April 14, 2009
The Honorable
Washington, DC 20510-4601
Mr. :
Although the preamble is not considered part of our Constitution and therefore not binding, it should provide guidance to those swearing to uphold that solemn document. It notes that the Constitution is from the People in an effort to unite for justice, domestic peace, defense, general welfare and liberty --- not just back then, but for us, their posterity.
Those 60-some thousand pages of tax code you are partially responsible for must be reconsidered in light of those Constitutional goals. Our objection is not just the rates of taxation, but the means of taxation.
First, those tax laws bring about consequences lawmakers cannot possibly foretell.
Second, many of those taxes are for programs that are none of the government’s business, which should be restricted to those aims outlined in that succinct but eloquent preamble.
Third, the complexity of the code not only costs money over and above the taxes due but takes time and effort on the part of taxpayers that could better used on other pursuits.
You, sir, have an obligation to all of the citizens of Virginia and the United States of America to make our Constitution work --- work for We the People and not merely for those who govern us.
Please vote and work for a sensible tax policy.
Sincerely,
Carl Eifert
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
HIS TRAVEL LIST
□ Batteries, pen, notebook
□ Belts – dress, everyday, sports
□ Blazer, suit(s). dress trousers
□ Books, etc.
□ Clocks, computers, watch
□ Handkerchiefs
□ Hangers
□ Night Light, flashlight
□ Pajamas, robe
□ Phones, chargers – car/house
□ Pills, medicine, Band-aids, etc.
□ Prayer book, rosary, etc.
□ Radio(s), XM
□ Reading glasses
□ Shirts – everyday, short sleeves/long sleeves, golf
□ Shoes – everyday, dress, golf
□ Socks – everyday, golf
□ Sweaters, wind shirts
□ Ties
□ Toiletries – hairbrush, toothbrush, deodorant, shaver/charger, nail tools, etc.
□ Trousers – everyday, golf, shorts
□ Underwear
□ Unforgettables ---- money, credit cards, golf balls and _________________
□ Belts – dress, everyday, sports
□ Blazer, suit(s). dress trousers
□ Books, etc.
□ Clocks, computers, watch
□ Handkerchiefs
□ Hangers
□ Night Light, flashlight
□ Pajamas, robe
□ Phones, chargers – car/house
□ Pills, medicine, Band-aids, etc.
□ Prayer book, rosary, etc.
□ Radio(s), XM
□ Reading glasses
□ Shirts – everyday, short sleeves/long sleeves, golf
□ Shoes – everyday, dress, golf
□ Socks – everyday, golf
□ Sweaters, wind shirts
□ Ties
□ Toiletries – hairbrush, toothbrush, deodorant, shaver/charger, nail tools, etc.
□ Trousers – everyday, golf, shorts
□ Underwear
□ Unforgettables ---- money, credit cards, golf balls and _________________
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Chapter 10
Stuff Happens
He lay on the blacktop of the parking lot. A dog was licking his head. He seemed to see an old woman bending over him, a pendant around her neck, and she was pushing a red button on it.
Chris Utermollen awoke in a hospital bed. A woman in a flowered smock was nearby. She noticed his open eyes and left the room. Soon man appeared and began to speak to him.
“Hi. You’re awake Chris.”
“What’s happening? What happened?”
“You’re in County Hospital. I’m your nurse. You were hit by a car about a week ago. Looks like you’re going to be okay. Your doctor will be in to see you as soon as he can. How do you feel?”
Chris found it hard to take all that in. “I’ve been here a week?”
“Let’s see . . . yeah, a week tomorrow.”
“What day is it?”
“The 20th. Tuesday.”
“I missed Mass, then?”
Father Christopher Utermollen hadn’t missed Sunday Mass since he had the chicken pox when he was six years old. That was a long time ago. Fact is, he hadn’t missed daily Mass since sometime in high school. Well, it wasn’t his fault, so, no sin. But how had he been struck by a car? He didn’t remember. He did know who he was, a comforting thought. He wondered what was going on back at St. Matthias. Who was in charge? Who said the Masses on Sunday? As he lay there, noticing tubes and other paraphernalia, Father Alphonse Socci walked in. The young priest had been assigned to St. Matthias the previous June and had worked out as a parochial vicar, the new title for assistant pastor. Al Socci, like so many newer priests, had a late vocation after another career start. In Al’s case, he had been a Navy pilot. Like all aviators, Al did not lack self-confidence. He had been to the hospital often since the accident, including a hurried trip when he learned of his pastor’s injuries to give him the sacrament.
“Good to see you awake, Chris.”
“Happy you’re here Al. Guess all is well at St. Matt’s?”
“As good as it can be without the skipper. No need to worry. People are still showing up for Sunday Mass, although the daily turnout is slightly up. Guess they’re praying for you. Oh, the police are continuing to look into your accident. Seems like it might have not been. .. an accident, that is. You can expect to be talking to a detective as soon as you feel up to it.”
“What do you know?” Chris asked.
“Not much. The big thing seems to be no indication of skid marks. Whoever hit you either didn’t see you --- and that’s what one would hope – or it was deliberate. That’s hard to believe, but the cops want to check that out. Either way, it was still a hit and run.”
“It must have been an accident --- hit and run, but an accident. Can’t think of any other explanation.”
“Enough of that for now,” said Al. “You shouldn’t try to talk too much. You can’t be feeling good? Don’t answer that. Just rest.”
“Yeah. Still can’t fathom being here. Haven’t even said a prayer of thanks. My guardian angel did a heck of a job, eh?”
“You can say that again. But you’re a tough guy.”
“I don’t even know what’s wrong --- broken leg or what?”
“You’re doctor will fill you in, Chris.”
After a prayer together the assistant priest left, promising to get back as soon as possible and assuring his pastor that he need not worry about St. Matt’s.
Sometime later – Chris was not quite sure how long – Dr. Patrick Dolan came into the room. The physician asked, “How do you feel now that you’re awake?”
“Oh, hello Pat. OK, I guess. Quite surprised to hear I’ve been out all this time. A few pains, especially in my legs.”
“Well, I can understand that. First of all, your neurologist has been notified you’re back with us. That’s good. He’ll let you know how you are doing on that front. I’ve been taking care of your broken bones, and there are quite a few.” Dr. Dolan then went into some detail. “The bottom line, Father, is that the real worry is your legs, particularly the right. It was nearly crushed. The prognosis is not great.”
“What does that mean, Pat?”
“Straight out, it means we might not be able to save it. You could end up with prosthesis.”
“You mean amputation?” the priest asked in a voice only slightly shaky.
“Well, we don’t know yet. It will be a while, but yes, that’s what it could mean.”
Lt. Jim Morrison of the Maplewood PD has been working on the Utermollen case for almost a week. Things were starting to come together. He and his squad had been able to come up with several witnesses. One had recalled a part of the tag number of the vehicle that had hit the priest. And there was a description of sorts of the car. Some diligent employee at the DMV was able to come up with several cars that might fit the stories of the witnesses. A little leg work came up with a possible perp. Morrison went himself to check out the suspect.
As the door of the apartment opened, Jim Morrison asked: “Sean O’Conner?”
Hundred of weddings, many children had been baptized, scores of funerals had been held at St. Matthias since the parish’s name had been changed from St. Christopher. Sean still attended Mass but things had not been the same for him since his suggested new patron saint -- St. Elizabeth Seton – for the parish had been rejected. He had taken the rejection as a personal assault on his integrity. And his zeal for the Church that had shown itself in a passionate desire to select a new parish name had gradually evolved from eccentricity to zealotry. His bent for religious practice turned into extreme religiosity bordering on mental imbalance. He came to resemble, in some aspects, the character once seen at the daily 8 o’clock Mass who kept adding to the collection of crucifixes hanging about his neck until there were about 20. Then came bottles of holy water dangling from his neck along with the crosses. Finally he clenched five or six Bibles and other religious texts, in his left arm, the number limited by his ability to wrap the fingers of his hand around them. That unfortunate man just disappeared from St. Matt’s; Sean O’Conner did not change in outward appearance. He was a regular, daily communicant. No one really knew what he harbored in his heart.
“Mr. O’Conner, do you own a black, 1999 Oldsmobile sedan?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“We’re looking into an accident on the parking lot of the Safeway on Route 1.”
