reputation precedes you.”
“There’s a reason I’ve never invited you to my workplace.”
“I met Michael more than thirty years ago,” he said, “back when I was svelte, handsome, and quite full of myself.”
“It’s hard to believe the svelte and handsome part.”
Father Pat motioned for Barbara and me to sit down. He never let anything get in the way of his telling a good story, even if everyone had heard it before.
“In my early years at Blessed Sacrament,” he said, “I was the low man on the totem pole. Part of my duties included giving the eight o’clock Monday mass, which always seemed a bit of an anticlimax after the weekend services, at least to this wet-behind-his-ears priest. On Monday I knew that only a small number of regulars attended mass, and it was always a rare Monday when I didn’t think that my talents could be put to better use.
“As I was getting myself ready in the sacristy, I suddenly took notice of a strange sound, but because this has always been a neighborhood of strange sounds I decided to pay it no mind. The plaintive cry only lasted for a few seconds, and I was glad of that. I tried to convince myself that it was a stray cat, but I still couldn’t shake this uneasy feeling.
“I told myself that I had no time for any wild goose chase, what with a mass to prepare for, but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t want to be bothered. Still, I suppose I continued to listen out of one ear, for it was only a minute or two later that I again became aware of some faint crying. The sounds were weaker this time around and were gone so quickly I wondered if I had imagined them.
“Because the homeless and transients have long been a part of this neighborhood, I suspected the cries were human, but that wasn’t enough to make me act. ‘It’s probably a maudlin drunk,’ I told myself, ‘grieving because he’s run out of liquor.’ On that self-righteous note, I tried to convince myself to not be bothered, but there was something oppressive about the silence. I didn’t hear the quiet so much as I sensed this void. When I think back to that time, I am sure I was being given a test, and had I turned my back, I believe I would have failed it to the detriment of my soul. That is why, when I tell this story from the pulpit, I suggest that all of us need to listen to what we don’t hear as well as that which we do, and cocksure priests most of all.”
Father Pat gave a side glance to the intern and winked. “It was a cold January morning, much like the mornings we’ve been having this week, and I remember as I hurried outside my breath produced a vapor trail. I started in the direction I thought the sound had come from, making my way to the back lot, but I was stopped by a metal chain that was strung up to keep cars out. I was wearing my robes, and as I stepped over the chain I tripped on it. My fall was almost deterrent enough to send me back. As I lay sprawled on the ground, I remember bemoaning the state of my vestments and thinking how it wouldn’t do for me to officiate mass with a tear in the left knee of my pants, and how I needed to go back right away so that I would have time enough to hurriedly change into other clothing. I knew full well that the regulars would not like it if the service started late, and that these particular parishioners would be sure to give me an earful if mass did notbegin on time. Just as I convinced myself that I had to turn back, I heard a sound. It wasn’t loud enough to be a wail but was more like a fading whistle. I turned my head and scanned the entire back lot but saw nothing.
“With a few very unholy words and an aggrieved limp, I decided that I couldn’t leave without at least a cursory look of the area. It’s probably a bird, I told myself, and I am just a birdbrain on a fool’s errand, but my recriminations didn’t stop me from inspecting the blacktop. I scanned the area and was just about to give up when I saw a movement out
“There’s a reason I’ve never invited you to my workplace.”
“I met Michael more than thirty years ago,” he said, “back when I was svelte, handsome, and quite full of myself.”
“It’s hard to believe the svelte and handsome part.”
Father Pat motioned for Barbara and me to sit down. He never let anything get in the way of his telling a good story, even if everyone had heard it before.
“In my early years at Blessed Sacrament,” he said, “I was the low man on the totem pole. Part of my duties included giving the eight o’clock Monday mass, which always seemed a bit of an anticlimax after the weekend services, at least to this wet-behind-his-ears priest. On Monday I knew that only a small number of regulars attended mass, and it was always a rare Monday when I didn’t think that my talents could be put to better use.
“As I was getting myself ready in the sacristy, I suddenly took notice of a strange sound, but because this has always been a neighborhood of strange sounds I decided to pay it no mind. The plaintive cry only lasted for a few seconds, and I was glad of that. I tried to convince myself that it was a stray cat, but I still couldn’t shake this uneasy feeling.
“I told myself that I had no time for any wild goose chase, what with a mass to prepare for, but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t want to be bothered. Still, I suppose I continued to listen out of one ear, for it was only a minute or two later that I again became aware of some faint crying. The sounds were weaker this time around and were gone so quickly I wondered if I had imagined them.
“Because the homeless and transients have long been a part of this neighborhood, I suspected the cries were human, but that wasn’t enough to make me act. ‘It’s probably a maudlin drunk,’ I told myself, ‘grieving because he’s run out of liquor.’ On that self-righteous note, I tried to convince myself to not be bothered, but there was something oppressive about the silence. I didn’t hear the quiet so much as I sensed this void. When I think back to that time, I am sure I was being given a test, and had I turned my back, I believe I would have failed it to the detriment of my soul. That is why, when I tell this story from the pulpit, I suggest that all of us need to listen to what we don’t hear as well as that which we do, and cocksure priests most of all.”
Father Pat gave a side glance to the intern and winked. “It was a cold January morning, much like the mornings we’ve been having this week, and I remember as I hurried outside my breath produced a vapor trail. I started in the direction I thought the sound had come from, making my way to the back lot, but I was stopped by a metal chain that was strung up to keep cars out. I was wearing my robes, and as I stepped over the chain I tripped on it. My fall was almost deterrent enough to send me back. As I lay sprawled on the ground, I remember bemoaning the state of my vestments and thinking how it wouldn’t do for me to officiate mass with a tear in the left knee of my pants, and how I needed to go back right away so that I would have time enough to hurriedly change into other clothing. I knew full well that the regulars would not like it if the service started late, and that these particular parishioners would be sure to give me an earful if mass did notbegin on time. Just as I convinced myself that I had to turn back, I heard a sound. It wasn’t loud enough to be a wail but was more like a fading whistle. I turned my head and scanned the entire back lot but saw nothing.
“With a few very unholy words and an aggrieved limp, I decided that I couldn’t leave without at least a cursory look of the area. It’s probably a bird, I told myself, and I am just a birdbrain on a fool’s errand, but my recriminations didn’t stop me from inspecting the blacktop. I scanned the area and was just about to give up when I saw a movement out
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