packet with a prayer book and scapular. We’d already practiced saying it in class. Who was my teacher? Oh, yeah, Sister Mary Rose. She was a cutie. By the time I got to eighth grade, she’d kicked the habit and gone back to Philadelphia. Mama said she married her senior prom date. Good for her.
“Yeah, God, I know. Jacqueline Eagan wanted me to marry her. I told her every year of high school that I was going to be a priest. She kissed me at the prom, remember? I kissed her back and she thought she had me. I don’t remember how it felt, but I do remember how every thought of You, every prayer said at every Mass during those years excited me and made me answer Your challenge to come and follow You.”
With the rosary working on my subconscious, I start to hum An Army of Youth. As the school comes into sight, I bellow “our hearts are pure; our minds are sure.” The CD is in the second set of mysteries as I park the car in the faculty lot. A couple of kids bouncing basketballs speak to me as I open the car door.
“Yo, Father Mike.”
I wave and finish the song, “Mary’s son, may thy will be done.”
“Hey Father Mike, how’d you know my mom’s name is Mary.”
The boys laugh and trot off.
I smile and look up. “I got this!”
#
“Father Mike, good afternoon.”
“Sister Barbara, how’s it shaking?”
She laughs, “I’ve got Brownies. I hope,” she begins.
“I remember. I told them I would come over and have some fun with them today.”
“Thanks Father.”
“What time is best?”
“We’re meeting from four-thirty to six. I’m going to start with crafts. Five would be good. Or quarter to six and you can end the meeting with a quick prayer.”
“Okay.”
“But, she begins again, by that time they will have driven me crazy asking where you are. I think five would be better.”
“Five it is!” I cross the school yard and wave at the eighth grade teacher as she gets in her husband’s truck.
“Hey Mr. Ferguson. You’re a little early today.”
“Good evening Father Mike. You know, well you don’t know, but retirement offers one a little too much time for reflection. You didn’t have to come over now. I know you have other things to do.”
“Not a problem, just have to use this key.” There are lots of jangling keys. I find the right one and put it in the keyhole. “Turn it like this, and voila, you’re in.”
“Thanks. Father. Wish I could lock up for you later so you could catch a break. I’ll get the boys to leave on time tonight.”
“You need anything?”
“Got it all right here,” Mr. Ferguson says. “Looks like the little Brownies are meeting tonight. We have a good parish. Lots going on. When are they going to send you some help? Used to be three priests here and they complained all the time.” He raised his eyebrows. “You never complain. I like that about you.”
I smile and head back to the rectory.
“Father Mike,” says another voice from across the yard.
“Yes, Sister?”
#
“Is this the rest you’re giving me? Or is it time you’re giving me to get used to the idea? Thanks for the food. Sister Barbara didn’t know which parishioner dropped it off, but they knew that barbecue and potato salad are my favorites. She told Sister Barbara that I was on her mind and to tell me that she’s praying with me.
“I know you’re sending these people to me. At lunch, it was Josh. He just loomed over the faculty table. I don’t think half the teachers had ever heard his voice. It’s melodious by the way, beautiful. Sounds like he could belt into a song like Sewanee without giving it a thought. But he only looked at me. He reminds me of your archangels. He said, ‘We’re all praying with you.’ But you knew that.
“Little Ronda at Brownies. She is such a light! You shine right through her and I think only a few can see. Are the others jealous of her? She’s content to be your vessel. What do you have planned for her in life? Or is she only a messenger for people in distress like me? Yeah, yeah, I know I shouldn’t be distressed. You have a plan for me and I will follow Your command. When will I find out exactly how to go about doing Your will this time?
“Ronda hugged me. She touches very few people, but it’s a healing touch and maybe few people deserve it. Does it hurt her? She said, ‘God’s got us,’ as if I needed a reminder. She’s such a beautiful child. When I let her go, she waved and said, ‘see you soon.’ Are you taking her, too? Or soon in the timeline of the ages?
“This is delicious! It reminds me of past picnics. Are you flooding me with memories so I don’t have to think about, you know? I appreciate it. Remember when the car broke down in Needles? Of course you do. So many memories. What’s the other side going to be like? Totally different, I bet.”
Finishing the meal, I think of things that need to be done and which to do next. “Thank you for disposable dishes, including knives and forks.” My foot is on the trash bin lever when the doorbell rings. “Guess that’s next,” I say out loud.