“Well, yes, I shop there from time to time. But, why are you at my door?”
“Are you the only driver, or have you let another person drive it?”
After a little back and forth, Morrison established that the car was Sean’s and he likely was driving it on the day in question. He informed Sean of his rights and asked him to accompany him voluntarily to headquarters. O’Conner got his coat.
At headquarters it did not take long for O’Conner to tell his story. Yes, it was an accident. He was backing out of his space after barely looking where he was going. He did not see who was behind his car. Yes, he felt his car hitting a person, quite hard. In his rearview mirror he saw part of a man’s body extending out from the left rear. His legs must have been beneath the car. Yes, after a brief moment, he recognized Father Utermollen.
“What happened then?” Morrison asked.
“I don’t remember exactly. I was sort of . . . dumfounded. What the hell had I done? It was the priest, the one I had lost some respect for. What should I do? Was he hurt? How can I get out of this? I can’t leave. I’ve got to get out and help. No I can’t! I’ve got to get out of here. I thought something like that. Then I just drove away as fast as I could. I got home and just . . . I just cried.”
Sean O’Conner was sentenced to the maximum term after pleading guilty.
Chris returned to St. Matt’s in a wheelchair. His mangled leg was saved, but he would never play golf again. Celebrating Mass would be difficult because of the five steps to the altar and he had to somehow balance himself after he got up there. He was permitted by the bishop to use a stool instead of standing at the altar. A small hydraulic lift was installed next to an extension built from the altars platform to facilitate his ascent to that level. His prognosis was that his leg probably would always be a useless appendage.
O’Conner found himself in the southwest part of the commonwealth, in the Bland Correctional Center, not too far from Roanoke. Sean had enough sense to behave himself and go along with the rules, enough so that in time he was recognized as a model prisoner. That was enough to permit him to take part in the prison pups program. PUP was run with the help of St. Francis Service Dogs, which trained and supplied dogs to help disabled people. Certain prisoners were assigned puppies to raise and train preliminarily for a year. Sean’s pup was a German shepherd named Apollo.
Father Utermollen was intrigued with Apollo when he visited the convict that had maimed him. The priest, although maybe not as altruistic as the late pope, still was moved whenever he was reminded that John Paul II had visited Mehmet Ali Agca in prison two years after the Turkish gunman put a bullet into the pontiff. The pope forgave his would-be assassin so it would be right for Chris to forgive the guy who ran him down and left the scene. At least, he thought he should. It was a moral obligation, he thought. Chris got one of the Malone boys to drive him down to the lockup in Bland.
Sean was a bit shaken when he saw the priest. At first he was reluctant to meet him when summoned by a guard. He had not seen the priest since the last time Chris said Mass before the hit and run. His curiosity over the visit finally drew him to agree. And, of course, Apollo came along. “Hello Father,” he said with eyes cast aside. He knew the priest was confined to the wheelchair.
“Hi Sean. Long time no see. Thought I’d come down for a visit.”
“I’m surprised, of course. Really it is I who should be coming to you, but, of course, I cannot, at least yet. I know I must apologize to you, but, frankly, I don’t know how. I did you such an injustice, even though it was not on purpose. And, and I just should not have driven away. I am sorry for what I have done to you. And I do deserve to be here.” Sean thought that he did not come up with the right words, hesitating whether to try to say more in a more sincere way, for he actually was sorrowful over what he had done and how he had handled the situation.
“Look, Sean, I think I know how you feel, and I appreciate your words. I want you to know that I don’t hold it against you. I guess I would like to, but I know that such a thing, such an attitude would be wrong. I’m not here to talk religion to you, or to myself, but in my job I must always remember the job description. I’m here to wish you well and tell you that I hope that when you get out you can carry on, put this behind you, and have a normal life.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much. Your coming here to see me is, is so kind, so Christian. I really don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I appreciate it more than I can say.”
They chatted for perhaps 20 minutes. The priest learned about PUP and the care of Apollo and the service dog program named after the saint so often pictured with animals.
Frank Malone was bubbling when he broke the news to Chris that he would be getting a service dog. Chris immediately thought of Apollo, but that puppy was out of his mind when a representative of St. Francis Service Dogs introduced him to Doolittle, a black Labradoodle.
Stuff Happens
He lay on the blacktop of the parking lot. A dog was licking his head. He seemed to see an old woman bending over him, a pendant around her neck, and she was pushing a red button on it.
Chris Utermollen awoke in a hospital bed. A woman in a flowered smock was nearby. She noticed his open eyes and left the room. Soon man appeared and began to speak to him.
“Hi. You’re awake Chris.”
“What’s happening? What happened?”
“You’re in County Hospital. I’m your nurse. You were hit by a car about a week ago. Looks like you’re going to be okay. Your doctor will be in to see you as soon as he can. How do you feel?”
Chris found it hard to take all that in. “I’ve been here a week?”
“Let’s see . . . yeah, a week tomorrow.”
“What day is it?”
“The 20th. Tuesday.”
“I missed Mass, then?”
Father Christopher Utermollen hadn’t missed Sunday Mass since he had the chicken pox when he was six years old. That was a long time ago. Fact is, he hadn’t missed daily Mass since sometime in high school. Well, it wasn’t his fault, so, no sin. But how had he been struck by a car? He didn’t remember. He did know who he was, a comforting thought. He wondered what was going on back at St. Matthias. Who was in charge? Who said the Masses on Sunday? As he lay there, noticing tubes and other paraphernalia, Father Alphonse Socci walked in. The young priest had been assigned to St. Matthias the previous June and had worked out as a parochial vicar, the new title for assistant pastor. Al Socci, like so many newer priests, had a late vocation after another career start. In Al’s case, he had been a Navy pilot. Like all aviators, Al did not lack self-confidence. He had been to the hospital often since the accident, including a hurried trip when he learned of his pastor’s injuries to give him the sacrament.
“Good to see you awake, Chris.”
“Happy you’re here Al. Guess all is well at St. Matt’s?”
“As good as it can be without the skipper. No need to worry. People are still showing up for Sunday Mass, although the daily turnout is slightly up. Guess they’re praying for you. Oh, the police are continuing to look into your accident. Seems like it might have not been. .. an accident, that is. You can expect to be talking to a detective as soon as you feel up to it.”
“What do you know?” Chris asked.
“Not much. The big thing seems to be no indication of skid marks. Whoever hit you either didn’t see you --- and that’s what one would hope – or it was deliberate. That’s hard to believe, but the cops want to check that out. Either way, it was still a hit and run.”
“It must have been an accident --- hit and run, but an accident. Can’t think of any other explanation.”
“Enough of that for now,” said Al. “You shouldn’t try to talk too much. You can’t be feeling good? Don’t answer that. Just rest.”
“Yeah. Still can’t fathom being here. Haven’t even said a prayer of thanks. My guardian angel did a heck of a job, eh?”
“You can say that again. But you’re a tough guy.”
“I don’t even know what’s wrong --- broken leg or what?”
“You’re doctor will fill you in, Chris.”
After a prayer together the assistant priest left, promising to get back as soon as possible and assuring his pastor that he need not worry about St. Matt’s.
Sometime later – Chris was not quite sure how long – Dr. Patrick Dolan came into the room. The physician asked, “How do you feel now that you’re awake?”
“Oh, hello Pat. OK, I guess. Quite surprised to hear I’ve been out all this time. A few pains, especially in my legs.”
“Well, I can understand that. First of all, your neurologist has been notified you’re back with us. That’s good. He’ll let you know how you are doing on that front. I’ve been taking care of your broken bones, and there are quite a few.” Dr. Dolan then went into some detail. “The bottom line, Father, is that the real worry is your legs, particularly the right. It was nearly crushed. The prognosis is not great.”
“What does that mean, Pat?”
“Straight out, it means we might not be able to save it. You could end up with prosthesis.”
“You mean amputation?” the priest asked in a voice only slightly shaky.
“Well, we don’t know yet. It will be a while, but yes, that’s what it could mean.”
Lt. Jim Morrison of the Maplewood PD has been working on the Utermollen case for almost a week. Things were starting to come together. He and his squad had been able to come up with several witnesses. One had recalled a part of the tag number of the vehicle that had hit the priest. And there was a description of sorts of the car. Some diligent employee at the DMV was able to come up with several cars that might fit the stories of the witnesses. A little leg work came up with a possible perp. Morrison went himself to check out the suspect.
