“Really?” Frowning, she removed her glasses, polished the lenses with her napkin, replaced them on the bridge of her upturned nose, and peered up at him. “Well, I suppose maybe you are, but you still needed the rest. You have a very busy day in store.”
“As do you.” He poured himself a cup of coffee, added sugar, and pulled out a chair at the other end of the table. “I know you mean well, but you really need to stop turning off my alarm.”
“If I hadn’t, it would have woken you up.”
“Well, yes. That is the point of an alarm clock.” He took a deep drink of coffee and settled back into his chair, amused. “We’ve talked about this. What if I’d had an important appointment first thing this morning, and I slept through it?”
“I wouldn’t have turned off your alarm if you really needed to be up so early.”
“How would you have known?”
“I would have known,” she said, with such conviction that Ryan knew it was futile to try to persuade her otherwise. Besides, she probably would have known, and not because she checked his calendar. Sister Winifred had uncanny intuition, and she observed much more than anyone gave her credit for. Most people assumed she was distracted because she often talked to herself aloud, which wasn’t uncommon in people her age. The habit troubled Ryan only because members of the parish often approached him privately to express their concerns for her health. He always assured them that the elderly nun saw her doctor regularly and never failed to receive a clean bill of health, except for the usual minor, inevitable physical issues associated with aging. The well-meaning parishioners would nod, express their relief, and walk away, as dubious as before.
As for himself, Ryan was certain he had never met a saner, happier, or more optimistic person than Sister Winifred. His only worry about her admittedly disconcerting chattiness was that word of it would filter upward to higher offices within the diocese, and some authority with good intentions would insist that she retire. Ryan knew that Sister Winifred would be heartbroken if that came to pass. She had entered religious life long before he was born, and she had been with St. Margaret’s as long as anyone could remember. Ryan depended upon her, and he knew she needed the parish as much as it needed her.
“You have a grief-counseling appointment at ten o’clock,” she reminded him, “and a pre-Cana session at eleven.”
“Thanks, Sister.”
“Also, Jerome Duffy will be stopping by after lunch to discuss an important question of theology, so you might want to prepare yourself.”
“Jerry?” said Ryan, bemused. Jerry attended Sunday Mass regularly and could be counted upon for most Holy Days of Obligation, but he had never engaged Ryan in a serious theological discussion before. “When you spoke with him, did he give you any hint what this important question of theology might be?”
“Oh, I didn’t speak with him.”
“Did he explain in his message?”
She shook her head. “There was no message. He didn’t call.”
Sister Winifred often made such predictions, and was more than often right. Ryan figured she probably drew upon intuition, common sense, longtime familiarity with their parishioners, and overheard conversations, but he could not explain her astonishing accuracy rate, which would put most professional prognosticators to shame. “I guess he’ll tell me when he arrives.”
“I’m sure you’ll be on the edge of your seat with suspense until then. Oh, before I forget, your mother would like you to call, and we’re going to get a few inches of snow this afternoon. Perhaps you’d like to plan to clear the steps and sidewalks before choir rehearsal, so the children don’t take a tumble.”
It was a safe bet that his mother wanted him to call, because she always did, but for Sister Winifred to claim she could predict measurable snowfall was too much. “How could you possibly know that it’s going to snow this afternoon?”
Bemused, the elderly nun tapped the newspaper lying folded on the table between them. “I read the forecast in the Globe. How else would I know?” She smiled indulgently and rose. “I’m not going to finish my toast. Do you want the last piece?”
“No, thank you.” Ryan usually fasted before morning Mass, not only to properly receive the Sacrament of Eucharist but to make him more mindful of his many neighbors who also would not have anything to eat that morning, and not by choice. “I’ll get something after.”
“I’ll turn the lights on in the church,” she said, and left him alone to finish his coffee and prepare.
He sipped his coffee and contemplated the day’s Gospel reading. At one time he had wondered if he should avoid coffee before Mass too, if indulging in a cup was undermining his purpose at best and cheating at worst. He had confessed his uncertainties to his friend Jason, who had known him since college and therefore was not intimidated into deference by his collar and title. Jason, who knew him better than almost anyone, had told him frankly that it was not self-indulgence but a courtesy to his parishioners to have a cup of coffee before he faced the day.
Jason. A sudden stab of worry compelled Ryan to set down his cup, bow his head, and murmur a fervent prayer for his friend’s safety and deliverance. Laurie had not heard from her husband in two months, and Ryan could well imagine her anxiety and fear. Her son, Alex, seemed unaware that anything was amiss except that his father was away from home, but Charlotte was precocious and observant, and Ryan knew it was only a matter of time until she realized that something was very wrong, that her mother was not telling them the whole truth.
Ryan crossed himself, rose, washed the dishes, and went to prepare for morning Mass.
About twenty-five worshippers attended the eight o’clock service, including the parish’s two secular employees, Gene, the custodian, and Lisa, the part-time office manager. The rest of the congregation, which skewed older, included the usual fifteen or so regulars and a few unfamiliar faces—guests of the regulars, he learned when they introduced themselves afterward, as well as a few curious tourists drawn by the church’s history and architecture.
