I've had a lot of time to think about Immy over the years, and not just about taking her for a drive and parking in a lonely spot, something she allowed only once that I remember. Thank God the girl protected us both by refusing my advances when they went too far for her sensibilities.
About twenty years ago my mother told me she was proud she and Dad were able to send my brothers and I to Catholic schools when we were kids. In a familiar manner of loving derision I said nothing but began to pick my nose, which always got her laughing.
“Well, it’s true,” she said. “And certainly as a Brother you can tell me at least one thing your Catholic education did for you.”
With a twinkle in my eye, I said, "Well it limited me to dating girls who wouldn’t put out.”
“You think I didn’t know that?” she said.
Immy was a strong young lady who knew what she wanted from life and it didn't include getting pregnant by some numbskull who would be forced by the society of his time to forfeit plans for an education and instead get a factory job to pay the rent on a cold water flat.
Immy was smart and she knew it, and had been encouraged from an early age to go beyond her mother's horizon ... by her mother, among others.
My Mom continued to send newspaper clippings to me each time Immy was featured in our local newspaper, which was often, due to her mother's new hobby as a PR agent. Mom must have thought I would fondly remember Immy as I might boyhood friends George or Frank. Why she did not sense my hurt is beyond me. Mom was not a mean person.
Anyway, according to the articles Immy became an attorney in Washington and rose to high levels in the government, eventually taking political clients with her into a law partnership that became very successful. She married twice and mothered twin daughters whose weddings were featured in the society news for days on end. Not once did I entertain a fantasy about being her successful husband. Neither the first nor the second.
On Saturday, I rose and looked out the window at a wonderful world of white swirling snow. Maybe I should have called to confirm our date, but I got dressed and borrowed my father’s car and drove to St. John’s. I had to park a block away. The rotten weather could not spoil the first snow of the winter for me.
Outside the church, a gusty squall was churning up snow in the slushy street. The wind nudged me in through the huge brass plated doors, past Holy Water bowls the size of bird baths, and down the long nave into the old church. Walking among the pews, I felt the immensity of the structure as small sounds echoed about me to accent the silence.
Looking around the huge and ornate house of worship, it was apparent that in the 19th century God and Mammon had run neck and neck in a race that God must have lost. Gold filigree wound around carved columns that arched up and over a 25 foot high altar. The white marble floors shined as bright and clean as my soul on the day of my christening, when Uncle Harry carried me up the steps to the gold baptismal font. One more Catholic soldier reporting for duty in a line that extended back to my ancestor Patrick’s baptism here in 1830. Afterward, my mother must have carried me back down the marble steps and past Stations of The Cross, each carved into the grey stone walls. If the morning had been sunlit, the high stained glass windows would have provided wonderfully colored splashes of reds and greens and gold to wash down the steps and out onto the expanse of white floor.
I looked up to the yellowing chandeliers and imagined the great empty space that rose above me to the vaulted ceiling held the souls of countless men and women who had vowed their obligations to God and their love to each other. Many were my family, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, grandparents and great grandparents. One life after another consecrated to something that could only be felt in such surroundings. Hands holding each other tightly at the altar in marriage. Hands holding the oil and water of baptism. And then letting go as the hand of the one left behind touched the casket for the last time in that awful and lonely moment of goodbye.
On this day, as the snow outside sifted up against the stained glass and I waited for Immy, the church was cold and dark and empty. I sat and thought of the young woman who had meant everything to me just a few years before. And I thought about our futures. I did not know which missionary field I would serve in the future, but I prayed for those placed over me in the Order to have an anointing on them when they made decisions for me. And I said a prayer for Immy’s future, whether she married a boy provided by her Italian mother’s army of aunts and cousins or if she chose a dumb Irishman like myself from her father’s Hibernian lodge. If she showed up today, I would frankly be surprised. Something in her voice on the telephone told me that before today she would decide to not come. I think Immy knew we weren't right for each other, but did not have the words to tell me. Her sense of the world was much more practical than mine and I suppose she didn’t want to spend her life pulling my head down from the clouds. Romance and hormones can often rush toward a union that proves disastrous for two young people. The lucky couples survive it. And I was lucky to avoid it, but I felt anything but blessed. I had understood little when I felt my world end at her goodbye four years before. And now a young man of 22 years, the sting of it was still with me as I sat in the cold church that Saturday morning.
