Update
Well, I've never gotten any feedback here on this story, but my writer's workshop has given me things to work on. I don't think the story has moved forward at all, but it is fleshed out more so that it makes better sense... I think. Anyway, if you are interested, here it is - a little wonky in the format because I'm copy/pasting it...
be warned, it has gotten VERY LONG...
BACK FENCE NEWS
by
Dorothy Shapland
It was back fence news - dew-covered slippers and coffee-mug-in-hand news. Not the kind of news called out while collecting the newspaper in the morning, but the kind whispered in the backyard between the closest of neighbors - only the friends next door, and then never repeated again. Except at the fence next door, and next door to that. And the one next to that.
It was back fence news - the kind of news that spread through the town before lunch. The news that everyone knows and is keeping closely guarded lest someone else hear it. Knowing glances and smiles of innocence between mothers in the grocery aisles; murmured rumors tossed from clerk to bag check boy - flatly denied by those sworn to secrecy. And confirmed by the next denial, and the next one. And the denial after that.
* * *
With nothing but the jacket she was wearing at choir practice that afternoon, Eleanor had gone.
"She is 21 after all..."
"But to slip away in the night?!"
It certainly had the appearance of something suspicious, and appearance was all that mattered in a situation like this.
"She left her mother a note. Something about going to that nursing school in Florida."
"Wasn't that the plan all along?"
"Well, yes, but not ‘till the fall. Here she is, just up and gone in the middle of the summer."
"Smells fishy to me. What do the sisters say?"
"Not a thing."
"Well, I'll see what I can find out."
And so the questions came. A thousand ways to ask, a thousand times a day - prying noses sniffing for a tidbit of rotten something.
"They won’t say a thing - or never knew anything to begin with."
"Hard to tell with those closed-lipped girls..."
"And don't even think about asking the mother anything. You'd think she only ever had the three girls. Just ignores questions about the fourth."
"Well, you know what I think."
"So do we all, but there is just no proof."
"Not yet anyway."
* * *
Eleanor was the youngest of the McCauley sisters. She was also the tallest and she had all the grace her siblings lacked. While the sisters were evidence of generations of breeding for strong working stock, Eleanor’s elegant carriage seemed born of royalty - she could have been the cherished daughter of a queen and king from another, more mysterious land. The fair and freckled skin of the elder three was even and smooth and pale on Eleanor; their wild flaming curls were soft, auburn tendrils on her. Her profound allure was undeniable from her earliest days, and it only grew as she did.
Eleanor sang with a voice born of the spheres. She was the descant soprano in the church choir and her notes rang with the pure tones of heavenly bells. The parish husbands had been overheard to say she was the only thing that kept them coming to church on Sundays. Ever since they changed the mass from Latin to English, the whole thing felt more crass. But the voice of that girl raised their spirits heavenward and recalled the meaning of the hymns and psalms she sang. When she beseeched the wayward soul to return to the loving embrace of God in Hosea, all within earshot longed to know that God and to love Him with abandon.
The wives never felt quite the same way. If you could hear inside their silent, head-bent moments, some would be caught praying for her voice to crack, or that she would hit a sour note.
“Just once, dear Lord. Just once...”
Eleanor was as gentle and loving in spirit as she was in body, but she was strong in ways her sisters weren’t. She knew herself, and as brazen and forward as it was considered, she loved herself. Her mother had taken a belt to her many times in her short life for asking questions she shouldn’t. Eleanor never meant to cause problems, but knowing her place and choosing to stay there didn’t seem right. Knowing what was expected and doing it without question seemed somehow wrong to Eleanor. Her heart was loving and true, but her mind questioned things. Things she was not supposed to wonder about, let alone ask aloud. She had a burning need to know. To know why her father left when she was born, or why her mother never looked her in the eye. To know why her sisters were so content to learn to cook and clean and not to pursue higher education. To know why these women all doubted themselves and criticized one another without realizing how ugly it made them to be so judgmental.
Somehow, with no answers to her questions she found God's unwavering love fulfilling. She felt it was from Him that her strength was derived. She could love herself because she knew that despite her questions, God loved her. In the church she found her peace and she would never need anything more from this world than what she received from the church.
* * *
It was as much escape as it was destiny that made Michael join the seminary.
"So little Michael O’Shea has gone and joined the seminary!"
"And he's such a good looking boy."
“Oh that Black Irish look - black hair and crystal blue eyes.”
“And he’s no skinny thing either - that boy has a build on him.”
“Joined God’s army.”
Escape from the tempers and the alcohol that so defined his home life.
"What ever happened with that little girlfriend he had in grammar school?"
"Oh, that never worked out, though I can't imagine why."
"I know what you mean...He really is a handsome boy - such a waste."
"His mother is ecstatic, though."
"Who wouldn't be? But still, he doesn't seem the type."
Escape to the safety of a world of silence and prayer.
"Too bad, really, though I imagine more of the girls will gladly attend mass once he’s the main attraction. Such a striking boy."
"Oh, you are bad!"
"Well, we'll see who goes out to buy a new hat when he comes to say his first mass, won't we?"
Escape and the chance to be someone noteworthy.
* * *
Michael’s family had always been poor -- too many mouths to feed, never a cent to spare. The anger and drink masked his parents’ frustration, keeping them far from their troubles. The same two demons also led his brothers to leave home early and his sisters to marry young.
As the oldest child, the responsibility for his siblings rested squarely on Michael’s shoulders. Perhaps this was part of the reason he always felt he was more important than the people around him knew. Or perhaps there was a destiny he could sense that made him feel important. From the earliest days he had felt there was something he was meant to do, or meant to be. Something significant. Something that would make people notice him - not as “poor Michael with so much to bear” but as “Michael O’Shea, the ____”. It was filling in the blank that always stumped him.
Lying in bed listening to the fights, to his mother running to hide and cry in the bathroom, to the rest of the children pretending to sleep - these were the times he prayed. Under stress, he turned to heaven. He prayed that the little ones would stay asleep. He prayed that his father would stop drinking, that his mother would stop crying. He prayed that he could find a way to help. Or to leave. That was the hard one -- how to leave and not abandon them.
Michael waited for a clear message from God. He prayed and prayed for a sign, any hint or indication of the right thing to do. Somehow God would let him know what he was here for.
Finally he heard it.
The ladies in the grocery store were chattering, as they always did.
"You go straight to heaven, they say."
"Not that a son of mine would give up skirt chasing for me."
"Nor mine, but that Dennis was always different."
"Can't imagine it myself, but they say it’s a calling."
"The priesthood for him; heaven for his mother."
Dennis Ryan had guaranteed his mother's spot in heaven. When the son of a Catholic woman enters the priesthood, she is graced and upon her death will go straight to heaven. That’s what the ladies were saying. This was the sign Michael had been waiting for.
By accepting a calling to the priesthood, no one could ever question his loyalty to his family. He would be blessing his parents and following God’s design for him, not escaping his drunken father and the responsibility of caring for his brothers and sisters. He would fulfill his destiny and become a focal member of the community, as he always knew he should.