After worship, he passed the morning in office work and counseling sessions, writing his customary letter for the parish bulletin, and brief calls on housebound parishioners. He returned to the parish house at half past noon, in time for a quick sandwich before the doorbell rang.
When Ryan answered, he was not surprised to find Jerome Duffy standing on the doorstep. “Sorry to drop by unexpected, Father,” he said. “Something’s been bothering me, and I thought maybe I could talk it over with you on my lunch break, but if this is a bad time—”
“Not at all.” Ryan opened the door wider and beckoned him inside, tempted to remark that Jerry had been expected. “Come on in.”
Ryan showed Jerry into the living room, which was elegantly and comfortably appointed with gently used furniture donated almost thirty years before by the church’s most generous benefactor, a boy from the neighborhood who had become a senator. Ryan had met with him often in his final months as his health declined, offering him spiritual guidance and comfort, and sometimes just a sympathetic ear. His widow still visited St. Margaret’s regularly. She seemed to particularly enjoy hearing the children’s choir sing to the accompaniment of the wonderful piano the couple had given to the church, anonymously, as they did all their generous gifts, in the spirit of Matthew 6:1–2.
“What can I do for you, Jerry?” Ryan asked as they seated themselves in opposite chairs by the fireplace, swept clean and long unused.
Jerry removed his knit cap. “I had a religious question for you, Father, and I really hope it doesn’t seem disrespectful.”
Ryan prepared himself. “I’m sure it won’t. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been wondering . . . does God care about sports?”
Ryan blinked at him. “Say again?”
“Does God care about sports?” Jerry leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and reg
arded him earnestly. “I mean, you always hear players giving Jesus the credit when they make a goal or score a touchdown or win the playoffs, but doesn’t that mean Jesus wanted the other team to fail?”
“Well, I don’t know if I’d say—”
“That just doesn’t seem fair, Father. It’s not like the other team’s full of Satan worshippers, right? They probably go to church as much as the guys who won. They probably prayed for victory too, and they’re probably not any more sinful. So why would Jesus listen to the prayers of one team and ignore the other?”
“You must be a Red Sox fan.”
“Of course,” Jerry replied stoutly. “From the cradle.”
“It’s appropriate to give thanks to God for blessings received, and for the good health and the physical and mental gifts that help a player achieve victory.” Ryan paused to consider his next words. “Whether the Lord actually prefers one sports team over another is quite another matter—and I say that as a Notre Dame fan.”
“It’s just hard for me to imagine that with so much war and poverty and suffering in the world, Jesus is sitting up in the clouds wearing a sweatshirt and cap with one team’s logo, shouting their cheers and booing the other guys, you know?”
Smiling, Ryan shook his head to clear it of the irreverent image. “Look at it this way. What if Patrick and Daniel were playing on opposing soccer teams in the most important match of the season? Soccer’s their game, right?”
“Yeah, but they’d never play each other. My boys are three years apart in age.”
“Let’s say for the sake of argument that they are playing against each other. You wouldn’t cheer for one son and ignore the other, or pray for one to win and the other to lose, right?”
“Of course not.”
“You might instead hope that both boys both would perform to the best of their abilities, that they would play fairly, that they’d avoid injury, and that they’d show good sportsmanship, win or lose.”
Jerry nodded. “Sure.”
“If that’s how you feel as a father, putting these more noble values ahead of simply winning a game, how do you think our divine Father, in His perfect love for all His earthly children, would regard it?”
“I get what you’re saying, Father.”
“We all like to win, but sometimes we learn more from losing. Sometimes, although we might not like it, God’s plan is for us to endure a defeat.”
“So tell me, Father.” Jerry lowered his voice confidentially. “With all that in mind, is it okay to pray for the Bruins to beat the Penguins tomorrow night?”
“I don’t think it’s wrong,” said Ryan. “Let’s just hope a victory is part of God’s plan, and that if it isn’t, that we’ll accept it with good grace.”
“Thanks, Father.” Satisfied, Jerry pushed himself to his feet. “I feel much better.”
“Anytime.” Ryan rose and shook his hand. “My door’s always open.”
He saw Jerry out, unexpectedly cheered by the conversation, and by Sister Winifred’s idea of what constituted an important question of theology. It was not unusual for parishioners to approach him with concerns like Jerry’s, and he always strove to give them thoughtful, prayerful answers. He drew upon experience and knowledge of scripture rather than doctrine when presented with topics that had never been addressed specifically in the seminary, or in any of the undergraduate philosophy and theology classes he had taken when he was first seriously discerning his vocation.
Ryan had not come from a particularly religious family, as his bewildered mother had often reminded him after he announced his intention to enter the seminary. His parents had taken him and his younger brother to church on Sundays, and saw to it that they received the sacraments, and refrained from serving meat on Fridays during Lent. They said grace before supper and made weekly contributions to the parish, but otherwise religion was something restricted to Sunday mornings, Christmas, and Easter.