As midday approached, the pews began to fill with people. I had forgotten there was a Mass at noon. Soon, a crowd of worshippers began to assemble behind me as they prepared themselves for the Advent service. Since I had sat down at the very front, I had no idea who was behind me. I wanted to turn around and scan the congregation, but I didn’t.
Immy never came to the church. But that was OK, because I had the answer Bert had asked me to seek. I still loved Immy. I could feel the loss of her affection nagging me. But I could survive. I didn’t know how long I would carry the loss with me, but I somehow knew I would go on with life and find my way.
I happened to look to my right at one of the smaller altars along the side wall of the church and I noticed a new statue. I stood and shuffled sideways on the kneeler past the Asian man and woman who had sat down next to me. Exiting the pew, I walked across the church to the statue. A small sign on its base said the image was of Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha, the Lily of the Mohawks. I remembered reading about her life among the Mohawk Indians in Central New York State. She had been disfigured by small pox and while growing up was the butt of jeering and ridicule by the adults and children of her tribe. But when she grew to be a young woman she became known as a wonderful storyteller who loved children. The little ones followed her around asking for stories and she kept them entertained, but her adult peers still persisted in their mocking. She became a Christian and legend has it that when she died at a young age in April of 1680, moments after her death her face was wonderfully transfigured into that of a lovely young woman. I knelt down and said a prayer to her, or to the spirit she represented, the spirit that fills the universe, the spirit that we can only perceive as one person at a time, be it God, Mary, St. Francis or (for some) Elvis. Without further defining a theology and wrapping it around her, I asked her to be my friend. To look out for me and to help my guardian angel, who is also of the same spirit (but is better looking than Elvis.) I have felt a special kinship with Kateri ever since. But it would be years before I realized we had both survived an airplane accident.
One of the last things I did before entering religious life was to call Mary Immaculata O’Toole, the girl I dated in high school and occasionally in college. Immy was my only serious love. As I look back, I’m sure I was never more than a date to her, but she wasn’t just a date to me. At one time I thought we’d spend our lives together. But in the summer after high school just before I left for college, Immy told me we were through. The news wasn’t a surprise, but it hurt. Later, when we were both home from college in the summer we occasionally went out together, but with the understanding we were only friends. At least, that was Immy’s understanding.
It was my college spiritual director who suggested I have one more meeting with Immy before I pursued the life of a Brother.
“What the hell for?” I blurted out.
Bert looked at me as if I were dense, surprised at my reaction. “Call it closure,” he said. “After all, the young woman obviously meant a lot to you.”
“That’s the past,” I said, “when I was a kid.”
Bert peered over his glasses at me and then shifted around in his chair and looked out the window, across the college’s quadrangle of lawn and sidewalks. He was a large man, a Lutheran minister and a former Army Chaplain who didn’t suffer fools easily. He was not of a pastoral bent, but was rather more directive. The afternoon sun was streaming in through the glass on a late winter afternoon. He probably wanted to get outside and frankly I was finished with this conversation.
“Do you realize,” he said after a moment, “how many young men of antiquity found the love of their life and fathered the girl’s children before age 18?”
“I didn’t do anything to father any children,” I said, sort of smugly.
Still …” he said. “Let’s be realistic. Do you think a 16 year old can’t have an important love? Even a life-changing love?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Go see her,” Bert said. “Don’t tell yourself you don’t love her, not until you see how your emotions react when you’re with her for an hour. And then if you’re still not sure, well … just be sure you can live without her. For five years, anyway.”
When I went home at Christmas, I made the call. It was a tough task. I didn’t want to start that memory in my heart beating all over again. And also, I didn’t look forward to telling Immy I was going to be a Brother. I had revealed my plan to a few casual young woman acquaintances in the 6 months prior and received strange reactions, not the encouragement I would have expected. If Immy looked at me like I was less than a man, I’d feel terrible. Truthfully, I often felt like a very strong man when I thought of the dedication this life would require.