Michael went to see Father Dugan and to explain his calling. He expected the priest to be delighted with the news, the church was always reminding children of the significance of a calling to the service of our Lord. Surely they would be happy to see a young man humbly accepting God’s will and offering to start his studies immediately. But somehow that didn’t seem the case.
“You forget Mikey, I’ve christened, confessed and confirmed every member of your family as they’ve come up through their schooling in the church. I know you better than you think.”
“But then you must know how seriously I’m telling you Father, I’ve had a calling to the church. God wants me to be a priest.”
“I’m not doubting your sincerity Mikey, just the origins of this calling. It is very difficult to distinguish between the will of God and the desires of our own heart, especially for one so young, and for one who’s life at home presents great challenge.”
“But my home-life is part of the reason I know God is calling me! He wants me to help my mother and my little brothers and sisters, and even my father, through service in the church.”
“And that may well be.”
“But I just know this is the right thing Father! God wants me to use my experiences to help His church, and to bring His word to other families in trouble.”
“And that may well be.”
“But I can’t enter seminary until I’ve convinced you to support me. Till you agree that this is a calling to the priesthood, and I should answer!”
“Well, when you’ve graduated from high school, if you still feel the same way, I will certainly help you with entrance to the seminary.”
“But how could a calling change in a year?”
But Father Dugan was as firm as he was consistent.
"When you've graduated, Mikey. When you've graduated."
And so Michael O’Shea waited another year.
* * *
Eleanor went to church to sing. She loved to croon at the top of her lungs, and was as surprised by the power of her voice as everyone else was. It was never something she had control over -- she'd had no lessons or training - but the purity of the notes coming through her delighted her as much as it did those who listened. There were few things she could even hum at home without incurring the wrath of her mother, so Eleanor chose to raise her voice in praise.
When she sang in church, no one questioned her heartfelt passion for the prayers. They simply didn't realize that her passion was for her own vocals. She admired the blending of the notes and the clarity of tones that rang through the chorus, but she loved even better the sound of her own pipes rising above and encircling the other voices. The force she felt coming through her filled both the void in her heart and the vast spaces of the church with ringing, full sound.
Sunday after Sunday she sang, practiced with the choir in between, and then sang again. But when people complimented her performance, she would hang her head. She would immerse herself so completely, she lost track even of where she was - lost track of everything except the power her voice carried and bestowed on her. Ashamed of her passion for hearing herself, she would lower her head and shuffle away from the accolades.
"She is so humble and full of grace,"
"She is the voice of the angels on earth.”
"And see how pious she is - her only thoughts are of God."
They didn't know her heart. They didn't know the sin of pride she felt when she sang. They didn't know how she dreamed of the next practice, the next mass - not because she loved God so well, but because she loved to sing more than she loved to breathe. Oh she loved God well enough - but she loved Him for the gift he had given her. Her faith in God and Heaven and all the promises of the Church were tied up in her passion for her own singing and her love for herself. Who could doubt a God that had given her such a powerful gift? She lived from day to day, clinging to any shred of patience she could find in herself while she awaited the next chance to open her heart and pour out sound.
Patience was not something Eleanor had a lot of. She was short-tempered and strong-willed. These were traits she had inherited from her mother. This was the Irish in her. She had still never forgiven her sister Regina for the chocolate ice cream stain the oaf had gotten on her favorite Easter dress, though she had long outgrown it. And no punishment her mother could dish out would ever make her apologize for the hair-pulling incident with Margaret after Mass.
“God hates vanity, Eleanor. Father Danic said so in his sermon. That’s why God hates you, because you think you are better than everyone. Your vain about your hair and your singing and God hates you for that.”
“God may hate vanity, but I hate YOU Margaret!”
There had been a beating for that, and missed supper, but somehow Margaret’s spiteful words had gone un-punished. When her mother came to see if Eleanor was ready to apologize yet, the only answer she had gotten was; “When Margaret apologizes for saying God hates me, I’ll apologize for saying I hate her. But I’ll never mean it if she doesn’t get a beating too!”
But these were not the things the neighbors saw or heard about. They only saw her hang her head at the sound of their praise. They only heard her intoning psalms.
"She moves through her days as though God is the only thing on her mind,"
They believed she was a child of God, and it was easy for her to let them. As long as no one ever found her out, she could use the choir as a place to let the muse free. As long as they believed what they wanted to believe, she could continue to sing praises that would carry on the stale church air and rise into the rafters and fill every crevice with sound. That was what she lived for. That was what made her feel safe. As long as nobody saw through her.
* * *
Father Dugan was as good as his word. He used the clout he had as an alumni to get Michael a full ride scholarship to Seton Hall for a bachelor’s degree with the Jesuit priests there. Michael was a straight A student. As pious as they come, and, fortunately for him, the Jesuits loved nothing better than a good challenging discussion about ethics and questions about faith. To them Michael was the perfect candidate for priesthood, someone who had challenged every tenant of the faith and still believed in divine providence.
“I hear from Brother Thomas that you are still convinced of your calling Mikey.”
“And I hear you will be made Monsignor when the Bishop visits next month.”
“Yes, complete with all the blessings of the title. Unless the Bishop sees fit to choose someone else. Its all a delicate combination of politics and the will of our Heavenly Father.”
“And is it a calling father?”
“Well, that is for the Bishop to decide.”
“And yet, you won’t decide if mine is a true calling.”
“I’m afraid, Mikey, that this is your battle of conscience, not mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand all the workings of God’s will Father, but I do know that I still intend to enter the seminary if you will hire me here at St. Vincent DePaul Church.”
“In that case, I will do what I can to support you son.”
With the requisite letters of recommendation and a job as deacon at the church he had grown up in, Michael entered the Immaculate Conception Seminary. His time there helped to resolve many of his questions about Catholicism, and reassured him in his faith. He was a model student who seemed unwavering in his calling to the priesthood. The Church would be proud to present this fine young man as a leader in the faith.
And so it was that eight years after his initial conversation with Father Dugan, Michael found himself with a Masters of Divinity and on the threshold of achieving what he had set out to accomplish.
“I would be honored to hear your confession before the ordination Mikey.”
“Thank you Monsignor Dugan.”
Michael faced his last opportunity to admit the doubts about the course his life had taken. The last chance he would have to speak aloud the fears and concerns and lingering questions about where this calling had really come from.
“Bless me father for I have sinned…” he began. But he couldn’t do it. After all this man had done for him, after all these years. He couldn’t give voice to the misgivings, the nagging feeling that there was still something more for him to do, or be.
“Mikey, I had my doubts once too.”
Michael was startled to hear the elder priest give voice to his thoughts.
“ You must know that it is natural for you to be questioning yourself in this eleventh hour.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Mikey, God does not call us to give up our free will, but merely to make the choice to sacrifice other kinds of worldly greatness.”
“But what if I don’t know if this is the right choice?”
“The reservations you feel are placed there by Him too. The way is always open to you, and when you have truly abandoned yourself to this decision, that is when you will know God’s will for you and rest peacefully in your new role.”
“But will I ever be sure that this is God’s will and not my own?”
“Faith means sacrifice Mikey. You must sacrifice the need to be proven right in order to embrace the faith that you are right.”
“But am I ready for this life?”