As the door of the apartment opened, Jim Morrison asked: “Sean O’Conner?”
Hundred of weddings, many children had been baptized, scores of funerals had been held at St. Matthias since the parish’s name had been changed from St. Christopher. Sean still attended Mass but things had not been the same for him since his suggested new patron saint -- St. Elizabeth Seton – for the parish had been rejected. He had taken the rejection as a personal assault on his integrity. And his zeal for the Church that had shown itself in a passionate desire to select a new parish name had gradually evolved from eccentricity to zealotry. His bent for religious practice turned into extreme religiosity bordering on mental imbalance. He came to resemble, in some aspects, the character once seen at the daily 8 o’clock Mass who kept adding to the collection of crucifixes hanging about his neck until there were about 20. Then came bottles of holy water dangling from his neck along with the crosses. Finally he clenched five or six Bibles and other religious texts, in his left arm, the number limited by his ability to wrap the fingers of his hand around them. That unfortunate man just disappeared from St. Matt’s; Sean O’Conner did not change in outward appearance. He was a regular, daily communicant. No one really knew what he harbored in his heart.
“Mr. O’Conner, do you own a black, 1999 Oldsmobile sedan?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“We’re looking into an accident on the parking lot of the Safeway on Route 1.”
“Well, yes, I shop there from time to time. But, why are you at my door?”
“Are you the only driver, or have you let another person drive it?”
After a little back and forth, Morrison established that the car was Sean’s and he likely was driving it on the day in question. He informed Sean of his rights and asked him to accompany him voluntarily to headquarters. O’Conner got his coat.
At headquarters it did not take long for O’Conner to tell his story. Yes, it was an accident. He was backing out of his space after barely looking where he was going. He did not see who was behind his car. Yes, he felt his car hitting a person, quite hard. In his rearview mirror he saw part of a man’s body extending out from the left rear. His legs must have been beneath the car. Yes, after a brief moment, he recognized Father Utermollen.
“What happened then?” Morrison asked.
“I don’t remember exactly. I was sort of . . . dumfounded. What the hell had I done? It was the priest, the one I had lost some respect for. What should I do? Was he hurt? How can I get out of this? I can’t leave. I’ve got to get out and help. No I can’t! I’ve got to get out of here. I thought something like that. Then I just drove away as fast as I could. I got home and just . . . I just cried.”
Sean O’Conner was sentenced to the maximum term after pleading guilty.
Chris returned to St. Matt’s in a wheelchair. His mangled leg was saved, but he would never play golf again. Celebrating Mass would be difficult because of the five steps to the altar and he had to somehow balance himself after he got up there. He was permitted by the bishop to use a stool instead of standing at the altar. A small hydraulic lift was installed next to an extension built from the altars platform to facilitate his ascent to that level. His prognosis was that his leg probably would always be a useless appendage.
O’Conner found himself in the southwest part of the commonwealth, in the Bland Correctional Center, not too far from Roanoke. Sean had enough sense to behave himself and go along with the rules, enough so that in time he was recognized as a model prisoner. That was enough to permit him to take part in the prison pups program. PUP was run with the help of St. Francis Service Dogs, which trained and supplied dogs to help disabled people. Certain prisoners were assigned puppies to raise and train preliminarily for a year. Sean’s pup was a German shepherd named Apollo.
Father Utermollen was intrigued with Apollo when he visited the convict that had maimed him. The priest, although maybe not as altruistic as the late pope, still was moved whenever he was reminded that John Paul II had visited Mehmet Ali Agca in prison two years after the Turkish gunman put a bullet into the pontiff. The pope forgave his would-be assassin so it would be right for Chris to forgive the guy who ran him down and left the scene. At least, he thought he should. It was a moral obligation, he thought. Chris got one of the Malone boys to drive him down to the lockup in Bland.
Sean was a bit shaken when he saw the priest. At first he was reluctant to meet him when summoned by a guard. He had not seen the priest since the last time Chris said Mass before the hit and run. His curiosity over the visit finally drew him to agree. And, of course, Apollo came along. “Hello Father,” he said with eyes cast aside. He knew the priest was confined to the wheelchair.
“Hi Sean. Long time no see. Thought I’d come down for a visit.”
“I’m surprised, of course. Really it is I who should be coming to you, but, of course, I cannot, at least yet. I know I must apologize to you, but, frankly, I don’t know how. I did you such an injustice, even though it was not on purpose. And, and I just should not have driven away. I am sorry for what I have done to you. And I do deserve to be here.” Sean thought that he did not come up with the right words, hesitating whether to try to say more in a more sincere way, for he actually was sorrowful over what he had done and how he had handled the situation.
“Look, Sean, I think I know how you feel, and I appreciate your words. I want you to know that I don’t hold it against you. I guess I would like to, but I know that such a thing, such an attitude would be wrong. I’m not here to talk religion to you, or to myself, but in my job I must always remember the job description. I’m here to wish you well and tell you that I hope that when you get out you can carry on, put this behind you, and have a normal life.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much. Your coming here to see me is, is so kind, so Christian. I really don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I appreciate it more than I can say.”
They chatted for perhaps 20 minutes. The priest learned about PUP and the care of Apollo and the service dog program named after the saint so often pictured with animals.
Frank Malone was bubbling when he broke the news to Chris that he would be getting a service dog. Chris immediately thought of Apollo, but that puppy was out of his mind when a representative of St. Francis Service Dogs introduced him to Doolittle, a black Labradoodle.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Chapter 9
Distraction
He made his Act of Contrition as the priest consumed the sacred offerings. Soon he began his move up the aisle and automatically glanced around, catching himself in the distraction, reminding himself where he was headed. But distractions have a way of interfering with good intentions. To the side there was an attractive young lady, curvaceous in her fitted top and jeans. That was a distraction from his mission that was harder to cast aside and turn his mind to his own Communion.
Casey Gilliam was somewhat old-fashioned when it came to the Church. He still received the Sacrament on his tongue, eschewing the post Vatican Council acceptance of receiving the Host on the extended left hand, palm up. Priests of the old school discouraged the accepted manner, fearing – with some validity – that some might save the Host till later, secret it and then use it for some sacrilege in order to “punish” the Church for its stands, such as against gay marriage. Noticing an altar boy, Casey remembered his days of serving Mass at Sacred Heart Church at Notre Dame. His motives might not have been as admirable as they might seem because, after Mass, the sacristan, irreverently nicknamed Brother Tabernacle Key, would hand the servers a chit for breakfast or brunch at the Huddle. Casey had his server credentials revoked for spending five bucks on brunch. That much money was a fortune back then.