There are three ladies at the door talking among themselves. One of them finally says, “Good evening, Father.” Then the other two greet me.
“Good evening, what can I do for you ladies?”
“We have a complaint. May we come in? You know us, right?”
“Your faces are familiar, well two of you. You don’t sit together in church. Are you friends?” I open the door wider. “Come in.”
I point to the office. “You can go in and have a seat. I think someone else is coming.”
“Glad we got here first,” one of them says.
“Father Mike, you waiting for me?” A heavyset man who walks with the familiar jolt of an overweight person still trying to walk like a jock says, “I just need a minute of your time. Don’t even need to come in. And you just waiting for me at the door.”
“Actually, there are people here ahead of you.”
“Well, like I said, this will just take a minute.”
“Come on it. You can have a seat there by the phone.” I point to an old fashioned phone table with a push button phone on it.
“I got to wait?”
“Afraid so. Or call and make an appointment.”
“That means they gonna be here a while.” The man stands inside the door, moving from foot to foot.
I walk into my office and shut the door. “Now ladies, what can I do for you?”
“You tell him Andrea.”
“But I’m not in this parish.”
“Best reason for you to speak. He’ll believe us then. There are three of us now, probably more that haven’t come forward or have been rebuffed. You know the brotherhood of men.”
“I’m Father Mike, and you are Andrea,” I say, looking at the woman called Andrea.
“I’m sorry Father,” one of the other women says, “I’m just so upset I forgot my manners. I’m Kaneka and this is my friend Jasmine.”
“Mrs. Humphrey,” Jasmine says holding out her hand.
“Ah, your husband is in the choir.”
“Why are you upset Kaneka?” I ask shaking her hand. I look at Andrea and shake her hand.
“It’s Deacon Jones. I talked to you before about his flirting and touching and I haven’t heard any more about it. He’s disgusting. Besides being ugly and a married man, he’s insulting. Look at us, Father. We’re big, beautiful women. Because of that he seems to think that we can’t get a man so he comes on to us. I tell you if he whispers in my ear one more time, I’m going to flatten him. And then he’ll deny it as church men do and I would be the one to get arrested.”
“He did the same thing to me when he was in Holy Faith Parish. I was so happy when he transferred over here.”
“Now,” Jasmine says, “he’s doing it over here. He used to flirt with me. I told Antonio and I don’t know what my husband told him, but now when I go to Bible Study, he ignores me and it’s obvious. So his wife confronted me. She told me I should stop coming if I can’t resist her husband. And one of the older women suggested that if I lose some weight, maybe I could find my own man.”
Andrea says, “So, now you’ve heard it from three different women. I’m sure there are more. You need to straighten him out or get him out of the parish before he gets hurt.”
Jasmine continues, “I don’t need to have my husband going to jail. We have four children at home. He’s a good man, but the Deacon upset me enough that I’m afraid Henry might lose his temper. He sings in the choir and is in the Legion of Mary. But every now and then he gets stressed to the limit and blows a fuse.”
Kaneka speaks, “We don’t really need to know what you’re going to do about it. We would appreciate it if you could give him a stern talking to and get rid of him. How can he be a deacon anyway? The lech!”
“I apologize for the deacon’s behavior and will let him know that complaints have been made about his actions. How do you three ladies know each other?”
“This is my friend from Holy Faith. We grew up together. I see Jasmine over here at church affairs and such and we say hello and stuff.”
Kaneka says, “Father, I appreciate what you’re saying, but apologizing is not enough. I haven’t complained to my boyfriend because he’s very protective, but I think he overheard me talking about the Deacon. I’d hate to have the man disappear or come up dead. But nowadays these things happen. I’m sure Jerome wouldn’t do him anything, but like Nas said in the song, a ‘favor for a favor.’”
I do a mental sigh and stand up. “Thank you ladies for coming to me. I will talk to him sternly and hopefully he’s mature enough to do the right thing.”
When I open the door to usher the ladies out, I look at the seated man and ask, “Mr. uh?”
“Peterson, Edgar’s dad from school.”
We shake hands.
“You’re not a parishioner? You could have talked to me at school. I’ve seen you pick Edgar up in the afternoons.”
“I didn’t want him to see me talking to you. I’m an atheist and that’s what I want my children to be. No god would allow a world like this one to exist.”
“So you’re agnostic?”
“Agnostic atheist.”
“And what can I do for you?”
