In 1958, when I was 11 and on one
of many journeys to visit my mother’s family in England, I met
a priest. The episode took place while we were aboard the Queen Mary;
she was still in active service and sailing the Atlantic. Looking back,
he probably felt sorry for the lonely, shy child that he saw before
him and befriended me. Nonetheless, this brief encounter would change
my life forever.
Religion was never really discussed between the
two of us; his character and demeanor glowed from within and exemplified
his beliefs. He told me many interesting stories about the children
he had taught and his many adventures. Even at my early age, I was entranced
with his eagerness to teach the poor children in Italy, his destination.
Since my family consisted mainly of Protestants, it was my first exposure
to a Catholic priest. To this day, I can recall his compassionate manner,
good humor and the genuine enthusiasm he displayed towards his mission.
When we reached Southampton, England and the
end of our voyage together, he told me how pleased he was to have made
my acquaintance. Not only would he remember me with fondness but I would
also be included in his prayers. He then added words that held little
meaning to me at the time, “Shirley, always look to the Sacred
Heart of Jesus." It was the formation of an inner calling that
would never leave me.
As the years passed, so did my interest in the
Catholic Church. As a child, I would often take a deliberate detour
home from school in order to stop by the local parish. It was a secret
place to me. I relished the aromatic smell of incense, and I would sit
silently amidst the serene statues quietly absorbing the moment.
Although my parents were Christians and very
loving, they could not quite comprehend the road I seemed to be on regarding
my faith quest. Walking into my bedroom and finding an old Christmas
card depicting the Blessed Virgin tacked over my bed left them somewhat
puzzled. They did not understand from whence I was obtaining all these
unfamiliar ideas. However, they did indulge me to a point. I assumed
my dad would be the one most against my budding philosophy; therefore,
I hid many things from him for fear of a confrontation. It was important
to me to make my dad understand my feelings with all my heart; however,
being a child I lacked the skill to convincingly plead my case. I never
seemed to be able to find just the right moment or words to approach
the subject. Looking back, I now realize all things take place when
God wants them to be revealed.
Adulthood arrived, and against my parent’s
adamant pleas to wait, (especially my dad’s) I ran away to Las
Vegas and married my first husband, a young man I had only know for
two weeks. As the years passed, I found myself to be a single parent
divorced from an abusive alcoholic. There had been an abundance of turbulent
times, but I never totally gave up my spiritual search. The only dilemma
I seemed to encounter was how to channel this energy in order to fill
the void within my heart. Dreams about attending Mass filled many of
my nights and in the morning I would shake my head at such a seemly
silly imagination. My most reoccurring vision involved a huge glass
cathedral, which at the time made no sense to me at all.
In October of 1996, with the full support of
my loving husband, Bill as well as my children, I made a conscious decision
to attend information classes at St. Thomas Aquinas. It was to be nothing
more than an investigative approach to the years of questioning within
my mind. On my first visit, Father Belisle made me feel more welcome
than I had felt anywhere in a very long time. Deep from the recesses
of my heart, positive feelings began wildly to ignite. However, it was
on my fourth encounter with the group that I was hit with an electrifying
surge of emotion. Several members of the group had brought in various
portraits of Christ and the one placed directly in front of me was a
beautiful rendition of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Intently gazing upon
that picture, I felt as though I was drawn into a tunnel. I saw no one
else around me except the depiction. Suddenly, I was swept back some
39 years! The gentle priest’s words boldly traced a path to the
present: “Look to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.” The feeling
I experienced was almost surreal. I quietly surveyed the room to see
if anyone had noticed my direct response. However, they were so engrossed
in admiring the other works of art that whatever reaction I made evidently
went unnoticed. I sat silently contemplating the occurrence.
On Friday, February 14, 1997, I participated
in The Rite of Election. Upon arriving at St. Joseph’s Church,
I was overwhelmed with astonishment at the sight I saw. My eyes had
never before beheld the huge glass cathedral-type structure; yet, it
was a familiar sight. I had seen it many times in my dreams! This revelation
was quite euphoric and although I knew I was traveling the right path,
I had not yet fully invited Christ into my life with complete surrender.
On Good Friday, as I knelt in veneration to kiss
the feet of Christ on the cross, I paused momentarily, my eyes transfixed
upon His feet. I felt mesmerized by the sight. Feeling self conscience
about taking too much time, I moved on. All during RCIA I was not only
struggling to understand myself but I was also dealing with the devastating
cancer that was savagely destroying my beloved father. Because of his
failing health, Dad and I had begun to engage in talks of Heaven on
a frequent basis. At first, I tried to avoid the subject because I did
not want to face the fact that I was losing someone so precious to me.