“I believe that you are ready. Do you have the faith to believe that too?”
“I do.”
“Then you are ready.”
* * *
All the girls at St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Academy relished First Friday mass. Once a month the class would line up and walk the marble halls into the chapel to wait in line and let Ol’ Padre hear confessions.
Some of the girls took great delight in trying to shock the old priest with their scandalous thoughts about some alter boy or other. Generally the rule was that you needed to take a few minutes to collect your thoughts once you were in the confessional so that the process would guarantee missing some class time with Sister Josephine or Sister James. But never so long that Sister Lucy would notice and knock on the ornately carved mahogany door. Then you would recite every misdemeanor you could recall - disrespecting your mother, using God’s name in vein, lying to a nun, being mean to your best friend - that one was usually good for a few tears and Ol’ Padre would need to take a few extra minutes to say a special prayer to help you calm down and be kind in the future.
Once the class had finished confession, and penance, the procession back to class would be one of slow solemnity, in the hopes that the vespers bell would be heard before much school work could be undertaken. Then the return stroll to chapel for mass where Ol’ Padre would be sure to give a lengthy sermon about how girls’ hurtful words hurt themselves as much as the other party.
“Oh, that was my bit!”
“I told him I made you cry by laughing at your hair!”
“I said I couldn’t help myself from talking behind your back because the devil provoked me to it!”
“I can’t believe he falls for all these ‘sins’ every month.”
“I think he forgets - he’s so senile.”
“Do you think he knows who we are by our voices?”
“Nah, he doesn’t know who we are when he calls on us from the seating chart in Spanish class! How could he recognize our voices in the confessional?”
“Bet he recognizes Eleanor’s voice.”
“Oh yeah ‘our angelic choir leader’”
“Your sister is such little saint.”
“She is not! She’s a nasty little stuck-up pig!”
“oooo, you better say an act of contrition before communion for that one!”
“Ladies! No whispering during the consecration!”
“Yes Sister Lucy.”
Eleanor especially loved First Fridays because she would miss most of the school day. The vocalists would be first to have their confessions heard, and then they would disappear into the choir loft to sing prayers in Latin while the other girls said their rosaries and waited a turn in the tall dark booth. “A choir of angels to remind the girls where their spirits should be during the sacrament” Padre would say. Sister Lucy wasn’t crazy about the lost learning time for her girls, but she couldn’t argue with the priest. It just wasn’t a nun’s place.
Then the chorus would sing through mass, and receive communion after all the other girls. Sometimes they would choose an especially difficult song with many verses for the communion march in order to drag the mass out a little longer. Padre would have to wait at the bottom step of the alter till the chorale had made it down the spiral staircase at the back of the chapel and then solemnly up the center isle to receive.
Father Danic served masses on the weekend, and generally ran the parish, but Padre was the darling old priest from New Mexico who taught the girls Spanish and ministered to the school and the sisters during the week. He anointed the ailing sisters and delivered communion to their bedsides, and he heard their confessions and prayed for their fundraisers. He presided over all the school functions, and of course said First Friday mass every month.
First Friday was everyone’s favorite day of the month at St. Elizabeth’s. Even some of the Sisters of Charity were reputed to have said they were looking forward to the next month’s reprieve from lesson plans. The one they hated was the annual St. Blaze day. That managed to interrupt something important no matter how you tried to plan for it. The girls agreed. Try though they did, the St. Blaze blessings never took enough time for them to miss anything - just long enough to make the nuns rush you through whatever was interrupted.
In time the February holiday of St. Blaze would become Eleanor’s favorite day of the year, and she would look forward to First Fridays in a way none of the other girls understood.
* * *
“Father O’Shea? Can I speak with you after mass today?”
“Of course Colleen. I can give you a few minutes between services if you’d like.”
“Well, I might need more than a few minutes, and it is kind of private.”
“What if you set up an appointment with Mrs. Williams in the rectory, and then I can be sure to give you the attention you need.”
“Thank you Father.”
Michael was finding his place in the church a fit after-all. He no longer carried around the doubts that had plagued his first year out of seminary. The parishioners accepted him, and turned to him for advice and support with their daily problems. Sometimes he could help, and felt he was making the difference he was destined for. At other times the challenges went beyond his abilities and he was left with the profound sense that the church stood in the way of the changes that needed to happen.
“Good afternoon Colleen. I’m glad you are here. What can I help you with?”
“Well Father, it’s a little complicated. And I know priests aren’t supposed to talk about their private conversations, right?”
“Yes Eileen. If you want this conversation to be completely in confidence, we can treat it as a confession. Let me just make sure Mrs. Williams knows not to interrupt us.”
These were the times that made Michael nervous. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he had no idea what he could do to help if he was sworn to secrecy and bound by church law. Two years as priest, after his seminary years as deacon in the church, had made him a trusted part of the community. That and vigilance on his part to maintain the distance his role as priest demanded.
“What is on your mind my child.”
Michael had been cornered by amorous young girls who wanted to know about the “rules” for priests and if any priest could ever get married. He had heard the confessions of mothers who held a secret hope in their heart that a certain priest might notice her daughter and choose to leave his calling and help her on the path to heaven. He had even heard married men voice their concerns that a certain priest had “noticed” his wife’s new Sunday dress too closely.
Michael understood that being a young priest brought some of these problems out in every parish. He learned to see past the question to the root problem. A girl’s blossoming womanhood, a mother’s fears about her daughter’s choices and options in a small town, a husband’s acknowledgment of his wife’s sudden need to dress up and buy new outfits designed to attract a man’s eye. He was developing the skills to address the cause and not get lost in how much of the apparent dilemma he may have inadvertently contributed to.
Michael knew that he did notice the girls, and the wives who tried to catch his eye. He was ashamed of how much he enjoyed the attention. But Monsignor Dugan insisted that as long as what he acted on was the impulse to help his flock find what they needed, that it didn’t matter if he was flattered by the attention. It would fade with time, but his influence would not.
But it was the gossip that bothered him. Every time he made an appointment to meet with a member of the church, the whole town would begin speculating.
“Did you see Mary Ellen went to talk with Father O’Shea after mass this week?”
“And what is that about, do you suppose?”
“Well it could be that no-good husband of hers is out catin’ around again.”
“More than likely, seeing how much he’s been drinking lately.”
“And I heard he got some new young secretary at work.”
“Well, the advantage of having a cheating husband is the chance to go cry on Father O’Shea’s shoulder isn’t it?”
“He sure knows plenty about having a drunk in the house.”
“Well, of course, but I was talking about getting a chance to look into those eyes and have his full attention on your little ol’ problems.”
“Aren’t you bad!”
“Hum, I may have to develop a little problem myself next week!”
“Oh you wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not if you don’t want me gossiping about it all over town!”
Michael could handle the problems they brought him. After-all, he had grown up in this town. He knew these families his whole life. But he hated knowing how the town talked. Hated knowing that they had talked about his family when he was growing up. That they had pitied him because his father was a drunk. That they pitied him now because his mother had to go live with his little sister and her husband up in Connecticut. He hated that they still talked about the old man, dead and buried these past five years, and that there was nothing he could do to stop the talking.
