Pierced by a Sword (16 page)

He loved to talk with Father Chet. Chet always gave him
something interesting to think about–Chet loved to wax eloquent about Aristotle and Aquinas. Joe didn't know Becky Macadam from Adam, but he would soon find himself thinking about her this day and every subsequent day of his life.

2

Monday Morning
9 October
Notre Dame, Indiana

Chet and Becky rode in silence until the Notre Dame exit approached. Twenty minutes before Joe Jackson began his stroll
down Notre Dame Avenue, the priest and the young blond arrived at the Notre Dame campus. Chet was allowed to drive onto the campus and parked behind the Bookstore next to the outdoor basketball courts.

It was the second clear and unseasonably warm autumn day in a row. They walked to the Grotto, which is a replica of the grotto at Lourdes where Mary appeared to Saint Bernadette Soubirous eighteen
times in 1858. Chet told her the history of Lourdes, and explained how he had prayed at the Notre Dame Grotto many times during his days as an undergrad.

He stood back as Becky knelt and prayed for a few minutes. He looked at the burning candles inside the cave, which is carved out of the hill behind Sacred Heart Basilica. He prayed that Becky's new-found faith would take a firm hold.

Because
it was a Monday morning, there were only a few students at the Grotto instead of the many tourists and alumni who crowd the holy place on weekends. Students came and prayed as they had been doing at Notre Dame for over a hundred years.

Father Chet and Becky sat on a bench near a flower bed at the periphery of the Grotto.

"Can I ask you something?" Her tone was timid.

"I'm all ears," he said gently.

"Father Chet, I've been so peaceful since we prayed the Rosary and went to confession at that church with the big Jesus. I'm afraid that when you go back to New Jersey it's all going to go away."

Chet said nothing. His priestly instinct, his great gift, told him to keep his mouth shut and his ears open.

Let her express herself.
The voice of Father Duffy came back to his mind:
"No thought is complete
until it's expressed by pen or tongue." That's what the old guy used to say.

"What I mean is," she went on, "what do I do next? What's the next step for me? All this Catholic stuff I mean. It's been so long, and I don't know what I'm doing. My friends aren't like you or Joanie Wheat."

"You work in advertising, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm an account executive. I write ads for magazines, stuff
like that. Why do you ask?"

Chet silently and quickly prayed two words,
Hail Mary!

He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees, thinking. He took a deep breath. He started over.

"Well, grace–God's power in your life–is like a good advertising campaign. A good ad doesn't just get your attention, it grabs you so hard you've just got to go out and buy the product, doesn't it? God's love is
like an ad–it's emotional, intellectual, and because it's from God Himself, supernatural. God got your attention yesterday. He did it. I didn't. It doesn't matter if
I'm
around any more than it matters if
you're
around when someone's buying a shirt two weeks after seeing one of your ads. It's time for you to buy the shirt for yourself, Becky."

"I get it. It's time to squeeze the Charmin?"

"Yeah,
I guess you could put it that way, squeeze it, buy it, take it home, and..." he caught himself before he finished the sentence.

They both finished his sentence inside their heads and burst out laughing.

"Maybe that's not the best analogy," he said finally.

"Maybe not," she agreed, "but I get the gist of it."

Chet found himself praying again for guidance. For the gift of
counsel.
It was time to
ask a question.

"Becky, do you change your mind a lot? I mean, you changed your mind pretty quickly about the abortion issue. Some people are just made stubborn, and have a difficult time changing. Others change it too fast. The ancients called our inborn personalities our temperaments. Cholerics have temperaments that make them likely to make up their minds fast and stick to it. Sanguines make
up their minds fast, but switch to another idea as soon as a new one presents itself. You strike me as a classic choleric."

Becky looked at Father Chet strangely, as if he had just slapped her. "This has been a strange weekend, Father Chet. There's no way you could've known this, but my daddy used to call me 'choleric' all the time when I was a kid. That's about the third time in the last two
days you've said something he used to say, right out of the blue. Is that what they call a sign from God? I had no idea what Daddy was talking about, by the way, but I guess you could say I'm a choleric. Most of the people at the agency say I'm a stubborn you-know-what, and it begins with a
b."

Chet and Becky exchanged looks and remained silent. They turned and looked at a kneeling coed wearing
a sweatshirt with "1993: Notre Dame 31, National Champs 24" screened on the back.

Becky wondered what it meant. Chet knew. In 1993 the Notre Dame football team had beaten favored Florida State 31 to 24–Florida State's only loss that year. Despite having identical records, Florida State had been voted national champion by the press. Notre Dame fans, with perhaps typical, if not bitter humor, had
found a way to both make money and to advertise their resentment.

Father Chet spoke up.

"Beck, you're going to be all right. It may not be obvious to you, but it is to me. Your dad played a big part in what happened to you yesterday. He's watching out for you. So is Mary. Your dad obviously loved the Blessed Mother very, very much, and still does in heaven. The hard part is over. I really doubt
you're going to change back to your old ways.

"Being a Catholic doesn't mean going to Africa to be a missionary. All you have to do is live a sacramental life. That means going to confession often, frequent Communion, and praying every day. It's not hard. It's a joy. Through the sacraments Jesus is able to live inside you, to guide you, to help you through the good times and the bad. It's like
being married. 'For better or for worse.' As a matter of fact, the Church has always used the bond of marriage as a metaphor for Christ's love for His Church. You're not out there all alone anymore."

Becky was paying close attention.
She's soaking this up. Grace is such a wonderful thing. The day before yesterday she would have thought I was a religious fanatic, Roman collar or not.