“My boy wants to become a priest and I want you to talk him out of it. He’s too smart to be a priest.”
“I’ve never tried to convert your son or any of our students.”
“I wish you had, then we wouldn’t have this problem. Unfortunately, actions speak louder than words. He thinks that next to me, you’re the best man in the world. He wants to be like you – good, kind, humane, but I know he wants a salary like mine.”
“What do you do?”
“Software engineer.”
“And are you not good, kind and humane?”
“I’m not famous for those qualities.”
“I’m not famous. I’m just living a Christian life.”
“No, the famous Christians all live on TV and have mega churches.”
“But they’re not Catholic. I respect the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience that I’ve taken.”
“Yeah, I know. I checked you out, trying to find something so I could prove to my son that all Christians are fake. The only fake thing I found out about you is that you pray to God. That only proved that you’re Catholic. Catholics aren’t Christians.”
“Ah, the old protestant debate. Well, for your information, I talk to Jesus all the time.”
“Yeah, right. Well now he wants to be a priest. Just like you. We want a Neil deGrasse Tyson and for a while he wanted that, too. Wealth and fame.” The man hesitates, then says. “We might have made a mistake, my wife and I.”
“What did you do?”
“That’s not important. All you need to know is that we want you to undo the damage you’ve caused.”
“Well, as Sammy Davis, Jr sang, ‘I’ve gotta be me.’ Have you considered switching schools? You could send him to public school, charter school, private school, military academy. I’m sure they can sway his perceptions.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well what do you think I can do? I’m not going to stop being a priest because your son admires me.”
“Well,” Mr. Peterson thinks a bit while Father Mike studies him with a smile. “My wife and I think that if you pointed out to Edgar just how lonely his life would be, how he’ll never gain recognition for anything he does, he won’t want to be so godly.”
If he can read facial expressions, he’s probably looking at a complete question mark. “What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Look at all those white women and men from the 20th century who made a difference in the lives of Black people and never got recognition.”
I look blankly at the man wondering where he’s going with this.
“Come on Father, pay attention.” Peterson glances at his watch. “I’m sorry it’s so late. Let me spell it out for you quickly. Katharine Drexel.”
“She’s famous. She’s a saint.”
Peterson reaches in his pocket and pulls out an energy bar. He slides it over the desk to me.
“Thanks.” I pick it up and slide it in my desk drawer.
“Eat it,” Peterson says.
“No, thanks. It will keep me awake and I have an early morning. Do you want it back?”
“No, no, keep it.” Sighing, he says, “Katharine Drexel started the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. Then all of these white women, mostly Irish, thought she’d come up with a good thing and they began teaching Indian and Negro children who were not getting the education they deserved. They did such a good job, the Josephite priests joined them just in time for the civil rights movement and y’all are all still here. And during all that time, the only famous white religious working among Blacks were the two priests that got arrested. Bad press. White papers don’t write about you because you’re helping us. They are not going to say good things. So no matter the great things that get done, white religious working among Blacks and Indigenous remain anonymous.” He stopped and thought a minute. “If you became infamous, maybe Edgar would lose interest.”
I laugh, “Edgar is not white.” My phone vibrates. I look at the time. “Sorry, I have to go lock up. Thanks for visiting.” I usher the man out the door.
“I don’t want my son doing nothing religious.”
I laugh again. “Oh, you’re serious?”
#
Tuesday night, I push the student essays aside and reach for my breviary. If there are no emergencies, I can retire early. No kids tonight. The youth group is meeting at St. Mark’s Lutheran church at the other end of the parish.
“The doorbell. Oh, well.”
I hear many voices as I approach the door. Opening it, I find a dozen members of the youth group standing there.
“Why are you here? I thought you were having fun with the St Mark’s kids.”
“Somebody forgot to put us on their calendar and they got invited to movie night with St. John’s.”
“So, we decided to come home,” one of the female voices purrs.
“And your meeting is what time?”
“Six-thirty to eight-thirty,” several voices at once.
“It took you an hour and a half to walk ten blocks?” I look at the bags and cups. “Right. With a stop at Taco Bell, Burger King, and the snowball stand. Well, it’s after eight o’clock. Looks like you’ve already had your fun for tonight. You can come into the foyer and call your parents and ask them to pick you up.”
“But Father Mike, we haven’t had our meeting.”
“Where are the other members?”
“They went home from St. Mark.”