I dialed Immy’s number and her mother answered. The lady who had been so nice to me in high school didn’t bother to act like she remembered me, but I’m sure she did.
“She’s here. Wait a minute, please,” said the housewife who had just plummeted to the bottom of my favorite older woman list.
I visualized Immy and her mother sitting across the kitchen table from each other and that was confirmed by Immy coming on the phone almost immediately, except for a slight delay while I imagined Mom holding the phone away from her ear and rolling her eyes in disdain.
“Hello?” said Immy. “Oh, Hi! Where are you? Here in town, really? Uh huh. Uh huh. Oh. Well … I’m not home for very long, so I’m really busy most nights … every night, come to think of it. Ha ha!”
“How about Saturday morning?” I said.
“Well … OK,” she said. “I guess. Where? I’m on a diet.” That meant she didn’t want to get stuck with me through too long of a lunch.
“How about St. John’s Church?” I said. I was reacting sarcastically to her avoiding lunch with me, but decided as I spoke that St. John’s was probably appropriate. I’d been to so many funerals there.
“Are you serious?” she said.
“Sure,” I replied. “I’m not in town for very long either. It’s my family church and I’ve been wanting to visit.”
“Wow,” she laughed, a real laugh. “What a date!”
“Ten o’clock OK?” I said.
“Two hours to pray before lunch?” she said. “Is there so much to pray about?”
“OK, then between 10:30 and 11:00,” I said. “I may get there a little early.”
“You probably need the prayer more than me!” she said, brightly
I wouldn’t be the first religious brother or priest to have fallen for a girl, but I might be the first to fall for my guardian angel. And I sure as hell am the first to have my guardian angel parading around as a real estate broker.
I’m not kidding. It absolutely has to be her. I walked right up to her as she stood by her car and looked her in the eye. She quailed a little, but stood her ground and stared at me as if to dare me to say anything of our previous meeting. Or I suppose it’s possible she’s a human and she was just reacting like a strong young woman. But dammit, I’m sure it’s her. Pretty sure. How could it not be her? Even the same name! I’m not that batty. Pretty sure I’m not.
Women are a bother! Terd once said that if God had made a third sex, women would get far less attention.
Most of us monks have been attracted to women, although a few didn’t care much for them in the first place. I hope it doesn’t surprise any readers that a quite normal religious Brother might have a heart that loves and falls and breaks just like other men. However, our vocation is usually more important to us than walking the path of marriage in conjugal bliss. There were only one or two women in my life that I remember with romantic fondness, and occasionally on a beautiful spring evening more than fondness. Then there are the few who existed only in my mind, like Sara. Not the real Sara, of course, but the Sara who would choose to fly fish on her honeymoon and who can tie a mean attractor fly while she stands in the middle of the stream. And yes, of course, the imaginary Sara who has all the standard equipment.
I think I mentioned that in our Order we renew our vows every five years. There have been times in the past when I thought about not renewing. Maybe I’d find a job somewhere and settle into the landscape. It’s possible my idea of being a confirmed bachelor might change when I found myself figuratively rubbing against a pleasant woman and …. well, you know.
She came to visit the other day … “Agnes’ woman,” the real estate broker. And yet she can’t be a real estate broker. It’s impossible.
Kickstart and I were working on the foundation of the front porch when we heard a car come up the long driveway.
“The FBI is here to arrest us,” said Kick.
“Not the FBI,” I said, “Not in a Lincoln Town Car.”
”Darn,” he said, “and I always wanted to meet J. Edgar Hoover.”
The auto pulled into the circular drive and like a huge dog nosed it way along the gravel until it stopped right before us, almost touching our legs as if it were sniffing for us. A woman in her mid thirties got out and walked down the length of the hood to the front of the Lincoln. She wore a gray business suit and a simple pink silk scarf around her neck. Her blonde hair was tied up, loose and not quite business like, her figure slim. She carefully picked her way toward us, head down choosing each step carefully to avoid getting mud on her beautiful shoes. When she finally crossed the obstacle course of mud puddles and raised her head to address us, a sweet smile on her hauntingly beautiful face immediately changed to a look of fright. It was matched by my shock and we stood not four feet apart staring at each other. She was Sally from the woods, my Guardian angel.