“But Monsignor, week after week my sermon refers to the harm their gossip does, and still it goes on.”
“Yes Mikey. It does.”
“But how can we be doing God’s work and tearing each other down at the same time?”
“We can’t Mikey.”
“Then there must be a way to get them to SEE. How are we supposed to heal them spiritually and prepare them for the kingdom of Heaven if they don’t see the harm they do their souls with this endless judgement of one another?”
“It is a great task Mikey.”
“But nothing I do works!”
“Perhaps you are too close to the problem my son.”
The old priest had never been verbose, but he had grown more sparse in his answers, and far more cryptic over the years.
“Colleen, the church has only one answer for your problem. You must talk to this young man and convince him to marry you right away. Or you can ask him to come see me. I will have a talk with him for you if you’d like.”
“But Father, what if he doesn’t want this baby?”
“That course is already set, my child. He must do the right thing now and save you and your family the shame of this situation. He must give the child a name so that it may grow up in the church as a child of God.”
Why did the church have no room for mistakes? Sometimes the children of God think they know what is right, only to find later that they simply weren’t far-sighted enough to choose the best course. Michael knew the Jesuits’ answer, but it never seemed enough when he sat one on one with a person in pain.
“It is Gods will that we walk the path we have chosen, even the path we chose when we were blind to the outcome.”
* * *
It was at the end of Eleanor’s Junior year at St. Elizabeth’s that she decided to go to nursing school. Her mother had not objected when the Sisters of Charity had offered to take all four girls through high school. And she couldn’t have been more relieved than when they offered to house the youngest so that the expense of her care would be spared. The nuns had always expected that at least one of the daughters would join the convent out of obligation and this would be the path for a calling to service. Eleanor knew that going to nursing school was something her mother would not object to, unless the nuns did.
For three years Eleanor had been away from home and living at the convent school. She had taken care of Sister Catherine in her infirmity as a duty, in part to repay what had been given her. But when Ol’ Padre became ill, it was with a special affection that Eleanor took on his care. She traveled back and forth the mile between the school and rectory three times a day to bring him meals, and sat at his bedside reading stories from Charles Dickens every evening till he slept.
“Eleanor, Angel, you should go to nursing school.”
“What do you mean Padre?”
“Not every young girl has the patience to sit by the side of an old priest and care for his needs in his old age. It is a gift to be so gentle and kind.”
“I just want you to be well Padre. First Friday is coming.”
“Oh, there will still be mass on first Friday, and you will still sing God’s praises my child. But you have other gifts, and God will want you to use those as well.”
“What gifts Padre?”
“The gift of love. You have a generous heart, and you must learn to love more than yourself to best serve the Lord.”
“Yes, Padre.”
“And you have a gift for nurturing the ill. You should cultivate this talent my child. You should go to nursing school.”
“I don’t know anything about Nursing school Padre. Sister Lucy says I will become a postulant after graduation so I can learn discipline before I serve God as a nun.
“Nonsense. The convent is no place for one as strong as you. You haven’t the humility, no matter what you pretend.”
“But Padre…”
“No ‘buts’ about it little angel. You are here for greater things, your spirit cries out to be heard and to be noticed. A life of poverty, chastity and obedience was never meant for you. You’d never make it through the obedience part even if your stubbornness got you through the rest.”
“So, what do you advise then Padre?”
“As always Eleanor, I advise you to follow your heart.”
“Yes Padre.”
“And to go to nursing school.”
Eleanor sent away for information about a nursing school in Florida. It was far away from home, from St. Elizabeth’s parish, from all the girls who talk too much, from her mother and her sisters, and from the questions about her father. The more she considered it, the more Eleanor became excited about the idea. She could work in a hospital and do some real good for people who needed and wanted help. If she stayed in the convent, she would end up teaching girls who didn’t care, and trying to help when no help was wanted. Nursing school was the perfect solution. She could be great at something, and be proud of it. And certainly there would be a church choir she could join.
One night she sat telling Ol’Padre about the nursing school in Florida, and about the First Friday mass he had missed. How Father Danic had made the choir girls return to class and only sing during the mass.
“I don’t think he understands the importance of keeping the girls in the right spirit of reconciliation during confession time Padre.”
“I don’t think he understands how desperately you need to sing Eleanor.”
“But Padre, his sermon is always the same one he gives on Sunday. It was about not getting caught in the trappings of dressing to impress your neighbors again. The girls don’t even listen to him Padre, and why should they? They all wear uniforms!”
“He has so many obligations.”
“But if you were well enough just for that one thing, once a month…”
“No Angel. It is time for me to make room for Father Danic to have the help he needs.”
“What do you mean Padre?”
“I must leave the rectory and go to the infirmary now.”
“Oh Padre, you aren’t that ill. Don’t be silly. You can’t go to the infirmary. Your heart is better all the time, I know it is.”
“What you wish, and what is so are not the same Eleanor. Listen to your heart. You know as well as I that it is time.”
When Sister Catherine left for the infirmary the other sisters had cried. It was just the other side of campus, but everyone knew that it was the last step for those in the service of this parish. No one ever stayed in the infirmary long, but no one ever recovered either. The nuns would resist as long as they could before they would allow themselves to be taken there. No one ever visited the infirmary except Padre. He would visit and give them Extremunction, and then prepare for their funerals. Now Padre was getting ready to go too.
Eleanor was heart sick. In a world of women and girls and nuns, in a world with no father of her own, the Padre had been a man who understood her, and loved her, just as she was. He was the image of God she held when she prayed - not the bearded old man on a cloud that she had imagined God to be when she was younger - but the kind and gentle priest that had given her permission to love her talents and to use them every chance she got. And now he was leaving her for good.
“I will stay with you Eleanor, as long as you remember to listen to your heart. You have a good strong heart, and if you follow what your heart tells you, you will never go wrong. Sing Eleanor. Sing for me when I’m gone. Sing for yourself and always be proud of what God has given you.”
“Yes Padre.”
“And go to that nursing school. Your destiny will follow you there.
* * *
When they asked Michael to change parishes, he hesitated. It was easy being a priest at St. Vincent DePaul. He knew all the families; they all knew him. And they all loved him because he was good at what he did. There was no challenge in this post outside the quest he had given himself to rid the town of talk, and that was the way he liked it. But obedience is a part of the calling, so when they asked him to take on a new parish, he dared not refuse.
"I am humbly grateful for this opportunity, Monsignor”
"They need you Mikey. Padre Santebanes had many responsibilities that Father Danic simply can’t take on."
"Yes, Monsignor. I will do my best not to disappoint."
"Don't worry about that, Mikey, just be yourself."
“But what if being myself isn’t enough in a new parish?”
“It will be enough.”
Monsignor Dugan had been a good ally from the start - it would be hard to leave him behind. The new parish was only eighteen blocks away, but blocks were miles in this part of the world. Moving into a new rectory, finding a niche in an established congregation, becoming comfortable with the parishioners and the other priest - these were enormous tasks, and ones that Michael was unconfident about.
“Tell me about the convent, Monsignor.”
“Not much to tell Mikey. Nuns and girls. Confessions and Communions, and blessings.”
“Are you sure this is the station for me Monsignor?”