Back in his pew, he began his thanksgiving:
Jesus, thank you for your presence. I am not worthy of your presence. Help me to love you and as You love me. I’ve not always been who You wished me to be. Help me to be that person. Help me with your grace. Oh there’s that girl again. No don’t think of her. Think of your Savior. It’s so hard to keep concentrated on your presence. Living up to the faith is hard. You have the whole world to worry about. No, I guess You don’t worry. You told us not to worry just as the sparrow doesn’t worry. Now where was that in the Gospel? I know I’ve heard it. Don’t worry and the Lord will handle it. Sounds good; hard to do. The lilies in the field …. how does that go? Not many fields of wild flowers anymore. Some wildflowers along I-95. Yeah in North Carolina. Some in Virginia. I guess other places. Not to worry. So hard. Jesus, I need to trust in You. Help me. Jesus I trust in You. Pray always. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Impossible! The Morning Offering that might do it. Praying. Do I pray enough? Help me to pray. Please. Does that Hispanic-looking guy pray in Spanish? The whole world prays in some language. How many in English? Will we pray in heaven? Can I get to heaven? Where is heaven? Somewhere in the universe. It’s got to be a place. The Blessed Mother got there with her body. She was assumed into heave. Dead or alive. We don’t know. It’s got to be somewhere. Jesus ascended into heaven. Must be in this universe. This galaxy? The Earth is in the exurbs of the Milky Way That’s what somebody said. Out among all those stars, planets, asteroids, black holes. Stars. Millions. No, billions of stars. Billions and billions. Who said that? Some comedian imitating Carl Sargen... Carl Segar. No, Sagat. Sagan. Sagan. That’s it. Whatever, billions. Guess only God could do that. Sagan was an atheist. How could he be? What about design. The Great Watchmaker. Who called God that? Pope John Paul? No that was the Jewelry Store or Jewelry Shop or whatever was the play’s name. A pope who wrote plays, acted in plays. That’s an accomplishment for anyone, and pope, pontiff, too. Vicar of Christ. Wonder if JP2 ever thought about a play dealing with Creation? Off track again. Please, Jesus help me thank you. Eucharist means thanksgiving. All mankind should be thankful. You saved all . . . all of us. All human beings. Did you save others, aliens? Do people live --- not, not people – beings live elsewhere in the universe, this conglomeration unimaginable large bodies floating in a space so vast who can picture it? Galaxy after galaxy! Gotta be some living things, something like people, out there in that vastness somewhere. Somewhere. Sure God, if he created us humans just for playthings. .. No He wouldn’t do that. God is too serious. But, surely, He would not create just one kind of beings, beings that think and invent things, and will things, and go against his will like Adam and Eve. God is too great to plant people on just one tiny speck in a sea of nothing filled with so many places, places He could use for all kinds of beings. It just has to be There must be places that hold beings that can think and invent and philosophize like humans, yet that doesn’t mean they have to look like human beings. Would such a race, or whatever they would be called, have an Adam and Eve, beings that would revolt and sin? The angels revolted, at least some angels. The devil and his demons. Are there beings like them? Or maybe Satan and his kind occupy one of those billions of flotsam in the universe. But suppose God put creatures completely different somewhere in another galaxy and they did not revolt and they followed His will and are living idyllic lives, lives we could have had not Adam and Eve screwed up. Or there are creatures that used their free wills and did revolt; did Jesus go there too as a Redeemer? If He did not have to redeem them, do they still go to heaven? Do they die? Where is heaven? It is a place. It’s up, up from here. But where can that be? There certainly is room for it in such a vast, vast space . . . universe. What a creation. Just can’t really imagine it. What was it I read about Einstein? He said something like the universe was the result of a great, rational mind. God …
Casey was brought back to the moment. “Let us pray,” the priest intoned as the last prayer of the Mass was about to begin.
Distraction
He made his Act of Contrition as the priest consumed the sacred offerings. Soon he began his move up the aisle and automatically glanced around, catching himself in the distraction, reminding himself where he was headed. But distractions have a way of interfering with good intentions. To the side there was an attractive young lady, curvaceous in her fitted top and jeans. That was a distraction from his mission that was harder to cast aside and turn his mind to his own Communion.
Casey Gilliam was somewhat old-fashioned when it came to the Church. He still received the Sacrament on his tongue, eschewing the post Vatican Council acceptance of receiving the Host on the extended left hand, palm up. Priests of the old school discouraged the accepted manner, fearing – with some validity – that some might save the Host till later, secret it and then use it for some sacrilege in order to “punish” the Church for its stands, such as against gay marriage. Noticing an altar boy, Casey remembered his days of serving Mass at Sacred Heart Church at Notre Dame. His motives might not have been as admirable as they might seem because, after Mass, the sacristan, irreverently nicknamed Brother Tabernacle Key, would hand the servers a chit for breakfast or brunch at the Huddle. Casey had his server credentials revoked for spending five bucks on brunch. That much money was a fortune back then.
Back in his pew, he began his thanksgiving:
Jesus, thank you for your presence. I am not worthy of your presence. Help me to love you and as You love me. I’ve not always been who You wished me to be. Help me to be that person. Help me with your grace. Oh there’s that girl again. No don’t think of her. Think of your Savior. It’s so hard to keep concentrated on your presence. Living up to the faith is hard. You have the whole world to worry about. No, I guess You don’t worry. You told us not to worry just as the sparrow doesn’t worry. Now where was that in the Gospel? I know I’ve heard it. Don’t worry and the Lord will handle it. Sounds good; hard to do. The lilies in the field …. how does that go? Not many fields of wild flowers anymore. Some wildflowers along I-95. Yeah in North Carolina. Some in Virginia. I guess other places. Not to worry. So hard. Jesus, I need to trust in You. Help me. Jesus I trust in You. Pray always. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Impossible! The Morning Offering that might do it. Praying. Do I pray enough? Help me to pray. Please. Does that Hispanic-looking guy pray in Spanish? The whole world prays in some language. How many in English? Will we pray in heaven? Can I get to heaven? Where is heaven? Somewhere in the universe. It’s got to be a place. The Blessed Mother got there with her body. She was assumed into heave. Dead or alive. We don’t know. It’s got to be somewhere. Jesus ascended into heaven. Must be in this universe. This galaxy? The Earth is in the exurbs of the Milky Way That’s what somebody said. Out among all those stars, planets, asteroids, black holes. Stars. Millions. No, billions of stars. Billions and billions. Who said that? Some comedian imitating Carl Sargen... Carl Segar. No, Sagat. Sagan. Sagan. That’s it. Whatever, billions. Guess only God could do that. Sagan was an atheist. How could he be? What about design. The Great Watchmaker. Who called God that? Pope John Paul? No that was the Jewelry Store or Jewelry Shop or whatever was the play’s name. A pope who wrote plays, acted in plays. That’s an accomplishment for anyone, and pope, pontiff, too. Vicar of Christ. Wonder if JP2 ever thought about a play dealing with Creation? Off track again. Please, Jesus help me thank you. Eucharist means thanksgiving. All mankind should be thankful. You saved all . . . all of us. All human beings. Did you save others, aliens? Do people live --- not, not people – beings live elsewhere in the universe, this conglomeration unimaginable large bodies floating in a space so vast who can picture it? Galaxy after galaxy! Gotta be some living things, something like people, out there in that vastness somewhere. Somewhere. Sure God, if he created us humans just for playthings. .. No He wouldn’t do that. God is too serious. But, surely, He would not create just one kind of beings, beings that think and invent things, and will things, and go against his will like Adam and Eve. God is too great to plant people on just one tiny speck in a sea of nothing filled with so many places, places He could use for all kinds of beings. It just has to be There must be places that hold beings that can think and invent and philosophize like humans, yet that doesn’t mean they have to look like human beings. Would such a race, or whatever they would be called, have an Adam and Eve, beings that would revolt and sin? The angels revolted, at least some angels. The devil and his demons. Are there beings like them? Or maybe Satan and his kind occupy one of those billions of flotsam in the universe. But suppose God put creatures completely different somewhere in another galaxy and they did not revolt and they followed His will and are living idyllic lives, lives we could have had not Adam and Eve screwed up. Or there are creatures that used their free wills and did revolt; did Jesus go there too as a Redeemer? If He did not have to redeem them, do they still go to heaven? Do they die? Where is heaven? It is a place. It’s up, up from here. But where can that be? There certainly is room for it in such a vast, vast space . . . universe. What a creation. Just can’t really imagine it. What was it I read about Einstein? He said something like the universe was the result of a great, rational mind. God …
Casey was brought back to the moment. “Let us pray,” the priest intoned as the last prayer of the Mass was about to begin.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Chapter 8
Into Each Life
Whenever a little snow falls in the District the entire metropolitan area is tied up, especially public transportation. The commuter train was late, so he stopped in at McGillicuddy’s to decide whether to walk home as usual or to call a cab.
Dan Rapaport favored scotch, but he was happy to drink beer when sitting with Ben Schaefer, someone Dan had known since his dad and Ben were friends. As they chatted about the weather, Dan wondered what brought Ben out on such an evening. Ben said he dropped in at the bar more and more since he was widowed and, beside, walking in the snow was one of those oddball pursuits he seemed to enjoy. And there were old friends, usually, at McGillicuddy’s. Dan thought back on his life with Fran. Theirs had been a good life. They married young but had finished their educations. They loved the family they had started early on. They enjoyed seeing Jill, Sandy and Joel growing up. Jill was a senior at Maplewood High anticipating going to a good college.
As their small talk turned to college football’s top 25 and the approaching bowl games, Dan’s cell rang. Fran wasn’t worried about the weather but her voice indicated worry as she urged him to hurry home. Dan didn’t argue, knowing her too well. He quickly finished his beer, wished Ben well and went outside looking for a cab. Finding none, he hurried home on foot.