“That’s what you should have done. You know your parents wouldn’t want you gallivanting about this time of evening.”
“Our parents don’t have a car,” said one of the girls.
“You’ll have to ride with someone else’s parents.” I look at them sharply, “And don’t do this again. The first parent that arrives, tell them I want to see them. Do not leave the foyer.”
“Father Mike, I have to use the bathroom.”
“Do not leave the foyer. Do not crap in it, either. Let me know when a parent arrives. Do not leave until I see who’s driving and don’t pull a stunt like this again or the youth group will be disbanded.”
It was after ten when the last adult arrived.
“I’ll wet who you want wetted,” blasted from a radio, reverberating on the street.
“Okay, that’s not a parent. I hope. Tell whoever that is to turn that down. There is a noise ordinance. Some people are trying to sleep.”
“A favor for a favor.”
Jana, the purring female, opens the car door. I’m right on her heels. “Turn that noise down! I said turn that noise off!”
#
The rapper’s song is playing over and over in my mind when I wake on Wednesday morning. Wet who you want wetted. Now the women who complained about the deacon are rapping in my mind. The influences our young are battling are overwhelming. And the visuals that go along with the thoughts. There is too much interference in our lives - movies, TV, music, cell phones, Internet, social media. There is no time for reflection. Little time for God. Yes, I remembered when the woman mentioned the lecherous deacon. I mentioned it to him and he said, “Often a man of God runs through the imagination of single females, especially fat ones,” he giggled. “Bad joke, Father,” he’d said, “it’s a Black thing.”
Like a favor for a favor.
“I’m sorry. Good morning, God. Thank you for the new day. You know waking to this thought isn’t much better than waking to thoughts of Lester Mano and what he would have me do. I kill myself and he stops killing. What does he get out of it? Is he killing because he has to? A mental illness? If he’s killing because he wants to, after I’m gone, what’s he going to do if he’s not killing? I know, I know. His life is not my responsibility.”
Lester has now taken over my thoughts. “Is he ever going to get caught? Will he turn himself in? Just thinking to myself, God. Can’t help it if you hear all my thoughts. I’m actually glad that you do, then you know how and why I do things. I don’t want fame. I don’t want glory. But I don’t want to be misunderstood. What will they think of me? Will they think that I no longer believe in you? Will they think that I gave up?”
Going completely still, I say, “Well, you see God, that’s the question I’m trying to avoid. Will they stop liking me, respecting me? A selfish thought, I know. But I am human.” I just woke up, I think to myself. I need to relax. I cross my arms over my chest, bow my head and say, “Your will, not mine be done.” My breathing is steady now. I look heavenward and say, “I know it won’t matter after I’m gone. Only the things that I did here.”
Cereal or pop tart? Cheese and crackers? Banana and yogurt. I head to the refrigerator and before I realize what I’m doing, the eggs are scrambling. Spatula in hand, I put my other hand on my hip and asks, “Would you please give me something else to think about?”
The phone wriggles and the doorbell rings. “Thanks. Take the phone off vibrate and answer the door.”
In the rectory after school, I put on my robe. I don’t usually do that, but sometimes, it reminds me of where I am and what I’m doing. It connects me to the past, when the only thing that mattered was being the best priest I could be. Prayers five times a day, thinking of God in between, preparing homilies, lessons, bible study programs, and always having time for God’s children, old ones and young ones.
My folks were so disappointed when I didn’t become a Jesuit. Past memories slow my steps. This is good because I just realized that I am rushing from the rectory and am halfway across the schoolyard with no destination in mind. I stop midstride and reach for my phone. A distraction. A reason to turn around and head back towards the church, more slowly.
Choir Master Calvin is parking his car. I pull out my keys and unlock the church. I talk with Calvin until several other choir members arrive, then kneel before the statue of Mary for a quick rosary. I leave through the sanctuary and join the Bible Study group. Deacon Jones and his wife are already in the conference room with several older women and the husband of one of them. I go into the office to get my bible asking, “What are we studying tonight?”
“Are you joining us Father,” Deacon Jones asks.
“I thought I might, if it’s all right with you. I haven’t participated in this group for a while.”
“We’re just waiting for a few more people. They’re usually here by now sipping coffee.”
“Sweet young ladies,” the older man says. “They bring coffee for all of us.”
Bang. “Ouch!”
“Are you all right Father Mike?” Mrs. Jones asks.