“There will be challenges for you to face. There always are. But you will find your destiny there, and not in these dusty chambers.”
be warned, it has gotten VERY LONG...
BACK FENCE NEWS
by
Dorothy Shapland
It was back fence news - dew-covered slippers and coffee-mug-in-hand news. Not the kind of news called out while collecting the newspaper in the morning, but the kind whispered in the backyard between the closest of neighbors - only the friends next door, and then never repeated again. Except at the fence next door, and next door to that. And the one next to that.
It was back fence news - the kind of news that spread through the town before lunch. The news that everyone knows and is keeping closely guarded lest someone else hear it. Knowing glances and smiles of innocence between mothers in the grocery aisles; murmured rumors tossed from clerk to bag check boy - flatly denied by those sworn to secrecy. And confirmed by the next denial, and the next one. And the denial after that.
* * *
With nothing but the jacket she was wearing at choir practice that afternoon, Eleanor had gone.
"She is 21 after all..."
"But to slip away in the night?!"
It certainly had the appearance of something suspicious, and appearance was all that mattered in a situation like this.
"She left her mother a note. Something about going to that nursing school in Florida."
"Wasn't that the plan all along?"
"Well, yes, but not ‘till the fall. Here she is, just up and gone in the middle of the summer."
"Smells fishy to me. What do the sisters say?"
"Not a thing."
"Well, I'll see what I can find out."
And so the questions came. A thousand ways to ask, a thousand times a day - prying noses sniffing for a tidbit of rotten something.
"They won’t say a thing - or never knew anything to begin with."
"Hard to tell with those closed-lipped girls..."
"And don't even think about asking the mother anything. You'd think she only ever had the three girls. Just ignores questions about the fourth."
"Well, you know what I think."
"So do we all, but there is just no proof."
"Not yet anyway."
* * *
Eleanor was the youngest of the McCauley sisters. She was also the tallest and she had all the grace her siblings lacked. While the sisters were evidence of generations of breeding for strong working stock, Eleanor’s elegant carriage seemed born of royalty - she could have been the cherished daughter of a queen and king from another, more mysterious land. The fair and freckled skin of the elder three was even and smooth and pale on Eleanor; their wild flaming curls were soft, auburn tendrils on her. Her profound allure was undeniable from her earliest days, and it only grew as she did.
Eleanor sang with a voice born of the spheres. She was the descant soprano in the church choir and her notes rang with the pure tones of heavenly bells. The parish husbands had been overheard to say she was the only thing that kept them coming to church on Sundays. Ever since they changed the mass from Latin to English, the whole thing felt more crass. But the voice of that girl raised their spirits heavenward and recalled the meaning of the hymns and psalms she sang. When she beseeched the wayward soul to return to the loving embrace of God in Hosea, all within earshot longed to know that God and to love Him with abandon.
The wives never felt quite the same way. If you could hear inside their silent, head-bent moments, some would be caught praying for her voice to crack, or that she would hit a sour note.
“Just once, dear Lord. Just once...”
Eleanor was as gentle and loving in spirit as she was in body, but she was strong in ways her sisters weren’t. She knew herself, and as brazen and forward as it was considered, she loved herself. Her mother had taken a belt to her many times in her short life for asking questions she shouldn’t. Eleanor never meant to cause problems, but knowing her place and choosing to stay there didn’t seem right. Knowing what was expected and doing it without question seemed somehow wrong to Eleanor. Her heart was loving and true, but her mind questioned things. Things she was not supposed to wonder about, let alone ask aloud. She had a burning need to know. To know why her father left when she was born, or why her mother never looked her in the eye. To know why her sisters were so content to learn to cook and clean and not to pursue higher education. To know why these women all doubted themselves and criticized one another without realizing how ugly it made them to be so judgmental.
Somehow, with no answers to her questions she found God's unwavering love fulfilling. She felt it was from Him that her strength was derived. She could love herself because she knew that despite her questions, God loved her. In the church she found her peace and she would never need anything more from this world than what she received from the church.
* * *
It was as much escape as it was destiny that made Michael join the seminary.
"So little Michael O’Shea has gone and joined the seminary!"
"And he's such a good looking boy."
“Oh that Black Irish look - black hair and crystal blue eyes.”
“And he’s no skinny thing either - that boy has a build on him.”
“Joined God’s army.”
Escape from the tempers and the alcohol that so defined his home life.
"What ever happened with that little girlfriend he had in grammar school?"
"Oh, that never worked out, though I can't imagine why."
"I know what you mean...He really is a handsome boy - such a waste."
"His mother is ecstatic, though."
"Who wouldn't be? But still, he doesn't seem the type."
Escape to the safety of a world of silence and prayer.
"Too bad, really, though I imagine more of the girls will gladly attend mass once he’s the main attraction. Such a striking boy."
"Oh, you are bad!"
"Well, we'll see who goes out to buy a new hat when he comes to say his first mass, won't we?"
Escape and the chance to be someone noteworthy.
* * *
Michael’s family had always been poor -- too many mouths to feed, never a cent to spare. The anger and drink masked his parents’ frustration, keeping them far from their troubles. The same two demons also led his brothers to leave home early and his sisters to marry young.
As the oldest child, the responsibility for his siblings rested squarely on Michael’s shoulders. Perhaps this was part of the reason he always felt he was more important than the people around him knew. Or perhaps there was a destiny he could sense that made him feel important. From the earliest days he had felt there was something he was meant to do, or meant to be. Something significant. Something that would make people notice him - not as “poor Michael with so much to bear” but as “Michael O’Shea, the ____”. It was filling in the blank that always stumped him.
Lying in bed listening to the fights, to his mother running to hide and cry in the bathroom, to the rest of the children pretending to sleep - these were the times he prayed. Under stress, he turned to heaven. He prayed that the little ones would stay asleep. He prayed that his father would stop drinking, that his mother would stop crying. He prayed that he could find a way to help. Or to leave. That was the hard one -- how to leave and not abandon them.
Michael waited for a clear message from God. He prayed and prayed for a sign, any hint or indication of the right thing to do. Somehow God would let him know what he was here for.
Finally he heard it.
The ladies in the grocery store were chattering, as they always did.
"You go straight to heaven, they say."
"Not that a son of mine would give up skirt chasing for me."
"Nor mine, but that Dennis was always different."
"Can't imagine it myself, but they say it’s a calling."
"The priesthood for him; heaven for his mother."
Dennis Ryan had guaranteed his mother's spot in heaven. When the son of a Catholic woman enters the priesthood, she is graced and upon her death will go straight to heaven. That’s what the ladies were saying. This was the sign Michael had been waiting for.
By accepting a calling to the priesthood, no one could ever question his loyalty to his family. He would be blessing his parents and following God’s design for him, not escaping his drunken father and the responsibility of caring for his brothers and sisters. He would fulfill his destiny and become a focal member of the community, as he always knew he should.
Michael went to see Father Dugan and to explain his calling. He expected the priest to be delighted with the news, the church was always reminding children of the significance of a calling to the service of our Lord. Surely they would be happy to see a young man humbly accepting God’s will and offering to start his studies immediately. But somehow that didn’t seem the case.