Fran, a stay-at-home mom, usually was in the kitchen when Dan opened the front door. This evening she met him. Unusual. A bad sign.
“Sit down Dan.” His concerned deepened.
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure how to start. …maybe I should just come to the point.”
“Yeah, please.”
“Jill is pregnant. I just found out.”
Dan was silent. A father’s worst fear --- an unwed teen-ager pregnant. Such a situation had crossed his mind in the past, but something he never expected to come to pass. He always brushed it aside. Yet, that catastrophe having happened, he was not entirely surprised. Sometimes when the unexpected happens it seems as though it should have been expected. All sort of realities raced through his mind, like a novel’s plot that strikes home.
“When did she tell you? How did you find out? Who’s the father? What the hell happened? What did I do wrong?” His thoughts came out in rather slow, rhythmic staccato.
“This afternoon. She didn’t actually tell me. I found a pregnancy test box under her bed as I was straightening up her room.”
“Did you confront her?”
“When she came home. I showed her the box and she put her arms around me and started to cry.”
Dinner was quiet that night. Sandy and Joel arrived at the table late. Jill reluctantly arrived even later. Fran had already said grace; Dan bowed his head as usual without saying the prayer. Normally, family problems were brought up at dinner and discussed in what might be described as a civilized manner. Tonight Topic A was skirted. Did Jill’s siblings know, Dan wondered. Fran wondered, too. Small talk revolved around the snow.
“Well, you might as well know,” Jill blurted out. “I’m pregnant.”
Sandy and Joel did not know. The brothers were old enough to understand; they were not old enough to come up with either a sympathetic reaction or condemnation. They just sat there, fidgeted a little, appeared somewhat embarrassed, maybe smirked a bit. Sandy asked to be excused and Joel played with his pudding before leaving.
Jill got up to go, but her parents told her to stay. The questioning began. The name of classmate and steady date Bill Glennon came up.
“Were there any others?” Dan asked.
“No, no Dad. What do you think ---- I’m a tramp?”
“So the father is Bill?”
Jill’s silence confirmed that.
“When is the due date?” Fran asked.
“Eight months or so,” said Jill.
“We’ll figure it out. We have to decide what to do about school. In the old days girls in trouble were sent off until the baby could be born and then adopted. I seem to remember some order of nuns that had such places.”
“Please, Mom. How are you going to help?”
“Your father and I will help you all we can, you know that.”
Bill was not happy when he heard from Jill how her parents had reacted. Bill’s own first reaction was just short of pride at what he had done and then turned to reality. He was not prepared to assume the duties and responsibilities he had usurped without wishing for those burdens. The enormity of their indiscretion hit both of them hard, but especially it was, to Bill, like his first fight as a kid when the bully’s first smashed into his nose and blood splashed all over his shirt. That blow taught him a tough lesson. Knowing what he had done to Jill came thundering back to his mind as a blow he was unprepared to parry much less accept. What to do? He didn’t want the responsibility. Marriage didn’t even enter his mind as it might have happened had the century had a lower number. His thoughts were about him, as they had been when their relationship was consummated. There was no honor here.
Jill experienced some stirrings of maternity. She also wondered how motherhood would change her life, a life that certainly seemed normal to her peers. Her friends would be understanding, probably exchange their experiences, offer advice, try to give comfort. All sorts of scenes ran through her mind. Some might even suggest abortion. Jill tried to shake off that thought.
Bill did not when his friends suggested that after finding out.
“A guy told me that you can get rid of this problem,” Bill started.
“Who? What?” Jill asked.
“You know.”
“No I don’t. What are you suggesting?”
“Well .. . you can get rid of it.”
“Abortion?”
“Well --- yeah.”
For days Jill was depressed. Her original euphoria upon learning of her condition had turned around, especially after her talk with Bill. She thought Bill was completely unsympathetic, completely different than she had anticipated. She was down as she entered the community library to work on a paper she know she had to complete. She avoided the school library because she was trying not to see too many of her friends. Molly Gilliam noticed Jill and decided to say hello.
Molly had been teaching CCD classes for teen-agers who did not attend Catholic high school. She had been reunited with Casey after the accountant had recovered his life and his career with the help of Father Utermollen of St. Matthias. Casey had persuaded Molly to start over and move to Maplewood. She sold the house that he had put in her name. Since they had never divorced, getting back together was legally easy, but renewing their marriage took a little time. The children had grown up and alienated regarding their father. Nonetheless, the Gilliam family slowly moved toward stability after Casey was able to return to his profession with a lesser intensity and a greater emphasis to home duties. He had no partnership; he did have a good job, however. And, he did the St. Matthias books pro bono in gratitude to the priest that helped him scramble out of the gutter.
Molly somehow knew something bothered Jill. Her maternal experience no doubt explained that. Jill was reluctant to share her secret with Mrs. Gilliam, someone Jill had admired as a teacher and a person. After some stilted small talk, Molly was about to leave when Jill began to weep. She put her arm about Jill and asked if she wished to step outside. Once there, Jill’s tears ran heavy and her sobs became louder. Minutes passed before Jill could speak.
“Bill wants me to have an abortion.”
So that was it. Molly knew why Jill cried. Now she had to find words that would help her. Not an easy task. She knew the message; she had touched on it in her religion class. But she had to find a way to say it that would convey true concern and not churchy preaching. For the first time Molly had to deliver a message that needed to be accepted ---- for the sake of a real human being. Two human beings.
Molly found out how far along Jill was. She learned the girl was leaning toward giving birth. She ascertained that Jill thought she loved Bill enough to marry him and submitted because of that. Molly also figured out that Bill was no better than most males who took advantage of female feelings. As a whole, the situation appeared favorable to saving the life in Jill’s womb.
“Jill, you feel love for your child?”
Jill remained silent and her mind started to race. She was thinking pregnancy; she had not been thinking “child.” She knew, intellectually, of course. But she started thinking of pink and blue booties, little dresses, cribs, diapers. She saw an infant smile, little toes and fingers, little gurgles, little laughs, baby smiles.
Molly had a sister who stayed in Joliet, a woman with especial charisma with her children and others. That would be a good place for Jill to stay until her baby arrived and she decided to become a single mother or put the child up for adoption. Any such move would require the consent of the Rapaports. But what to do about Bill? He could be ignored. Doing so, Molly thought, would do nothing to change his mind about responsibility. More girls could be seduced. It was not for Molly to interject herself, but she believed something had to be done.
Jill got returned home from the library. She told Fran about her talk with Mrs. Gilliam. Fran was relieved. Later Fran and Dan discussed it with Jill and called Molly to come to dinner with her husband and to discuss her idea of sending Jill to Illinois. Dan decided to confront Bill.
Bill sheepishly agreed to meet Dan at a McDonalds on the other side of town. Dan ordered Bill’s choice of two Big Macs and a large chocolate shake, and fries, of course. Dan had a coffee. At a table in the rear the two looked at each other for a while until Dan asked what Bill thought of fatherhood. Bill allowed that he had not thought about that until recently, and he didn’t think he would make a good father. Dan asked if he wanted Jill to abort the child and Bill hesitated, then barely looked up and nodded.
“Do you know that since Roe v. Wade in the early 70s about forty million babies have been aborted? That’s nearly seven times more than the Jews who were gassed by Hitler. All those human lives! Human lives. Just think of that: men, women, children killed out of hate, just as my grandparents were. But those 40 million --- they have been killed mostly for convenience. Does that bother you, Bill?”
Bill took another bite of his burger, but it didn’t feel like food, it felt like a dry lump. He put it down. Looked puzzled. Dan’s comparison did not quite click, but somewhere he had heard of the Holocaust. He didn’t really connect pregnancy and human life. He did feel discomfort.
“You have brothers, sisters?”
Dan shook his head. He had always wished he did have siblings.
“You’re not familiar with little kids, babies, right?”
No answer, but one was obvious.
“Well you’re not going to get to know your kid, either. Your child will be born in another state. You probably will never see it. You won’t get to know the wonder in holding your son or daughter. That’s a shame, because you don’t show the humanity that parenthood deserves. Maybe you don’t know the value of life. If you did, you wouldn’t have suggest doing away with a life you helped form. There was life from the very moment . . .” Dan broke off. He couldn’t bring himself to picture that union.