I enter, rubbing my head. A red bruise is already beginning to swell.
“I’ll get you some ice. How did you hit your head?”
“Dropped the bible and hit the desk on the way down to pick it up.”
I drop the book on the table and thank Mrs. Jones for the ice. I put the towel wrapped ice to my forehead.
“Matthew,” the Deacon says, “Chapter Four, Verse One.”
I sit down, staring at the dog-eared page. I’d picked the book up by the spine and dropped it over the table. It’s still open to the bent pages. The temptation of Christ. I begin reading softly. I repeat one of the verses, “The Lord, your God, shall you worship and Him alone shall you serve.” Looking up from the book, I realize there are people sitting there staring at me, as I wonder if each of us has our own God.
“Are you all right, Father?” one of the older women asks.
“We hadn’t planned to study this tonight,” the deacon says, “but we can since you started and no one else has shown up.” He looks around the table. “Is that okay with y’all?”
Bible study ended at the regular time. Mrs. Jones says, “Maybe you should see a doctor about your head. You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m fine. Are we done already?”
“You didn’t say much Father,” the old man says. “You need some Anacin or something?”
“Do they still make that?”
“I always tell my headache to take a powder,” the old man says.
His wife responded with the rest of the ad, “Tell your headache to take BC.”
“You guys are dating yourself.”
“You remember that ad too, Father. You’re dating yourself. At least, I feel you’re with us now. You had me scared there for a little while.”
“Thank you. I’m fine. I’ve got to go lock up the church. The choir sounds like it’s winding down. The fresh air will do me good. Thanks for letting me join you tonight. Y’all be safe going home, now.”
#
When I enter the faculty lounge on Thursday morning, all eyes are glued to the TV set. An international flight is making an emergency landing. Some sort of a systems problem. Everyone watches as the plane shifts from side to side, then belly lands, sliding across several runways. Firetrucks and ambulances race toward the plane when it stops.
“Safe!” the coach says. People laugh and pray, thanking God for a safe landing for the passengers.
Midafternoon, I get summoned to the office for a call from the archbishop’s office.
“Ooh, Father Mike, you’re in trouble,” the students chant as I leave the classroom.
Troubled is the look on my face when I return. I’m thinking about suicide and when it will have to take place. The call from the Archdiocese was about my replacement. Forced to retire, Fr. Anthony Abudu will assist a pastor with phone calls and clerical duties. He requested my parish and will arrive at St. Erasmus on Saturday morning.
I talked to God on my way back to the classroom. “Lester’s deal is becoming all too real. Father Tony is being sent to find my body. Obviously, it is not time for him to retire. God, You think of everything. St. Erasmus will continue to have a priest in residence.”
It’s not until the last bell rings that I discover my brother was on the disaster flight.
“There’s a limo parked out front,” several of the younger students say. Their classes end when the first bell rings and they are supposed to leave the building right away.
“Well it’s not for us. Probably for a senior.”
More students mill about the door and on the stairs waiting for the car door to open so they can see who gets out.
Finally, the driver opens his door, stands and faces the school. He looks in the back seat then turns and asks, “Is there a Father Mike here?”
“Get Father Mike. Go get Father Mike.” Students run through the building.
“Father Mike, the archbishop sent a limo for you.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“The driver asked for you.”
“Father Mike,” students begin calling all over the school.
“You know celebrities, Father Mike?” one asked.
“I’m surrounded by celebrities,” I wave my arm, encompassing all of them as I head toward the front of the building.
The limo door opens as I walk down the school steps. A man with his arm in a cast gets out of the back, assisted by the driver.
“Randy?” I start running to the limo. “What are you doing here?” Then I think, the plane. “You were on the plane this morning.” We embrace for a long time, tears streaming down our faces. I finally turn and say, “This is my brother Randy. He broke his arm on that plane this morning.”
The teachers begin clapping, then the students join in.
Lots of people follow us to my car so they can hear details of the catastrophic flight. Randy has given the limo driver the rectory address and all pertinent information. The driver assures him that he will be picked up at three-thirty in the morning to continue his journey on a safer plane.
In the car, I ask, “Are you hungry? Did they feed you?”
“Airline finger sandwiches. I would prefer local flavor.”
“Here.” I hand Randy my phone. “Press four and say two Father Mike specials. Can you drink? I’m sure they gave you pain meds.”