Kickstart stood mute, as if he was transfixed at the sight of a female and had no idea women populated half the earth. Finally, the woman spoke.
“I’m Sally Prendel, here to see the Abbot,” she said.
The Ardent Brothers of the Holy Varlet at Our Lady’s Monastery at West Saugerties had a nice Christmas Eve. It’s after compline now and I snuck down here to the cellar as I like to do late at night. Just to be with my thoughts. I am now so busy with the practical chores of helping to keep this place afloat that this contemplative strangely has less and less time these days for contemplation. Which of course is not thinking in any sense. But anyway, I just want to reflect on Christmas.
We don’t have a Santa Claus statue on the altar in the chapel, of course, because more important to us is the message of Christmas, which is Emmanuel, or He Is With Us. That is the most important aspect of Christianity, at least to me. That there is someone who cares, who is with us through our lives and who shows up at the oddest times and through a variety of people. Believe. It’s happening all around you.
On my first Christmas away from home after joining the order, I was assigned to a Retreat House in New Jersey and was serving on a 4 day Christmas Retreat for retired nuns … 40 of them! I woke up in my cell-like room in the dark when my little travel alarm went off at 5:00 in the morning. I knew it was Christmas morning and I thought back to all the times I had come awake on this day sure that a surprise gift or two waited for me under a glorious tree festooned with colored lights. That there would be no tree or gift this morning made me feel doubly lonely and kind of sad, even at age 24. When I turned on the bedside light a small box wrapped in Christmas paper was on the bedside table. Opening it, I discovered a pine cone inside, not the long cigar-like kind, but the round open style with square woody sprigs sprouting out. The touches of pine sap had dried to a white frosting, making it very Christmas-like. It was beautiful. It was wonderful, and I still have it.
A half hour later I stood next to an old priest on the altar as he said Mass and I functioned as the altar server. I looked out at the forty women in their religious habits and saw one who might have been the oldest smiling at me. She was beaming and her hand gave a little wave.
“Thank you so much,” I said to the nun later at breakfast. “Why did you do that for me?”
“You’re the youngest here,” she said. “You would miss Christmas presents the most.”
I was embarrassed. “I guess I’ll get over it someday.”
“Don’t try so hard,” she said. “Let it remind you on Christmas morning that you are waiting on His grace and what you need will be provided. He is with us and He won’t disappoint.”
Believe. And it will happen all around you. Emmanuel. Merry Christmas.
It’s nice here tonight. That awful wind has stopped. We had gusts and blowing snow on the mountain beginning Christmas Day and it really whipped up yesterday. Kickstart said a few shingles blew off the front porch roof, but I told him to stay away from any part of the porch … roof, floor or steps. It’s all rotten, I think. Looking at a joist under the porch deck the other day stained green with mold reminded me of what I call the “surprise picnic.” Not a picnic with food. Well … I found a picnic table in the woods and … I guess I’ll have to tell the story.
When I was writing of women a few posts back, I failed to mention one in particular. I’m not supposed to even think of her, because the consensus of my fellow Brothers and the professional staff at the hospital was that Sally was a figment of my (somewhat) thwarted imagination. The episode took place while Sparky was the abbot here.
Sparky was a good old guy. He had so many age spots he looked like a Dalmatian puppy, hence the nickname. I think he secretly believed my story, although I understood that as my abbot he could not agree an apparition had taken place, not without concurrence from higher-ups. "Irishmen don't see apparitions," said Sparky. Yes, I know, I was thinking the same thing but didn't say it.
“You know, Jesse,” he said, “we’re all a little worried about you. You sometimes forget where you are!”
I have never forgotten where I am. Sometimes when I’m on my way somewhere I forget where I’m going. Doesn’t everyone do that?