“Look, I can’t blame you alone. Jill had something to do with it. But I feel sorry for you because you don’t seem to understand the value of life, the ideal of sticking by the rules, the selfishness of trying to avoid the consequences of your acts. I guess I can’t change you, even though as Jill’s father I think I have a right to try. But for your own sake, for your own good, you’d better think a lot about what you helped bring about --- a human being, a breathing life, a baby. That should mean something to you. It should help you grown up. I pray God you see that, someday anyway.”
Dan didn’t look back as he left. Bill didn’t look up. His head hung.
Whenever a little snow falls in the District the entire metropolitan area is tied up, especially public transportation. The commuter train was late, so he stopped in at McGillicuddy’s to decide whether to walk home as usual or to call a cab.
Dan Rapaport favored scotch, but he was happy to drink beer when sitting with Ben Schaefer, someone Dan had known since his dad and Ben were friends. As they chatted about the weather, Dan wondered what brought Ben out on such an evening. Ben said he dropped in at the bar more and more since he was widowed and, beside, walking in the snow was one of those oddball pursuits he seemed to enjoy. And there were old friends, usually, at McGillicuddy’s. Dan thought back on his life with Fran. Theirs had been a good life. They married young but had finished their educations. They loved the family they had started early on. They enjoyed seeing Jill, Sandy and Joel growing up. Jill was a senior at Maplewood High anticipating going to a good college.
As their small talk turned to college football’s top 25 and the approaching bowl games, Dan’s cell rang. Fran wasn’t worried about the weather but her voice indicated worry as she urged him to hurry home. Dan didn’t argue, knowing her too well. He quickly finished his beer, wished Ben well and went outside looking for a cab. Finding none, he hurried home on foot.
Fran, a stay-at-home mom, usually was in the kitchen when Dan opened the front door. This evening she met him. Unusual. A bad sign.
“Sit down Dan.” His concerned deepened.
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure how to start. …maybe I should just come to the point.”
“Yeah, please.”
“Jill is pregnant. I just found out.”
Dan was silent. A father’s worst fear --- an unwed teen-ager pregnant. Such a situation had crossed his mind in the past, but something he never expected to come to pass. He always brushed it aside. Yet, that catastrophe having happened, he was not entirely surprised. Sometimes when the unexpected happens it seems as though it should have been expected. All sort of realities raced through his mind, like a novel’s plot that strikes home.
“When did she tell you? How did you find out? Who’s the father? What the hell happened? What did I do wrong?” His thoughts came out in rather slow, rhythmic staccato.
“This afternoon. She didn’t actually tell me. I found a pregnancy test box under her bed as I was straightening up her room.”
“Did you confront her?”
“When she came home. I showed her the box and she put her arms around me and started to cry.”
Dinner was quiet that night. Sandy and Joel arrived at the table late. Jill reluctantly arrived even later. Fran had already said grace; Dan bowed his head as usual without saying the prayer. Normally, family problems were brought up at dinner and discussed in what might be described as a civilized manner. Tonight Topic A was skirted. Did Jill’s siblings know, Dan wondered. Fran wondered, too. Small talk revolved around the snow.
“Well, you might as well know,” Jill blurted out. “I’m pregnant.”
Sandy and Joel did not know. The brothers were old enough to understand; they were not old enough to come up with either a sympathetic reaction or condemnation. They just sat there, fidgeted a little, appeared somewhat embarrassed, maybe smirked a bit. Sandy asked to be excused and Joel played with his pudding before leaving.
Jill got up to go, but her parents told her to stay. The questioning began. The name of classmate and steady date Bill Glennon came up.
“Were there any others?” Dan asked.
“No, no Dad. What do you think ---- I’m a tramp?”
“So the father is Bill?”
Jill’s silence confirmed that.
“When is the due date?” Fran asked.
“Eight months or so,” said Jill.
“We’ll figure it out. We have to decide what to do about school. In the old days girls in trouble were sent off until the baby could be born and then adopted. I seem to remember some order of nuns that had such places.”
“Please, Mom. How are you going to help?”
“Your father and I will help you all we can, you know that.”
Bill was not happy when he heard from Jill how her parents had reacted. Bill’s own first reaction was just short of pride at what he had done and then turned to reality. He was not prepared to assume the duties and responsibilities he had usurped without wishing for those burdens. The enormity of their indiscretion hit both of them hard, but especially it was, to Bill, like his first fight as a kid when the bully’s first smashed into his nose and blood splashed all over his shirt. That blow taught him a tough lesson. Knowing what he had done to Jill came thundering back to his mind as a blow he was unprepared to parry much less accept. What to do? He didn’t want the responsibility. Marriage didn’t even enter his mind as it might have happened had the century had a lower number. His thoughts were about him, as they had been when their relationship was consummated. There was no honor here.
Jill experienced some stirrings of maternity. She also wondered how motherhood would change her life, a life that certainly seemed normal to her peers. Her friends would be understanding, probably exchange their experiences, offer advice, try to give comfort. All sorts of scenes ran through her mind. Some might even suggest abortion. Jill tried to shake off that thought.
Bill did not when his friends suggested that after finding out.
“A guy told me that you can get rid of this problem,” Bill started.
“Who? What?” Jill asked.
“You know.”
“No I don’t. What are you suggesting?”
“Well .. . you can get rid of it.”
“Abortion?”
“Well --- yeah.”
For days Jill was depressed. Her original euphoria upon learning of her condition had turned around, especially after her talk with Bill. She thought Bill was completely unsympathetic, completely different than she had anticipated. She was down as she entered the community library to work on a paper she know she had to complete. She avoided the school library because she was trying not to see too many of her friends. Molly Gilliam noticed Jill and decided to say hello.
Molly had been teaching CCD classes for teen-agers who did not attend Catholic high school. She had been reunited with Casey after the accountant had recovered his life and his career with the help of Father Utermollen of St. Matthias. Casey had persuaded Molly to start over and move to Maplewood. She sold the house that he had put in her name. Since they had never divorced, getting back together was legally easy, but renewing their marriage took a little time. The children had grown up and alienated regarding their father. Nonetheless, the Gilliam family slowly moved toward stability after Casey was able to return to his profession with a lesser intensity and a greater emphasis to home duties. He had no partnership; he did have a good job, however. And, he did the St. Matthias books pro bono in gratitude to the priest that helped him scramble out of the gutter.
Molly somehow knew something bothered Jill. Her maternal experience no doubt explained that. Jill was reluctant to share her secret with Mrs. Gilliam, someone Jill had admired as a teacher and a person. After some stilted small talk, Molly was about to leave when Jill began to weep. She put her arm about Jill and asked if she wished to step outside. Once there, Jill’s tears ran heavy and her sobs became louder. Minutes passed before Jill could speak.
“Bill wants me to have an abortion.”
So that was it. Molly knew why Jill cried. Now she had to find words that would help her. Not an easy task. She knew the message; she had touched on it in her religion class. But she had to find a way to say it that would convey true concern and not churchy preaching. For the first time Molly had to deliver a message that needed to be accepted ---- for the sake of a real human being. Two human beings.
Molly found out how far along Jill was. She learned the girl was leaning toward giving birth. She ascertained that Jill thought she loved Bill enough to marry him and submitted because of that. Molly also figured out that Bill was no better than most males who took advantage of female feelings. As a whole, the situation appeared favorable to saving the life in Jill’s womb.
“Jill, you feel love for your child?”
Jill remained silent and her mind started to race. She was thinking pregnancy; she had not been thinking “child.” She knew, intellectually, of course. But she started thinking of pink and blue booties, little dresses, cribs, diapers. She saw an infant smile, little toes and fingers, little gurgles, little laughs, baby smiles.
Molly had a sister who stayed in Joliet, a woman with especial charisma with her children and others. That would be a good place for Jill to stay until her baby arrived and she decided to become a single mother or put the child up for adoption. Any such move would require the consent of the Rapaports. But what to do about Bill? He could be ignored. Doing so, Molly thought, would do nothing to change his mind about responsibility. More girls could be seduced. It was not for Molly to interject herself, but she believed something had to be done.