“In abundance. Yes, I can drink. I can sleep all the way to Heathrow. Then, speaking into the phone. “Yes, including drinks.” He listens, “Yes, this is Randy. He’s mentioned me before. Don’t believe him. Yes, I was on that plane. Fine, thank you. No charge, I won’t tell him that. I’ll pretend that I paid and tipped well.”
Delores arrives at the rectory shortly after Mike and Randy.
“Delores, you’re making your own deliveries! Is this a slow day?”
“Father Mike, you know I never have a slow day. This is special treatment for the brother you’ve been talking about for the last ten years and no one’s ever met. He needs to know how important you are to the people of St. Erasmus. Where should I set this up?”
“Set up?” I ask.
“Dining room? Where is it?”
“We were just going to …”
“Nonsense. Which way?”
Delores talks as she throws a faux linen tablecloth across the table. She arranges everything in the most appealing way possible and listens as Randy once again tells his story of the horrific plane ride.
“Were you afraid?”
“No, I’d been reading the Psalms like my brother taught me. They have a calming effect when flying and no matter how long your flight, you’re never going to run out. I’d just read Psalm 90, so I went back to the beginning and reread verses one through ten. I figured there was a message for me there. And sure enough, the Bible told me I was safe.”
“I’m not familiar with Bible verses,” Delores says.
“It says that man lives 70 years or 80 if he’s strong like my brother. I’m just 65, so I thought maybe I should visit him before I go to London. He’s 75, half way there. One never knows what could happen in a church setting.”
“You’re as funny as he is. I can tell y’all are related. You must have been real close coming up.”
“He was the best big brother a little boy could have.”
“Well, bless it and enjoy the food. I’ll bid you good night and see myself out. Wash up, now.”
And with that, Delores leaves.
“Best big brother?”
“You still are. So what’s going on? Why did God bring me to you today?”
We talk well into the night, finally disposing of everything nonedible and moving into cozier chairs. Sated, we sit in amiable silence for a long time, then Randy says, “The Seal of Confession. You finally got one 50 years in.”
I look at Randy. His analytical mind has been silently figuring out why I’m not talking. God interrupted his flight and sent him here because this is the last time we’ll see each other.
He continues, “And in a country the size of the United States, a serial killer could have a field day.”
“Or not,” I say.
“You made a deal with him?” Randy asks.
I answer with a question. “You remember the graduation card I gave you?”
“I never forget anything you give me and I still have the card. I read it almost every day. Living the Desiderata has become a rule of life for me. Randy begins quietly reciting the poem. He snaps his fingers, “The universe is unfolding as it should.” He looks at his brother, knowing that one cannot change fate and says, “Be at peace with your God, Michael.
“I remember when Sister Contrere gave your class that 21-page poem to read, just so you could learn that God is in his heaven and all is right with the world. You literally cursed up and down the stairs. I’m glad she was gone by the time I got to high school.” He chuckles, “I learned my first curse words from you.”
“And you didn’t tell Dad.”
We both laugh. Then laugh heartily. The longer we laugh, the lighter the mood. I get a box of tissues as tears stream down our faces. Randy stands with me, then we lean on each other’s shoulders. Randy begins praying. At least, I think it’s a prayer. It sounds familiar.
I lean away from him and say, “That isn’t a prayer. Say it again.”
“They’re lines 22 and 106 from the Gospel of Thomas. The original version before the translators and interpreters. It answers a lot of questions that we were never taught. I think I was brought here to tell you these things.”
“Come sit down. Talk to me.”
Three twenty-five comes all too quickly. Randy washes his face, straightens his clothes, hugs me, and together we pray the Prayer of St. Francis. The limo arrives, and with long looks and grasping hands, Randy is gone.
I sit back in the comfortable chair, lean my head back, thank God, and fall asleep. A few minutes later, it seems, I go to the convent to celebrate the 5 a.m. Mass.
Sr. Immaculata Marie is waiting for me, pretending to check the mailbox. “There’s a woman inside who thinks her child is possessed. She was already out here when the Young women got here. She’s waiting for you. She didn’t think women could go to the rectory, especially so early in the morning.”
I enter the convent. Sister Barbara is talking to a woman whose child is having a seizure.
“I already called 911. I told her that her child was just having a seizure, but I think she’s seen too many movies. She wouldn’t let me touch her to put her on the floor.”
I whisper. “I’ve got this. Thank you, Sister.”