“You forget Mikey, I’ve christened, confessed and confirmed every member of your family as they’ve come up through their schooling in the church. I know you better than you think.”
“But then you must know how seriously I’m telling you Father, I’ve had a calling to the church. God wants me to be a priest.”
“I’m not doubting your sincerity Mikey, just the origins of this calling. It is very difficult to distinguish between the will of God and the desires of our own heart, especially for one so young, and for one who’s life at home presents great challenge.”
“But my home-life is part of the reason I know God is calling me! He wants me to help my mother and my little brothers and sisters, and even my father, through service in the church.”
“And that may well be.”
“But I just know this is the right thing Father! God wants me to use my experiences to help His church, and to bring His word to other families in trouble.”
“And that may well be.”
“But I can’t enter seminary until I’ve convinced you to support me. Till you agree that this is a calling to the priesthood, and I should answer!”
“Well, when you’ve graduated from high school, if you still feel the same way, I will certainly help you with entrance to the seminary.”
“But how could a calling change in a year?”
But Father Dugan was as firm as he was consistent.
"When you've graduated, Mikey. When you've graduated."
And so Michael O’Shea waited another year.
* * *
Eleanor went to church to sing. She loved to croon at the top of her lungs, and was as surprised by the power of her voice as everyone else was. It was never something she had control over -- she'd had no lessons or training - but the purity of the notes coming through her delighted her as much as it did those who listened. There were few things she could even hum at home without incurring the wrath of her mother, so Eleanor chose to raise her voice in praise.
When she sang in church, no one questioned her heartfelt passion for the prayers. They simply didn't realize that her passion was for her own vocals. She admired the blending of the notes and the clarity of tones that rang through the chorus, but she loved even better the sound of her own pipes rising above and encircling the other voices. The force she felt coming through her filled both the void in her heart and the vast spaces of the church with ringing, full sound.
Sunday after Sunday she sang, practiced with the choir in between, and then sang again. But when people complimented her performance, she would hang her head. She would immerse herself so completely, she lost track even of where she was - lost track of everything except the power her voice carried and bestowed on her. Ashamed of her passion for hearing herself, she would lower her head and shuffle away from the accolades.
"She is so humble and full of grace,"
"She is the voice of the angels on earth.”
"And see how pious she is - her only thoughts are of God."
They didn't know her heart. They didn't know the sin of pride she felt when she sang. They didn't know how she dreamed of the next practice, the next mass - not because she loved God so well, but because she loved to sing more than she loved to breathe. Oh she loved God well enough - but she loved Him for the gift he had given her. Her faith in God and Heaven and all the promises of the Church were tied up in her passion for her own singing and her love for herself. Who could doubt a God that had given her such a powerful gift? She lived from day to day, clinging to any shred of patience she could find in herself while she awaited the next chance to open her heart and pour out sound.
Patience was not something Eleanor had a lot of. She was short-tempered and strong-willed. These were traits she had inherited from her mother. This was the Irish in her. She had still never forgiven her sister Regina for the chocolate ice cream stain the oaf had gotten on her favorite Easter dress, though she had long outgrown it. And no punishment her mother could dish out would ever make her apologize for the hair-pulling incident with Margaret after Mass.
“God hates vanity, Eleanor. Father Danic said so in his sermon. That’s why God hates you, because you think you are better than everyone. Your vain about your hair and your singing and God hates you for that.”
“God may hate vanity, but I hate YOU Margaret!”
There had been a beating for that, and missed supper, but somehow Margaret’s spiteful words had gone un-punished. When her mother came to see if Eleanor was ready to apologize yet, the only answer she had gotten was; “When Margaret apologizes for saying God hates me, I’ll apologize for saying I hate her. But I’ll never mean it if she doesn’t get a beating too!”
But these were not the things the neighbors saw or heard about. They only saw her hang her head at the sound of their praise. They only heard her intoning psalms.
"She moves through her days as though God is the only thing on her mind,"
They believed she was a child of God, and it was easy for her to let them. As long as no one ever found her out, she could use the choir as a place to let the muse free. As long as they believed what they wanted to believe, she could continue to sing praises that would carry on the stale church air and rise into the rafters and fill every crevice with sound. That was what she lived for. That was what made her feel safe. As long as nobody saw through her.
* * *
Father Dugan was as good as his word. He used the clout he had as an alumni to get Michael a full ride scholarship to Seton Hall for a bachelor’s degree with the Jesuit priests there. Michael was a straight A student. As pious as they come, and, fortunately for him, the Jesuits loved nothing better than a good challenging discussion about ethics and questions about faith. To them Michael was the perfect candidate for priesthood, someone who had challenged every tenant of the faith and still believed in divine providence.
“I hear from Brother Thomas that you are still convinced of your calling Mikey.”
“And I hear you will be made Monsignor when the Bishop visits next month.”
“Yes, complete with all the blessings of the title. Unless the Bishop sees fit to choose someone else. Its all a delicate combination of politics and the will of our Heavenly Father.”
“And is it a calling father?”
“Well, that is for the Bishop to decide.”
“And yet, you won’t decide if mine is a true calling.”
“I’m afraid, Mikey, that this is your battle of conscience, not mine.”
“I’m not sure I understand all the workings of God’s will Father, but I do know that I still intend to enter the seminary if you will hire me here at St. Vincent DePaul Church.”
“In that case, I will do what I can to support you son.”
With the requisite letters of recommendation and a job as deacon at the church he had grown up in, Michael entered the Immaculate Conception Seminary. His time there helped to resolve many of his questions about Catholicism, and reassured him in his faith. He was a model student who seemed unwavering in his calling to the priesthood. The Church would be proud to present this fine young man as a leader in the faith.
And so it was that eight years after his initial conversation with Father Dugan, Michael found himself with a Masters of Divinity and on the threshold of achieving what he had set out to accomplish.
“I would be honored to hear your confession before the ordination Mikey.”
“Thank you Monsignor Dugan.”
Michael faced his last opportunity to admit the doubts about the course his life had taken. The last chance he would have to speak aloud the fears and concerns and lingering questions about where this calling had really come from.
“Bless me father for I have sinned…” he began. But he couldn’t do it. After all this man had done for him, after all these years. He couldn’t give voice to the misgivings, the nagging feeling that there was still something more for him to do, or be.
“Mikey, I had my doubts once too.”
Michael was startled to hear the elder priest give voice to his thoughts.
“ You must know that it is natural for you to be questioning yourself in this eleventh hour.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Mikey, God does not call us to give up our free will, but merely to make the choice to sacrifice other kinds of worldly greatness.”
“But what if I don’t know if this is the right choice?”
“The reservations you feel are placed there by Him too. The way is always open to you, and when you have truly abandoned yourself to this decision, that is when you will know God’s will for you and rest peacefully in your new role.”
“But will I ever be sure that this is God’s will and not my own?”
“Faith means sacrifice Mikey. You must sacrifice the need to be proven right in order to embrace the faith that you are right.”
“But am I ready for this life?”
“I believe that you are ready. Do you have the faith to believe that too?”
“I do.”
“Then you are ready.”