And it wasn't as if I'd seen the Blessed Mother. Far from it! Sally was more earthy than I would expect from the mother of Jesus, although I think we do a disservice to Mary by assuming she was totally bland.
My vision in the woods seemed to take years off my attitude. Afterward I felt young again, but also greatly confused. Maybe the two go together.
I have walked the trails through the woods up here for years. It’s true I have a lousy sense of direction and don’t always know where I am. The very same glens and copses in the woods can look different from week to week. And the exact same stand of hemlocks is often unrecognizable later in the day when the sun’s angle has changed or if you walk into it from a different direction. In short, the forest can be tricky. But this isn’t the Great North Woods and there is always a way out, despite the number of people who get lost up here each year and try to call 911 on their cell phones. When I am lost I walk straight downhill and always come to a road and recognize where I am. Or I follow a creek down the mountainside to civilization.
In any event, I was not surprised to find myself one afternoon a couple of years ago at a Y in the trail with not the slightest idea which leg I should take. I realized I didn’t know where I was, so I chose the left path and started down it. After a few hundred yards I came to a small clearing I’d not seen before and that surprised me. A small picnic table had been somehow transported up the mountain and placed in the middle of the clearing. Inspecting it more closely, I saw hatchet marks. It had been hand hewn and assembled right here in the woods.
I raised my foot and pushed down on the seat board to test its strength, then sat down with my back to the table's surface. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a woman seated opposite me on the other side of the table, although strangely there was no longer a table. I will swear to her appearance for as long as I live. It happened just like that! I suppose I could have dozed while she walked up and sat down, but no woman I’ve ever met would quietly sneak up on a man asleep at a picnic table in the woods and sit down across from him. Of course, Sally was unlike any woman I had ever met.
“I am Sally,” she said.
“I’m Brother Jesse from the monastery,” I replied. Surprisingly, I didn't connect the Sally in front of me with the Angel Sally from my imagination.
Suddenly I began to talk. Words flowed from me as I told Sally everything about myself, from my childhood through my teen years and then on to my vocation. All the stuff about Africa … much of it I had sworn I’d never speak of … my guilt, the plane accident, my time away from the Brothers, my sins and transgressions and my fears and … I didn’t leave much out.
I did all the talking. She offered nothing about herself and gave me only a slight smile. Sally had a lustrous ivory complexion. She was a natural beauty with deep, surprisingly blue eyes. A fine figure showed through her dress, which did nothing to rein in the movements of her body beneath the thin cotton. She was one of the most stunning women I have ever seen. Her presence was very intense. I found myself uncomfortable and I sat back, as one might lean away from a hot stove. I never stopped talking, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from roaming over her features. I felt embarrassed and hoped I wasn’t leering at her. In time my nervous monologue stumbled to a stop. I looked down at my hands and then back up at her face. Her expression of polite interest hadn’t changed.
With a smile on my face, I said, “But I suppose every guy you meet tells you the details of his entire life in the first … fifteen minutes.” I looked at my watch and realized it had been two hours.
“I was there for all of it, David,” she said.
Astounded, I asked, “How can you know my name?”
“Because …” she said, and then hesitated.
“Because why?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
It was then I made the connection between this woman and my angel. She half stood, leaned over the table and brought her face very close to mine. Pursing her lips, she gently blew a sweet breath across my brow and the light in the forest seemed to brighten a little. I instinctively leaned forward to kiss her, but stopped myself. For a moment I was lost in her eyes, recognizing something that even now I cannot put my finger on. Then she kissed me on the lips quickly. She did not kiss like the Blessed Mother. Nor were her lips hot and forceful. She kissed lightly, but with the energy of a thousand stars burning somewhere off stage in the universe. Sally left the table and walked away. I got up also. I was in shock. I did not want her to leave, but I was speechless. She walked up the path a bit and turned to look at me. The low sun was behind her and showed through her thin dress, revealing her legs. I don’t know how long I stood gazing at this so obviously female apparition. And then she was gone. In my eyes there was nothing but sunlight and tears.
Jackson Browne, Bonnie Rait - Kisses Sweeter Than Wine
