Copyright © 2007 by Gerald C. Matics
Father Liam O'Neill jokes that his pastor, Father Bob Ford, is as cowardly as his namesake. But Father O'Neill is about to get a lesson in true courage.
From the testament of Father Liam O’Neill:
Never kept a diary before. Never felt the need. I’ve always placed my trust in God and had faith he’d see me through every peril, so when I felt the need to talk, I talked to Him.
Tonight I’m writing this diary — on scrap paper tucked into my Bible — because I’m afraid God isn’t listening in my final hours. And I’m scared.
If you’re having trouble reading this, understand it’s about fifteen below zero with the wind chill, and I’m wearing thick but ineffective gloves. Makes it hard to hold a pencil. It’s also hard to see by the dying glow of the snowmobile’s headlight through this makeshift tent; the light’s been on most of the day, so the battery is probably nearly flat. Either that or there’s too much snow accumulating on the side of the tent for light to penetrate. Or both.
I am Father Liam O’Neill, parish priest at St. Jude’s on the Hill in a small
Just checked on Bob — Father Bob Ford. He’s still unconscious, but it looks like the bleeding has stopped. He took a nasty blow to the head when he wiped out.
Old Bob Ford. I used to call him a dirty little coward after the old song about the guy who shot Jesse James (a.k.a. Robert Howard) while he was hanging a picture with his back turned.
But that dirty little coward
Who shot Mr. Howard
Laid poor Jesse in his grave
All in fun, of course, but sure as I’m lying here, after what he did today I’ll never call him that again.
I keep getting ahead of myself. I’ll try to explain, to tell it right, so someone might know about it someday.
At forty-four, Bob Ford isn’t much older than I am, but he’s been the pastor of St. Jude’s for going on eleven years. That’s unusually long to be in charge of one parish, but Bob’s the kind of guy who just seems to disappear into a situation; maybe the Cardinal forgot he was there. In the three years I’ve been at St. Jude’s, he hasn’t made one significant change; the Mass and reconciliation schedules, the altar cloths, the votive candles (still wax and wick), all the same as the day he took over. Me, I’m more of a daredevil, always ready to try something new, and Bob and I have a friendly running argument about the value of change.
“There’s no growth without it, Bob,” I needle him.
“People of faith need a rock to cling to,” he maintains.
Imagine my surprise when he agreed yesterday to come up here. My idea was to take advantage of last week’s dumping to go where the snow was still pristine, trek up on a snowmobile, fashion an altar out of evergreen wood, and celebrate the Eucharist in the wilderness with only God above watching.
“Sounds nice, Liam,” Bob said over dinner in the rectory when I’d floated the idea halfheartedly. I nearly spit out my bean soup.
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Did you not hear what I said?”
“Of course. It sounds fun. And the fresh air will probably do me a world of good.”
“Father, I’m stunned. You eat two slices of white toast with grapefruit and O.J. every morning. You always cross your right leg over your left. I’d bet money you wear the same collar you wore the day you were ordained. You don’t do change well.”
Bob shrugged. “I happened to read Ecclesiastes this morning before Mass: ‘To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.’ Well, maybe it’s time for me to get out and play in the snow.” He winked. “Maybe even have a snowball fight.”
“Baby steps, you dirty little coward!” I laughed. “How about starting with some snow angels?”
We made our plans. In the morning, after arranging coverage for the day’s services, we would load his car with chalice, ciborium, wine and hosts, altar cloths, and other Eucharistic necessities, plus a chainsaw to fell the “altar” tree and a length of rope to guide its fall. Bob insisted on the rope; he didn’t want us damaging any more of nature than necessary.
Bless his heart.
He just stirred a little and mumbled something. Guess that’s a good sign. I’ll try to wake him in a little while, though I don’t really know why. Unless it’s to tell him we’ve been rescued — ha ha....