When I finally realized that it was an essential part of Dad’s
dying process, I reluctantly accepted. We spent many hours discussing
what we both believed. What it really boiled down to was Dad’s
need for reassurance that he would be acceptable to Christ. During one
such contemplative talk, a memory suddenly resurfaced. I recalled to
Dad a special Sunday so many years before when our pastor invited all
those who wanted to accept Jesus as Lord to please come forward. My
dad was one of the first to walk up the aisle. After the invitation
was extended, full immersion baptism as well as participation in Holy
Communion took place. I reminded Dad that like the two of us who never
forgot that day of commitment, Christ in His mercy also remembers. All
traces of fear seemed to drift from Dad’s face and the painful
look was replaced with quiet repose.
A carpenter by trade, Dad’s once strong
physical form had been replaced with a shrunken shell of his former
self. Through the ravages of the disease, however, his brilliant Irish
blue eyes still managed to twinkle as he found humor in the simplest
things in life. He could tell a tale tall at the drop of a hat and his
wonderfully fabricated stories were a delight to anyone who heard them.
The Ghost of Killarney was a favorite he embellished right until the
end. Always wanting to please my father, I had not told him of my impending
conversion to Catholicism. Afraid of rejection, I had only hinted at
my desire. Finally, just before going to church on Good Friday, I told
him of my faith and where it was leading me. Studying his eyes, I waited
for a reaction. With a sweet smile he replied, “The Father is
calling you.” He then reminded me of something he used to say
to me as a child: “You know, Shirley, none of us really owns anything
on this old earth. We are just taking care of it for the Master, who
is your true Father in Heaven.” The same expression that had often
bugged me so much as a youngster, now filled me with comfort and new
understanding. This chat would be our last lucid conversation. Taking
my hands into his, he told me that if I was driven so strongly by my
convictions, and knowing me as he did, then surely a power greater than
the two of us was guiding my pilgrimage. “May I come to Easter
service with you?” He asked. A lump formed in my throat as we
shared a moment of unconditional love. For a brief second in time, I
not only felt the gentle embrace of my earthly father surround me with
tenderness but also the peaceful touch of my Heavenly Father upon my
heart. It was the first time I really and truly understood the expression
dad had repeated so often.
The next morning my dad’s battle escalated.
Mistaking the bathtub for the toilet in his state of mental confusion,
dad slipped and took a devastating fall. Totally disoriented, he somehow
managed to crawl to his kitchen. Possessing a wonderfully zany down-to-earth
sense of humor, Dad loved to laugh at himself. Had he been in his right
state of mind, he would have found the predicament quite comical; but
sadly, this was no joke. As I entered shortly thereafter, he sat staring
out the window as if in a trance. He sat hunched over in a pitiful position,
and my heart pounded with fear. Dad had been my rock and source of wise
counsel during my life, now he was so frail. Our roles had reversed;
I must now be strong for him. I quickly surmised the situation and screamed
for my husband to get the car as I gently tried to clean my dad’s
bruised and battered body for the trip. I felt so helpless and pleaded
for strength through Christ’s intervention and mercy. Frantically
looking for anything in which to wash his feet, I quickly grabbed an
old baking pan and filled it with warm, sudsy water. Slowly and gently
I placed his feet into the water and as I began to wash them I was suddenly
struck by a vision: the feet of our Lord on the cross. Just as the sight
of Christ’s feet had riveted me the night before, I gazed at my
father’s with the same hypnotic fascination. At that moment I
felt our Lord’s overpowering love and presence and knew in my
heart that my dad belonged to Him. That evening I went through the confirmation
ceremony as planned. When it had concluded, we rushed directly to the
hospital to be at my dad’s bedside. Before he drifted off, he
spoke to me what would be his last few words of true clarity, ”Jesus
came to me.” Quietly, he then lapsed into semi-consciousness.
Renewing his baptismal promise in an act of true acceptance, my dad
invited Jesus into his heart. His face was that of a man who had been
freed from all the burdens he had suffered. I was witness to his affirmation
and was given a glimpse into the mystery of God’s wondrous grace
and love as well as the peace that it brings. We had had our differences
over the years concerning our beliefs. However, the love I held for
my father as well as the bond that we shared helped to bring me full-circle
in my journey of faith. Now, each time I go to communion and my eyes
cast a glance at the feet of Christ, I feel my dad. The memory of his
love floods over me. My soul is refreshed with the joyful realization
not only of how blessed I was to have had such a wonder father on this
earth, but also the love our Heavenly Father holds for each one of us.
Just as I underestimated my dad’s love for me, so too do I feel
we often underestimate the love of the Father.
I miss my dad beyond words, but I take comfort
in God’s promise of renewal through His Son, Jesus Christ, that
once again our spirits shall touch. After all, we are only caretakers
on this earth until He calls us home at last.
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