I listen to the woman’s story. I put my hand on the child’s head as I bless her and her mother. The medics arrive shortly after. I say my last Mass, and a silent prayer for the nuns as they rush through their morning routines to get to their respective duties on time.
I am usually focused on the things I do as I do them, but several times during the day, I think about Randy, Didymus Thomas the Apostle, and the teachings of the church. I look at my students and think how much more they know about life than I did at their ages. These astute young men don’t miss anything. But rather than goof off or take advantage of my short attention span today, one of them asks, “Hey Father Mike, you want to talk about it?”
I smile. “Yes, Jamal. But I think it’s only fair that I ask if you guys want to hear.”
“I want to hear,” was almost unanimous.
“I was sitting in a crowded classroom when the principal’s voice came over the P.A. system saying, ‘President Kennedy was shot in Dallas.’ It was a turning point in my life. I’d never paid attention to politics or anything dealing with current events.” I look at each one. “Yeah just like you. I was only interested in having fun.
“But after school, families got together and discussed world events – Vietnam and Civil Rights, Joseph Kennedy, moonshine, and the large Kennedy clan, Catholicism and hatred. It was a lot to hear. My siblings and I were subdued. They got over it in a few days, but I kept thinking that the only Catholic president this country ever had was assassinated. I started watching the news with my parents and saw hatred among white folk, especially the women, and I couldn’t understand why they didn’t want Negro children in school with their kids.
“In our neighborhood, we played together. Of course when we reached high school, the boys went their separate ways and the girls disappeared off the streets into their homes. I hadn’t known there was a formula and I certainly didn’t know that it wasn’t like that all over America. But, even in the south where there were Black domestic workers – cooks, maids, nannies raising white children - the white people were now showing the hostility and hatred they held inside. These people were practically living together. It didn’t make sense and I prayed about it all the time.
“When I was in church, the smell left over from benedictions’ burnt ashes lifted me to a place of peace and I imagined many things. Sometimes, I was in an African village as a missionary, sometimes in forests or high in the Andes in South America, again as a missionary. One time, my mom said, they couldn’t snap me out of the trancelike state I used to get in.
“You all know what déjà vu is, right? No not the movie. Well, about a week after I started teaching, I knew that I’d been there before. A high school for Black boys,” I hesitate, then continue just as the bell rings, “and in one of the classes, there was one boy who would rise above the rest and be great because I was there.”
#
“Okay, God, where did that come from?” I ask as I drive out of the parking lot. “You’re saying it’s time for me to go. I’ve done what I was sent here to do. I don’t suppose you’re going to make it easy for me, though. I have to choose my own way to end my life. Free will all the way. Or is this pre-programming? I’ll find out at the right time.”
I drive in silence for a while, finally realizing that I’m heading to the park. Once there, I drive to my favorite spot and park. A quiet walk is what I need. No gym this evening. I don’t need more people. More recognition.
“All right, God,” I say, removing my shoes and socks. “You and me. Of all the priests in the world, you sent Lester to me. Okay,” I say, “I wasn’t the first. Just the first in this state. He’s over half done and you sent him to me so I can stop him. But if you are in control, why did the other men of faith fail the test? Or is the person he plans to kill here necessary to the continuation of the earth, like the student who will go on to greatness because I was there? It’s all very complicated.
“How will I do this, God? I won’t involve anyone else, so I can’t go throw myself in front of that bus over there. Preordained since before the earth was made, I don’t even need to think about this. At the appropriate time, you will allow me to do the right thing. I like you, God. You make life interesting and always give me what I need.”
When I look around, I see that the bus has moved on. I’m surrounded by green and brown. Leaves, trunks, and limbs. I wriggle my toes in the grass. I sigh. Be still and know that I am God, the psalm flows through my mind. Lowering myself to the ground, I see The All for a fleeting moment. “I love you, God. Whatever you are. I believe in you.” Then I close my eyes and am still.
#
“Good morning, God. It’s Saturday morning.” I stretch and rise from my bed. “I’m happy, God. I know that I have served you well. I kept my promise to you and embraced my commitments faithfully.” I turn on the radio as I pass it to go in the bathroom. John Denver sings, “It’s been a good life all in all.” I turn it off quickly. I don’t remember what the next words are going to be, but that’s all I need to hear. “Thanks God. I knew before You sent that message.”
In the bathtub with my method of self-destruction, I simply cross my arms over my chest and say, “I promised my life to You. So here it is.”