* * *
All the girls at St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Academy relished First Friday mass. Once a month the class would line up and walk the marble halls into the chapel to wait in line and let Ol’ Padre hear confessions.
Some of the girls took great delight in trying to shock the old priest with their scandalous thoughts about some alter boy or other. Generally the rule was that you needed to take a few minutes to collect your thoughts once you were in the confessional so that the process would guarantee missing some class time with Sister Josephine or Sister James. But never so long that Sister Lucy would notice and knock on the ornately carved mahogany door. Then you would recite every misdemeanor you could recall - disrespecting your mother, using God’s name in vein, lying to a nun, being mean to your best friend - that one was usually good for a few tears and Ol’ Padre would need to take a few extra minutes to say a special prayer to help you calm down and be kind in the future.
Once the class had finished confession, and penance, the procession back to class would be one of slow solemnity, in the hopes that the vespers bell would be heard before much school work could be undertaken. Then the return stroll to chapel for mass where Ol’ Padre would be sure to give a lengthy sermon about how girls’ hurtful words hurt themselves as much as the other party.
“Oh, that was my bit!”
“I told him I made you cry by laughing at your hair!”
“I said I couldn’t help myself from talking behind your back because the devil provoked me to it!”
“I can’t believe he falls for all these ‘sins’ every month.”
“I think he forgets - he’s so senile.”
“Do you think he knows who we are by our voices?”
“Nah, he doesn’t know who we are when he calls on us from the seating chart in Spanish class! How could he recognize our voices in the confessional?”
“Bet he recognizes Eleanor’s voice.”
“Oh yeah ‘our angelic choir leader’”
“Your sister is such little saint.”
“She is not! She’s a nasty little stuck-up pig!”
“oooo, you better say an act of contrition before communion for that one!”
“Ladies! No whispering during the consecration!”
“Yes Sister Lucy.”
Eleanor especially loved First Fridays because she would miss most of the school day. The vocalists would be first to have their confessions heard, and then they would disappear into the choir loft to sing prayers in Latin while the other girls said their rosaries and waited a turn in the tall dark booth. “A choir of angels to remind the girls where their spirits should be during the sacrament” Padre would say. Sister Lucy wasn’t crazy about the lost learning time for her girls, but she couldn’t argue with the priest. It just wasn’t a nun’s place.
Then the chorus would sing through mass, and receive communion after all the other girls. Sometimes they would choose an especially difficult song with many verses for the communion march in order to drag the mass out a little longer. Padre would have to wait at the bottom step of the alter till the chorale had made it down the spiral staircase at the back of the chapel and then solemnly up the center isle to receive.
Father Danic served masses on the weekend, and generally ran the parish, but Padre was the darling old priest from New Mexico who taught the girls Spanish and ministered to the school and the sisters during the week. He anointed the ailing sisters and delivered communion to their bedsides, and he heard their confessions and prayed for their fundraisers. He presided over all the school functions, and of course said First Friday mass every month.
First Friday was everyone’s favorite day of the month at St. Elizabeth’s. Even some of the Sisters of Charity were reputed to have said they were looking forward to the next month’s reprieve from lesson plans. The one they hated was the annual St. Blaze day. That managed to interrupt something important no matter how you tried to plan for it. The girls agreed. Try though they did, the St. Blaze blessings never took enough time for them to miss anything - just long enough to make the nuns rush you through whatever was interrupted.
In time the February holiday of St. Blaze would become Eleanor’s favorite day of the year, and she would look forward to First Fridays in a way none of the other girls understood.
* * *
“Father O’Shea? Can I speak with you after mass today?”
“Of course Colleen. I can give you a few minutes between services if you’d like.”
“Well, I might need more than a few minutes, and it is kind of private.”
“What if you set up an appointment with Mrs. Williams in the rectory, and then I can be sure to give you the attention you need.”
“Thank you Father.”
Michael was finding his place in the church a fit after-all. He no longer carried around the doubts that had plagued his first year out of seminary. The parishioners accepted him, and turned to him for advice and support with their daily problems. Sometimes he could help, and felt he was making the difference he was destined for. At other times the challenges went beyond his abilities and he was left with the profound sense that the church stood in the way of the changes that needed to happen.
“Good afternoon Colleen. I’m glad you are here. What can I help you with?”
“Well Father, it’s a little complicated. And I know priests aren’t supposed to talk about their private conversations, right?”
“Yes Eileen. If you want this conversation to be completely in confidence, we can treat it as a confession. Let me just make sure Mrs. Williams knows not to interrupt us.”
These were the times that made Michael nervous. He had a feeling he knew what was coming, but he had no idea what he could do to help if he was sworn to secrecy and bound by church law. Two years as priest, after his seminary years as deacon in the church, had made him a trusted part of the community. That and vigilance on his part to maintain the distance his role as priest demanded.
“What is on your mind my child.”
Michael had been cornered by amorous young girls who wanted to know about the “rules” for priests and if any priest could ever get married. He had heard the confessions of mothers who held a secret hope in their heart that a certain priest might notice her daughter and choose to leave his calling and help her on the path to heaven. He had even heard married men voice their concerns that a certain priest had “noticed” his wife’s new Sunday dress too closely.
Michael understood that being a young priest brought some of these problems out in every parish. He learned to see past the question to the root problem. A girl’s blossoming womanhood, a mother’s fears about her daughter’s choices and options in a small town, a husband’s acknowledgment of his wife’s sudden need to dress up and buy new outfits designed to attract a man’s eye. He was developing the skills to address the cause and not get lost in how much of the apparent dilemma he may have inadvertently contributed to.
Michael knew that he did notice the girls, and the wives who tried to catch his eye. He was ashamed of how much he enjoyed the attention. But Monsignor Dugan insisted that as long as what he acted on was the impulse to help his flock find what they needed, that it didn’t matter if he was flattered by the attention. It would fade with time, but his influence would not.
But it was the gossip that bothered him. Every time he made an appointment to meet with a member of the church, the whole town would begin speculating.
“Did you see Mary Ellen went to talk with Father O’Shea after mass this week?”
“And what is that about, do you suppose?”
“Well it could be that no-good husband of hers is out catin’ around again.”
“More than likely, seeing how much he’s been drinking lately.”
“And I heard he got some new young secretary at work.”
“Well, the advantage of having a cheating husband is the chance to go cry on Father O’Shea’s shoulder isn’t it?”
“He sure knows plenty about having a drunk in the house.”
“Well, of course, but I was talking about getting a chance to look into those eyes and have his full attention on your little ol’ problems.”
“Aren’t you bad!”
“Hum, I may have to develop a little problem myself next week!”
“Oh you wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Not if you don’t want me gossiping about it all over town!”
Michael could handle the problems they brought him. After-all, he had grown up in this town. He knew these families his whole life. But he hated knowing how the town talked. Hated knowing that they had talked about his family when he was growing up. That they had pitied him because his father was a drunk. That they pitied him now because his mother had to go live with his little sister and her husband up in Connecticut. He hated that they still talked about the old man, dead and buried these past five years, and that there was nothing he could do to stop the talking.
“But Monsignor, week after week my sermon refers to the harm their gossip does, and still it goes on.”
“Yes Mikey. It does.”