Only in hindsight did his parents detect a pattern in his childhood play: He had always liked to build churches instead of spaceships and castles with his LEGOs, he had often played Mass with his Star Wars action figures, and twice he had dressed as Saint Francis of Assisi for Halloween. He had sung with the church choir from a very early age, but they had attributed that to his love of music, and a few years later when he asked to become an altar boy, they assumed he was dutifully responding to the priest’s request for volunteers. He was a good, loving boy, certainly, but a future priest? The thought had never occurred to them, and if anyone had suggested it, they probably would have laughed. Surely future priests were more obedient, less likely to squabble with their brothers, and disinclined to gleefully check their opponents on the rink or to boast the highest shooting percentage in the high school league. Ryan was far more likely to join the NHL than the priesthood.
But Ryan had always found an inexpressible joy and beauty in the Mass, qualities he quickly realized went unnoticed by his brother and his friends, who groaned about going to church and waited impatiently for the torturous hour to pass. Uncomfortable, he kept his feelings to himself, except in the confessional. His parents had no idea he went to confession every Thursday on his way home from school; they assumed he stayed late to get help with his homework, and Ryan did not correct their mistake out of embarrassment and a vague sense that they would think he was strange. Every week his confessor gently suggested that deceiving his parents even with the best of intentions was a kind of sin, and that honesty could lead to greater understanding and acceptance. “They’ll just think I’m weird and tell me to stop,” Ryan would reply gloomily, and the kindly priest would drop the subject until Ryan brought it up again the following week.
In his junior year, Ryan and his classmates were inundated with standardized tests, personality inventories, and career aptitude assessments. The results of the first type of test told him that he was a good student; the second that he was outgoing, optimistic, and happy, which he had already figured out. It was the last kind that made him inexplicably anxious, because they consistently reported the same results: He should pursue a career as an athlete, coach, trainer, or teacher; or he should consider work in counseling, nursing, teaching, or religious life.
“I guess it’s teaching for me,” Ryan had muttered after receiving the results from a test taken in his psychology class.
A friend overheard and turned around in his chair. “What’d you get? I got finance or business. That totally blows. I want to play electric guitar.”
Ryan had pretended to study his results. “According to this, I’m supposed to be the starting forward for the Bruins. Can’t argue with that.”
His friend had guffawed, prompting the teacher to call on him, abruptly ending the conversation.
Ryan brooded over the test results and his inexplicable yearning as he accompanied his parents on campus visits and diligently filled out applications and fielded inquiries from college recruiters. In his senior year, after receiving several acceptance letters, he discussed his options with his parents and school advisor—and then had a very different conversation with his priest.
“I think maybe I’m supposed to become a priest,” he said hesitantly. Saying the words aloud and hearing them echo in the quiet church made the idea somehow more real, frighteningly so. “The problem is, I’m not sure. I like hockey too, and I really like girls.” Embarrassed, he studied the floor. “I’d really hate to give up either one.”
Father David nodded, seeming not at all surprised by any part of the admission. “What do your parents think about this?”
“They don’t know.”
“This isn’t something you’d feel comfortable sharing with them?”
“I don’t think they’d exactly celebrate.”
“They might surprise you.”
Ryan shrugged.
The priest sighed, thoughtful. “What are your other choices?”
> “I got into a few universities, but I’ve kind of narrowed it down to applying to St. John’s Seminary or attending Notre Dame. They gave me a hockey scholarship.”
The priest’s eyebrows rose. “Full ride?”
“Yeah, all four years, maybe even a fifth.”
“Well done.” Father David smiled kindly. “Have you spoken to anyone at St. John’s?”
“No.” Ryan shifted uncomfortably in the pew. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Did you know that they only accept applicants who have already earned a bachelor’s degree?”
Ryan’s heart sank a little. “No, I didn’t.”
“There are other seminaries that accept young men with a high school diploma, of course, and I could certainly recommend some for you to consider.” Father David studied him for a moment. “It’s very good that you want to discover God’s will for you, very good indeed. Do you want my advice?”
“Absolutely, Father. That’s why I’m here.”
“I think you should take the scholarship. Play hockey and earn your degree. Study philosophy and theology, and find a religious advisor to help you prayerfully and thoughtfully discern your vocation.” Father David smiled. “I’ve heard that Notre Dame is a fine place to do that.”
A sudden rush of happiness convinced Ryan that he should follow the priest’s advice.
The following August, he enrolled at the University of Notre Dame, moved into Dillon Hall on South Quad, and quickly befriended his roommate, Jason, an aspiring engineer. He played hockey, joined the Glee Club, participated in campus ministry events, and even dated now and then, although his acknowledgment that he was considering the priesthood tended to deter any long-term romantic relationships. At the end of his first year, he declared his major in philosophy, which from the moment he returned home for summer break inspired many pointed questions from his parents about what he intended to do with a philosophy degree after graduation. All he could bring himself to say was that he was still figuring it out, which satisfied his parents not at all.
Christmas Bells Page 23
