she’s a pious woman and means well.” He again leaned across the large desk and said in softer tones, “You must admit that you’ve given her a lot of trouble through the years.”
“I guess so,” Tim replied, then asked impatiently, “Where are you sending me?”
“I’d like to send you home to the Delaneys,” the priest said slowly, “but no one wants a wild tornado in his house. Tim, you’re a very bright young man. Why do you act the way you do?”
Tim shrugged.
“Is it because you think nobody cares?”
The boy nodded.
“You’re wrong,” Father Joe whispered. “To begin with, God cares.”
“Yes, sir,” Tim answered. And then added almost reflexively: “1 John 4:8, ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God.’ ”
The priest was astonished. “How much of the Scriptures do you know by heart?”
Tim shrugged. “I guess I know whatever stuff we’ve read.”
Father Joe swiveled in his chair, pulled out a large Bible, and leafed through the pages. “ ‘If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?’ ” He glanced at Tim and asked, “Recognize that?”
“Yes—same chapter, verse twenty.”
“Extraordinary,” Hanrahan muttered. He slapped the Bible closed on his desk and shouted with exasperation, “Then why in heaven’s name do you go around throwing punches at your fellow man?”
“I don’t know,” Tim confessed.
The priest stared at him for a moment and then said with fervor, “Timothy, I do believe the Lord ordains each move we make. And all that’s gone before today was just to bring the two of us together. It has suddenly come clear to me that you were born to serve our Lord.”
“How?” Tim asked uncertainly.
“Well, as an altar boy to start with. No—you’re a little old for that. You’ll share the task of thurifer with Marty North. He’s younger than you, but knows the ropes.”
“But what happens if I don’t want to be your spice boy?” Tim asked, his old defiance reemerging.
“Well,” the priest replied, still jovial, “then you can hold a candle.” Quickly he added: “Or you can go to St. Joseph’s School for Boys in Pennsylvania.”
Hanrahan’s bluntness caught Tim off guard. He looked at the priest. “I don’t mind getting up early,” Tim said matter-of-factly.
The priest began to laugh. “I’m very glad, Tim. And I know you’re on the right road now.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just happy,” Father Hanrahan replied. “After all, there’s more delight in finding one lost sheep than the ninety-nine already in the fold.”
To which Timothy replied, “Matthew 18:13—sort of abridged.”
The priest beamed and inquired, “Same thought’s also in Luke. Don’t you remember?”
“To be honest, I don’t,” Tim replied.
“
Deo gratias
—there’s at least something I can still teach you. Now go home. And be here at six-thirty in the morning.”
If he was not converted by the churchman, Tim was definitely transformed by the ceremonies themselves. It was one thing to kneel and pray, it was another to
serve
, to feel a part of the prayer.
When he took off his jacket to don the garments of worship, he sensed that he was somehow removing a layer of sin. The simple black cassock and a white surplice made him feel
pure.
And in stark contrast to the vestments of the priests, his own garb never changed. The priests altered the color of their garments according to the seasons.
The green worn on ordinary Sundays symbolized growth and hope, while the violet during Lent and Advent signified penance, and the rose on special Sundays during those same periods indicated joy. Most important was the white for Christmas, Easter, special Saints’ Days, and holy occasions like the Feast of the Circumcision.
Tim would sometimes appear in school still emanating traces of incense.
“Hey, what’s with you, Hogan?” Ed
“I guess so,” Tim replied, then asked impatiently, “Where are you sending me?”
“I’d like to send you home to the Delaneys,” the priest said slowly, “but no one wants a wild tornado in his house. Tim, you’re a very bright young man. Why do you act the way you do?”
Tim shrugged.
“Is it because you think nobody cares?”
The boy nodded.
“You’re wrong,” Father Joe whispered. “To begin with, God cares.”
“Yes, sir,” Tim answered. And then added almost reflexively: “1 John 4:8, ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God.’ ”
The priest was astonished. “How much of the Scriptures do you know by heart?”
Tim shrugged. “I guess I know whatever stuff we’ve read.”
Father Joe swiveled in his chair, pulled out a large Bible, and leafed through the pages. “ ‘If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?’ ” He glanced at Tim and asked, “Recognize that?”
“Yes—same chapter, verse twenty.”
“Extraordinary,” Hanrahan muttered. He slapped the Bible closed on his desk and shouted with exasperation, “Then why in heaven’s name do you go around throwing punches at your fellow man?”
“I don’t know,” Tim confessed.
The priest stared at him for a moment and then said with fervor, “Timothy, I do believe the Lord ordains each move we make. And all that’s gone before today was just to bring the two of us together. It has suddenly come clear to me that you were born to serve our Lord.”
“How?” Tim asked uncertainly.
“Well, as an altar boy to start with. No—you’re a little old for that. You’ll share the task of thurifer with Marty North. He’s younger than you, but knows the ropes.”
“But what happens if I don’t want to be your spice boy?” Tim asked, his old defiance reemerging.
“Well,” the priest replied, still jovial, “then you can hold a candle.” Quickly he added: “Or you can go to St. Joseph’s School for Boys in Pennsylvania.”
Hanrahan’s bluntness caught Tim off guard. He looked at the priest. “I don’t mind getting up early,” Tim said matter-of-factly.
The priest began to laugh. “I’m very glad, Tim. And I know you’re on the right road now.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just happy,” Father Hanrahan replied. “After all, there’s more delight in finding one lost sheep than the ninety-nine already in the fold.”
To which Timothy replied, “Matthew 18:13—sort of abridged.”
The priest beamed and inquired, “Same thought’s also in Luke. Don’t you remember?”
“To be honest, I don’t,” Tim replied.
“
Deo gratias
—there’s at least something I can still teach you. Now go home. And be here at six-thirty in the morning.”
If he was not converted by the churchman, Tim was definitely transformed by the ceremonies themselves. It was one thing to kneel and pray, it was another to
serve
, to feel a part of the prayer.
When he took off his jacket to don the garments of worship, he sensed that he was somehow removing a layer of sin. The simple black cassock and a white surplice made him feel
pure.
And in stark contrast to the vestments of the priests, his own garb never changed. The priests altered the color of their garments according to the seasons.
The green worn on ordinary Sundays symbolized growth and hope, while the violet during Lent and Advent signified penance, and the rose on special Sundays during those same periods indicated joy. Most important was the white for Christmas, Easter, special Saints’ Days, and holy occasions like the Feast of the Circumcision.
Tim would sometimes appear in school still emanating traces of incense.
“Hey, what’s with you, Hogan?” Ed
Similar Books