Jill got returned home from the library. She told Fran about her talk with Mrs. Gilliam. Fran was relieved. Later Fran and Dan discussed it with Jill and called Molly to come to dinner with her husband and to discuss her idea of sending Jill to Illinois. Dan decided to confront Bill.
Bill sheepishly agreed to meet Dan at a McDonalds on the other side of town. Dan ordered Bill’s choice of two Big Macs and a large chocolate shake, and fries, of course. Dan had a coffee. At a table in the rear the two looked at each other for a while until Dan asked what Bill thought of fatherhood. Bill allowed that he had not thought about that until recently, and he didn’t think he would make a good father. Dan asked if he wanted Jill to abort the child and Bill hesitated, then barely looked up and nodded.
“Do you know that since Roe v. Wade in the early 70s about forty million babies have been aborted? That’s nearly seven times more than the Jews who were gassed by Hitler. All those human lives! Human lives. Just think of that: men, women, children killed out of hate, just as my grandparents were. But those 40 million --- they have been killed mostly for convenience. Does that bother you, Bill?”
Bill took another bite of his burger, but it didn’t feel like food, it felt like a dry lump. He put it down. Looked puzzled. Dan’s comparison did not quite click, but somewhere he had heard of the Holocaust. He didn’t really connect pregnancy and human life. He did feel discomfort.
“You have brothers, sisters?”
Dan shook his head. He had always wished he did have siblings.
“You’re not familiar with little kids, babies, right?”
No answer, but one was obvious.
“Well you’re not going to get to know your kid, either. Your child will be born in another state. You probably will never see it. You won’t get to know the wonder in holding your son or daughter. That’s a shame, because you don’t show the humanity that parenthood deserves. Maybe you don’t know the value of life. If you did, you wouldn’t have suggest doing away with a life you helped form. There was life from the very moment . . .” Dan broke off. He couldn’t bring himself to picture that union.
“Look, I can’t blame you alone. Jill had something to do with it. But I feel sorry for you because you don’t seem to understand the value of life, the ideal of sticking by the rules, the selfishness of trying to avoid the consequences of your acts. I guess I can’t change you, even though as Jill’s father I think I have a right to try. But for your own sake, for your own good, you’d better think a lot about what you helped bring about --- a human being, a breathing life, a baby. That should mean something to you. It should help you grown up. I pray God you see that, someday anyway.”
Dan didn’t look back as he left. Bill didn’t look up. His head hung.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Chapter Seven
Tepid
Maximilian Urban Leinfeld was stuck with an ethnic name in a neighborhood dominated by more Anglo-Saxon surnames. Growing up with Smiths, Morgans, Howards, Millers, Malones, having given names like Michael, David, Robert, John and nicknames like Mike, Dave, Bob and Jack was tough for Maximilian. Or at least he thought so. Perhaps the only saving grace, to him, was that some of his classmates at Sacred Heart called him Max. Max had a certain ring. He would always introduce himself to strangers as Max, even though at home he was still Maximilian. As for Urban, well, he would never reveal that to anyone. Unfortunately for him, his full moniker was on the nun’s attendance book and she would often use it, fully, in calling roll. So Urban was a secret that could not be kept. There seemed to be but one ray of hope for Max ---- girls seemed to ignore the shame he perceived in having such a name.
Max had a normal appreciation for girls as he grew up. He admired what smart alecks attributed in fake French accents to la difference. But he seemed to see girls as fellow human beings – maybe because of his sisters – when his peers treated them as objects of desire. Max, then, was somewhat different in his feelings about the opposite sex than his male counterparts. His name, his approach to girls and his lack of athletic abilities, at least in his mind, set Max apart from the other guys. His outsider outlook didn’t damage him psychologically, but it didn’t particularly help, either. In reality, he was tolerated by his popular classmates and by those who were less than popular; he was neither hot nor cold, but lukewarm enough to avoid rejection while missing the self-satisfaction of full acceptance. Max decided he would just have to live with the situation, and himself.
He thought of himself as standing apart from society while admitting he’d like to be part of it. His self image was somewhat shaky. He judged that others could not detect his real feelings and they did not care one way or the other. In sum, he figured, that was pretty much reality for everyone. Ambiguity was his measure of life.
Max and a handful of his male classmates served Mass at Sacred Heart. He had little trouble memorizing the Latin responses required of acolytes. Because a server was required at all Masses, Max and his fellow servers got up early once or twice a week and always had a Sunday assignment. While in grade school Max became intrigued with the priests he served. For the most part he admired them. Their relations were friendly yet reserved. Priests’ lifestyle, as far as he could perceive, was attractive. They spoke in public, tried to persuade their congregants, got respect, and lived a simple but quiet life. Max thought little of what the Church said was the most important and sacred act their performed at Mass, the Eucharist. Maybe he should become a priest?
When time came to selecting a high school Max decided on St. John Vianney Preparatory School, the diocesan junior seminary, although it did accept students other than those interested in the priesthood. His grades were good enough, and he began his studies that September. His nun teachers were good enough that Max was able to take on his new curriculum that had no electives. Four years of math, English, history, science, Latin and religion. Oh yes, and Greek in the last two years. For prospective priests is was required preparation; for young men wishing to pursue a traditional profession the course of study probably was more helpful than that being taught in public high schools.
Max did well academically at St. John’s, not at the head of his class but near the top. He tried out for all the sports – only football, basketball and baseball at St. John’s – but made no team. He graduated, and moved into the seminary. He registered for selective service, but was not drafted because he was classified as IV-D (divinity student). Max felt some guilt for not serving his country, but the law was written to make such a deferment honorable. Nonetheless, he felt uncomfortable when going downtown on his free afternoon with other seminarians dressed in black suits and black ties with their white shirts. By the time he was required in wear a clerical collar in public, the war was over.
Major seminary was more difficult but more interesting than the previous years. Although classes and examinations were conducted in Latin, Max was proficient enough to achieve passing grades. Classes in moral theology were especially fascinating. He would need that knowledge of human virtue and fragility to hear confessions later on. Other branches of theology were classes to get through, much as he found philosophy in his undergraduate studies. When came to rubrics and religious formation Max was below average especially in application. Only his spiritual director knew, and perhaps, that priest was not as sure as he might be about the state of Max’s soul, as much as any human might be sure.
Ordination to the diaconate was a major milepost. His parents were in the cathedral for the ceremony. Heinrich Leinfeld was proud of his son, although early on he wondered whether his boy might be better counseled to become the first lawyer in the family. Hilda Leinfeld was most proud of her son; the boy for whom she had prayed would become a priest. As he entered that last year before ordination to the priesthood, Max became more introspective.
Max and his fellow priests-to-be were charged with praying the breviary each day, a clerical requirement that took at least an hour. Some were spiritually recharged with the ecclesiastical assignment, other found it a chore. For Max, it was something in between. One day the readings included the Lord’s admonition that hot and cold were, in some sense, understandable, but be lukewarm and “I will vomit thee out of my mouth.”
The Maplewood HERALD carried this obituary, that April day.
One of Maplewood’s leading attorneys, Max Leinfeld, died yesterday at Mount Carmel Hospital. He was 86. The cause of death was not immediately announced.
Mr. Leinfeld was an assistant attorney general in the administration of President Hiram Finster. Before that he had served as Ohio attorney general where he gained a national reputation for enforcing state consumer protection laws. With the inauguration of a new administration, Mr. Leinfeld began private practice in northern Virginia, where he made his home.
Before his election to state office, Mr. Leinfeld practiced family and domestic law. He made a reputation seeking reconciliation between parties seeking divorces. He also was sought out by separated parents in child custody matters. Personal bankruptcy was one of his specialties, a skill that developed from his family practice.
Maximilian Urban Leinfeld was born Aug. 17, 1924 in Hollyville, Ohio, a suburb of Akron. He was the son of a German immigrant who was a die cutter in a local factory. After high school Mr. Leinfeld, who never used his full name professionally, attended The Josephinum Seminary in Ohio. He also was a graduate of the Ohio State University Law School.
A consultant to the local bishop, Mr. Leinfeld helped organize a support group for divorced Catholic women to aid them in rearing their children and obtaining alimony. He was a fourth degree member of the Knights of Columbus.
