God’s Gifts Can Be Found At Odd Times
The old stone church in St. Louis is hushed as the young priest climbs the marble stairs to the pulpit. Seated behind him is the middle-aged couple he has come to marry. The bride, in a long white gown, looks to have swallowed a sunbeam; lit from within.
The groom appears alternately stunned and delighted at his good fortune. He raises his eyes to the pulpit, waiting for the homily. He knows the moment, knows the Mass. He was, for nearly 20 years, a Catholic priest.
In the pews the families and friends sit expectantly. The parents, white-haired and gently stooped, lift their heads, as they have done for years, to hear the words of the priest. They and the rest of the congregation wait on his wisdom.
He tells the story of the couple. Speaks of their love as a moment of grace, a gift, unlooked for, yet, when received, as essential to life as breathing.
In other words, a miracle.
Today, in this church, that miracle is summarized into a gentle experience. But those gathered here, the bride and groom, the families, the old friends, know the work involved in making the miracle. And the pain of its deliverance into the world.
A once-young man made a commitment that the soon-to-be middle-aged man couldn’t keep. It wasn’t for lack of trying, or sincerity, or depth of character. The same priesthood that offered the young man’s soul certainty and strength left the older man profoundly lonely.
The loneliness was first heard as a tiny voice, almost imperceptible. Easily ignored. And ignored, the voice grew steadily louder until it was the only thing the man could hear.
“Will God still love me if I’m not a priest?” he asked himself. And behind that question always came the second, “Will my family?”
For years the answer was no. Simply, absolutely, no.
The man tried everything to silence the questions.
They came anyway, along with sleeplessness, sorrow, and an almost permanent case of indigestion. Until one day he let the questions in. And he survived them.
He was still miserable, but he was no longer afraid.
He stopped looking for yes, deciding that whether God, or his parents or anyone else ever loved him again, he would not live a lie. In that knowledge, he was transformed. In that transformation, no became yes.
His parents had their own dark nights. He was the son they raised to be a priest, the chosen one. The one who would get them into heaven.
And now, he was leaving the priesthood. What would God, and the neighbors, think?
They threatened, cajoled and pleaded with their son to reconsider. In their hearts, they feared for his soul as well as their own. And what kind of life could their boy look forward to now, estranged from the church, single at an age some people become grandparents, with lots of book learning but limited life smarts?
He moved into an apartment. Got a puppy. Learned to cook. He made his way, one step at a time, into another life. His own. His mother sent recipes, his father sent tools.
One day, not looking, the man found the woman he was missing. The woman who had stopped looking. And when he asked for letters to be written to Rome seeking his final release from the priesthood, his parents wrote eloquently, lovingly on his behalf. Rome wrote back, embracing and releasing him.
Today, everyone in the church is smiling. Today is easy. It was just getting to it that was hard. Any time along the way, anyone could have quit, saying, rightly so, that it was too difficult.
But all of them held fast to each other and to a faith that transcended all their old definitions.
They were led by the groom who had the courage to face down his questions. He watched his life crack open, pour out and miraculously, replenish itself. And through it all, I think, there was a Divine Intervenor, working in mysterious ways. Sending the questions and sending the bride.
xxxx writer who lives in Spokane.
The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Kathleen Corkery Spencer The Spokesman-Review