“But how can we be doing God’s work and tearing each other down at the same time?”
“We can’t Mikey.”
“Then there must be a way to get them to SEE. How are we supposed to heal them spiritually and prepare them for the kingdom of Heaven if they don’t see the harm they do their souls with this endless judgement of one another?”
“It is a great task Mikey.”
“But nothing I do works!”
“Perhaps you are too close to the problem my son.”
The old priest had never been verbose, but he had grown more sparse in his answers, and far more cryptic over the years.
“Colleen, the church has only one answer for your problem. You must talk to this young man and convince him to marry you right away. Or you can ask him to come see me. I will have a talk with him for you if you’d like.”
“But Father, what if he doesn’t want this baby?”
“That course is already set, my child. He must do the right thing now and save you and your family the shame of this situation. He must give the child a name so that it may grow up in the church as a child of God.”
Why did the church have no room for mistakes? Sometimes the children of God think they know what is right, only to find later that they simply weren’t far-sighted enough to choose the best course. Michael knew the Jesuits’ answer, but it never seemed enough when he sat one on one with a person in pain.
“It is Gods will that we walk the path we have chosen, even the path we chose when we were blind to the outcome.”
* * *
It was at the end of Eleanor’s Junior year at St. Elizabeth’s that she decided to go to nursing school. Her mother had not objected when the Sisters of Charity had offered to take all four girls through high school. And she couldn’t have been more relieved than when they offered to house the youngest so that the expense of her care would be spared. The nuns had always expected that at least one of the daughters would join the convent out of obligation and this would be the path for a calling to service. Eleanor knew that going to nursing school was something her mother would not object to, unless the nuns did.
For three years Eleanor had been away from home and living at the convent school. She had taken care of Sister Catherine in her infirmity as a duty, in part to repay what had been given her. But when Ol’ Padre became ill, it was with a special affection that Eleanor took on his care. She traveled back and forth the mile between the school and rectory three times a day to bring him meals, and sat at his bedside reading stories from Charles Dickens every evening till he slept.
“Eleanor, Angel, you should go to nursing school.”
“What do you mean Padre?”
“Not every young girl has the patience to sit by the side of an old priest and care for his needs in his old age. It is a gift to be so gentle and kind.”
“I just want you to be well Padre. First Friday is coming.”
“Oh, there will still be mass on first Friday, and you will still sing God’s praises my child. But you have other gifts, and God will want you to use those as well.”
“What gifts Padre?”
“The gift of love. You have a generous heart, and you must learn to love more than yourself to best serve the Lord.”
“Yes, Padre.”
“And you have a gift for nurturing the ill. You should cultivate this talent my child. You should go to nursing school.”
“I don’t know anything about Nursing school Padre. Sister Lucy says I will become a postulant after graduation so I can learn discipline before I serve God as a nun.
“Nonsense. The convent is no place for one as strong as you. You haven’t the humility, no matter what you pretend.”
“But Padre…”
“No ‘buts’ about it little angel. You are here for greater things, your spirit cries out to be heard and to be noticed. A life of poverty, chastity and obedience was never meant for you. You’d never make it through the obedience part even if your stubbornness got you through the rest.”
“So, what do you advise then Padre?”
“As always Eleanor, I advise you to follow your heart.”
“Yes Padre.”
“And to go to nursing school.”
Eleanor sent away for information about a nursing school in Florida. It was far away from home, from St. Elizabeth’s parish, from all the girls who talk too much, from her mother and her sisters, and from the questions about her father. The more she considered it, the more Eleanor became excited about the idea. She could work in a hospital and do some real good for people who needed and wanted help. If she stayed in the convent, she would end up teaching girls who didn’t care, and trying to help when no help was wanted. Nursing school was the perfect solution. She could be great at something, and be proud of it. And certainly there would be a church choir she could join.
One night she sat telling Ol’Padre about the nursing school in Florida, and about the First Friday mass he had missed. How Father Danic had made the choir girls return to class and only sing during the mass.
“I don’t think he understands the importance of keeping the girls in the right spirit of reconciliation during confession time Padre.”
“I don’t think he understands how desperately you need to sing Eleanor.”
“But Padre, his sermon is always the same one he gives on Sunday. It was about not getting caught in the trappings of dressing to impress your neighbors again. The girls don’t even listen to him Padre, and why should they? They all wear uniforms!”
“He has so many obligations.”
“But if you were well enough just for that one thing, once a month…”
“No Angel. It is time for me to make room for Father Danic to have the help he needs.”
“What do you mean Padre?”
“I must leave the rectory and go to the infirmary now.”
“Oh Padre, you aren’t that ill. Don’t be silly. You can’t go to the infirmary. Your heart is better all the time, I know it is.”
“What you wish, and what is so are not the same Eleanor. Listen to your heart. You know as well as I that it is time.”
When Sister Catherine left for the infirmary the other sisters had cried. It was just the other side of campus, but everyone knew that it was the last step for those in the service of this parish. No one ever stayed in the infirmary long, but no one ever recovered either. The nuns would resist as long as they could before they would allow themselves to be taken there. No one ever visited the infirmary except Padre. He would visit and give them Extremunction, and then prepare for their funerals. Now Padre was getting ready to go too.
Eleanor was heart sick. In a world of women and girls and nuns, in a world with no father of her own, the Padre had been a man who understood her, and loved her, just as she was. He was the image of God she held when she prayed - not the bearded old man on a cloud that she had imagined God to be when she was younger - but the kind and gentle priest that had given her permission to love her talents and to use them every chance she got. And now he was leaving her for good.
“I will stay with you Eleanor, as long as you remember to listen to your heart. You have a good strong heart, and if you follow what your heart tells you, you will never go wrong. Sing Eleanor. Sing for me when I’m gone. Sing for yourself and always be proud of what God has given you.”
“Yes Padre.”
“And go to that nursing school. Your destiny will follow you there.
* * *
When they asked Michael to change parishes, he hesitated. It was easy being a priest at St. Vincent DePaul. He knew all the families; they all knew him. And they all loved him because he was good at what he did. There was no challenge in this post outside the quest he had given himself to rid the town of talk, and that was the way he liked it. But obedience is a part of the calling, so when they asked him to take on a new parish, he dared not refuse.
"I am humbly grateful for this opportunity, Monsignor”
"They need you Mikey. Padre Santebanes had many responsibilities that Father Danic simply can’t take on."
"Yes, Monsignor. I will do my best not to disappoint."
"Don't worry about that, Mikey, just be yourself."
“But what if being myself isn’t enough in a new parish?”
“It will be enough.”
Monsignor Dugan had been a good ally from the start - it would be hard to leave him behind. The new parish was only eighteen blocks away, but blocks were miles in this part of the world. Moving into a new rectory, finding a niche in an established congregation, becoming comfortable with the parishioners and the other priest - these were enormous tasks, and ones that Michael was unconfident about.
“Tell me about the convent, Monsignor.”
“Not much to tell Mikey. Nuns and girls. Confessions and Communions, and blessings.”
“Are you sure this is the station for me Monsignor?”
“There will be challenges for you to face. There always are. But you will find your destiny there, and not in these dusty chambers.”