The Rev. Christopher Utermolen, Max Leinfeld’s pastor at St. Matthias Church, noted that he had both a wonderful memory and sense of humor. He, the priest said, was master of ceremonies at the parish’s annual volunteer appreciation dinner. Mr. Leinfeld served on the parish counsel for 15 years, five as chairman.
His wife of 47 years, Agnes (nee) Gallagher, died three years ago. He is survived by 11 children, 14 grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.
Max was relieved when the pre-ordination retreat ended. It had been a week of wrenching soul searching for him. He had reflected on his whole life up until then, but that reflection came in flashes of unpleasant intervals --- failures in athletics, grades that could have been better, disagreements with his parents, introspection of friendship or more accurately acquaintances, a little better than mediocre facility with Latin, a less than enthusiastic appreciation of theology, a prayer life better suited to a good layman than a priest-to-be. He realized he was neither a bad person nor a bad seminarian, but could he face a life of sacrifice for the Church and for others? He just did not know. His relief with the end of the retreat really centered on the end of silence. His general confession -- which covered his entire life in preparation for ordination as a priest -- to his spiritual director was an ordeal. That was especially so because he actually withheld his second thoughts about going through with the ceremony.
As the hours before he and the other ordinates were to go to the cathedral dwindled away, his doubts became stronger and stronger. He had heard of the priests who were beginning to seek lay status, or even worse, just left without ecclesial sanction, he knew he didn’t not to be such in the future. He knew, too, that he was down deep a Catholic even though right now he was on edge.
He went to his spiritual director.
Reluctantly the bishop gave his consent for Max to withdraw. At the cathedral last minute changes had to made in the ceremony. Even an errata sheet had to be prepared for the program.
Max now had to turn to the hardest matter of all. Telephoning his parents, who had already packed their bags for a trip to the ceremony, was more difficult than pulling out the day before his ordination. He had been lukewarm about the clerical life before him.
When he got off the phone he puked.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
chapter six
Chapter Six
Bless me Father…
Such pleasant weather in September, a month that nearly always brought the kind of days one wanted to be out of doors. This was a day meant for golf. Frank called the rectory.
“Father? Frank Malone. Wanna play some golf?”
“You betcha,” Chris Utermollen answered with alacrity. He had been wanting to get out for months, but things kept coming up, as they always did, at St. Matt’s. “I’ve been wanting to for some time, but couldn’t. Where and when?”
Green Valley Country Club wasn’t the swankiest club in the county, but it did attract a number of small businessmen, lawyers, accountants, merchants, and a clergyman or two. It was a good family club, low dues, a modest monthly bar and dining room minimum, swimming pool, tennis courts and a junior golf program. Frank found it affordable and the guest fees were reasonable. The priest and the plumber met in the club’s parking lot about 20 of 1 and easily made their tee time.
Chris Utermollen had a hitch in his swing, but his club head came through squarely at just over 100 mph and, most of the time, he hit a good ball. Not long, but generally straight. If he kept a handicap, and he did not for lack of steady playing, it might have been in the low 20s on the USGA scale. Frank was erratic, but hit all his clubs fairly long for his age, and carried a 19 USGA index and a course handicap of 21, enough to sneak into A flight status for club events. The priest was amenable to a small wager, suggesting a dime a skin to Frank’s proposal of a quarter. Frank agreed.
Frank sliced his tee shot on No.1 compared with Chris’s short but straight tee ball. Frank’s pitch to the first green was long and went into the high rough behind the flagstick. The priest needed two shots to get onto the green, but had only five feet for a par 4. Frank’s chip ran off the front of the green, and he conceded. Chris went to the second tee <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />box 1-up.
Being friends, the match proceeded with more conversation than determination. No Ben Hogan-like silence for which the Hawk was known. Topics included sports, politics, Church, the parish. The current state of Notre Dame football brought on verbiage associated with Monday morning quarterbacking. Discussion of Democratic and Republican shortcomings stopped short of hard feelings because it was a good day for golf, after all. Both plumber and priest disparaged the liberal contingents in the Church that would accept a female priesthood, abortion-tolerant Catholic officeholders, and folk Masses (even though their popularity had waned). Their passing mention of the restitution of missing collection money by Al and Irene Rhodes, the couple’s escape from prosecution, thanks to Father Utermollen’s mercy, and the subsequent retirement of Al and Irene to North Carolina’s Outer Banks.
About the eighth hole when the match was even – after Frank took two straight skins – talk turned to confession. Frank brought it up.
“Can, or maybe the word is ‘may,’ a priest hear a confession outside of a church confessional?”
“Sure,” Chris answered. “The Church is wise enough to allow for unusual and extreme circumstances --- accidents, war, and, of course the obvious, patients in hospitals. And, I know, I’ve left out all kinds of situations. The Church even allows for acts of perfect contrition by people in danger of death.” Chris was searching his memory of seminary classes. Fortunately, when sitting on his side of the confessional screen, the priest is in control of his moral theology knowledge.
“Why do you ask?” the priest asked, mostly out of intuition.
“Well, I’ve got my reasons,” Frank answered sheepishly.
The match was interrupted at the turn for the usual stops in the rest room and the snack bar. After some small talk and their second shots on No. 11 Frank started to talk seriously again. Between shots and putts his story came out.
It started when apprentice plumber Francis X. Malone wanted to go into business for himself. He had most of his tools. He still would need some major items that employers always provided. And then there was the matter of a truck. Frank’s savings would cover the bulk of his basic tools and a down payment on a used truck. One thing he really wanted was a video inspection snake. They were not cheap, but they saved a lot of time on a common emergency call --- plugged sewers. Having one also gave customers the idea that the plumber really knew his business.
Frank managed the steps to self-employment. He got along pretty well without the snake that looked underground and sent pictures back to the plumber. His business grew slowly but steadily. His income left him short of prosperity yet was adequate for marriage and starting a family. Still his snake still could not see.
Frank got a call one evening to a mortuary, a fairly easy replacement of a leaking faucet. Danier’s Family Funeral Service happened to be next door to a construction site. As he left after completing his job he noticed a truck of Johnson Plumbing and Heating parked on the site behind a construction fence, a fence that seemed to have an opening cut in it. Frank knew that the Johnson truck was fully equipped. He was aware of the fading light. He was at the rear of the business and the rising new building. He was tempted.
The young plumber found himself inside the fence next to the truck. It was unlocked. He quickly entered and looked around, shielding his flashlight. There it was --- a nearly new Silver Slither video snake. It was one of the small models, but still a useful one. It was quite easy to transfer to his truck. He excitedly drove away, looking into his rearview mirrors. Nervous, but exhilarated by his audacity, Frank slowed as he arrived near his own neighborhood. He began to feel guilt. Over the years the guilt feelings lessened. They did not dissipate entirely.
“So did you ever make restitution?”
“No, Father, I didn’t. Didn’t even occur to me.”
Chris put his 5 iron shot on the collar of the 16th green. By this time, Frank had fallen into mechanical shots. His mind wasn’t on the game, so as a consequence he was hitting better. Funny game, golf.
“So why did you bring it up? What do you intend to do about it now?”
“Dun no. Guess that’s why I did bring it up. Wanted you to help me, I guess.”
Frank was silent as they finished the hole. “Well, I suppose down deep I want to do something. Maybe that’s why I asked that question about confession.”
“So you do feel guilt. Your conscience hurts. I’m guessing --- you never have confessed stealing the, the, ah, ‘Silver Slither?’”
“That’s right.”
“Frank, I’m in a strange position right now. I’m trying to take some money from you at golf, but I can’t forget the collar. I believe I’ve never counseled anyone on the golf course before. But you seem to wish that I would do that. Right?”
“Yaah,” Frank said after a beat or two.
“You wish forgiveness, the forgiveness of Christ in confession; am I correct?”
“Yes I do.”
“Do you go to confession regularly?”
“Once a year or so. Whadda call it? Easter duty? Don’t you remember me? Maybe not. The lines get long at holidays.”
“Something like that. Yes, Church law says confession at least once a year, or when you commit serious sin. And no, I don’t remember your confessing. I’m supposed to forget what I hear after giving absolution.”
“Well, will you hear my confession now, Father?”
The priest and plumber walked on in silence, pulling their bags.
“Let’s call it a draw, Father,” Frank said as they split to go to their second shots on 17. “Can you meet me in church about 5:30?”
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