"Mostly, though,
living with Jesus intimately in the sacraments means having the power to choose His will over your own. In your case, it means doing a good job at what He's put in front of you. He'll help you be a good copywriter, a good daughter, a good friend. He'll help you decide what to do with that little life inside your womb."

"He will?"

Father Chet suddenly had an image in his mind of Becky as a six-year-old
girl looking up at her daddy. It confused him, but only for a moment.

"Yes," he said as firmly as he possibly could, "He will. The dog years are over for you, Becky. You're about to start a wonderful road trip, and when you get out of the car, your dad is going to open the door and welcome you into his arms."

He could tell that Becky was picturing her father in her mind's eye. Her eyes were just
a bit watery but she was smiling.

"In the meantime," she asked, "where do I find more people like you?"

"It's not as big a problem as you might think, Beck. There are lots of good Catholic groups in Chicago. I'll help you get plugged in. There are lay groups like Opus Dei, and the Legionaries of Christ have a movement called Regnum Christi, to name just two. After a while, you'll find good Catholics
with whom you'll be naturally inclined to be friends, and you won't feel like an outcast. It's not like we're living in the catacombs, though it might feel that way at first.

"Of course, heaven itself will help guide you to the right people and places. You can always call me in New Jersey for spiritual advice, too. I'm not going to disappear."

"I hope not! That would make you both priest and magician."

"That's a pretty lame joke, Beck."

"I know, but I'm trying to catch up with all of yours. You sound like you get converts every day." At that, Chet's bright eyes darkened a bit.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, concerned.

"No, not at all. You don't know how happy I am that you've, uh, seen the light, as they say. It's just that very few people are open to God's grace the way you are.

"Back
at my parish, true believers are few and far between. Usually when I run into girls in your position they want me to talk them
into
an abortion, and they turn me down when I offer to pray with them. Or, I'm counseling women who've had abortions years before and can't live with the guilt, even if they won't admit it to themselves. Mostly though, I feel like I'm throwing sand against the tide. I'm
not complaining, mind you, because I knew what I was getting into before I did it."

Chet stopped himself from mentioning his worldly and politically adept pastor, Monsignor Timothy Whelan, who persecuted Chet mercilessly. Chet was not one to criticize others needlessly or publicly.

"Thanks," she said evenly, smiling.

"For what?"

"You don't know?" Becky asked, still smiling.

"Know what?" he said
innocently, feeling out of touch with Becky's psyche for the first time since they met.

"For being a good man and a good priest, you moron!"

She laughed.

Father Chet had nothing to say to that.

It struck him that Becky was already talking like a normal Catholic. Appreciation for priests and the priesthood was a natural outpouring of solid Catholic faith. His parents were that way. His brothers
were that way. The little old ladies who went to daily Mass and fawned over him after he led them in Rosaries were that way. They respected him and his collar. Somehow Becky was already at this point.

She
is
a choleric,
he thought.
And just about everything I've said to her today seems like it came from somewhere else.
Somebody
else. Just like when I'm in the confessional. Keep praying, Chet my
boy, keep praying!

He knew that it was not he who had spoken the words, but the Father-Son-Holy Spirit his priesthood represented. Even now, he could see the wonderful transformation on Becky's face. It was the look of a person who had just decided to take a chance on the unknown. It was a look of determination to
do the right thing.
He said a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Jesus and then looked
at his watch.

"It's almost ten past! Oops! We've got to get to the Sorin statue. Speaking of meeting good folks, I've been waiting to surprise you. We're going to meet a good friend of mine, Joe Jackson, the guy from the Now Famous Story of Jimbo's Right Hook–"

"–any relation to the famous baseball player?" she asked.

"Uh, no–not that I know of. Are you a baseball fan? You know who Shoeless Joe
Jackson was?" The surprise showed on his face. They stood and began walking.

"You bet. I love baseball. My dad used to play semipro baseball and took me to see the Cubbies. He tried to teach me how to hit and throw like a boy. I bleed Cub blue as a matter of fact." She looked up, remembering as she lightly bit her lower lip, a smile around her lovely brown eyes. Then she continued, "Shoeless Joe
Jackson played for the Black Sox a long time ago. He got banned from the game, but a lot of people think he got the shaft. There was a great movie about it called Eight Men Out. I rented it twice.

"Are you also a fan of our national pastime, Father?" Becky asked, proud of her knowledge.

"I bleed Red Sox red, ever since my first little league team was the Red Sox. My dad is from Boston and he's
a Red Sox fan, too. All my brothers and friends are Yankee fans. I hope you guys win it all like we did in 2004."

"Coincidence?" she asked dramatically, arching one of her eyebrows.

He lowered his voice, "Maybe. It could be a sign from God," he nodded ominously, squinting slightly.

They both laughed again.

"Anyway," he went on, "I think you'll like this Joe. He's not like you, but he is."

"There's
a brilliant description. Wouldn't work in an ad."

"I forgot, you're an adman, always hewing close to the bone with the sharp knife of language and all that."

"That's right.
And all that,"
she said, chuckling.

"Let's go then. And all that," he countered.

They started walking up the hill to the left of the Grotto behind Sacred Heart Basilica, by the entrance to the Crypt Chapel where Nathan Payne,
Joanie Wheat, and Tom Wheat had attended Mass the previous morning.

"Are all priests like you?" the beautiful woman asked as he tried to keep his eyes on their shadows on the sidewalk.

An image of the smirking Monsignor Whelan swam to the surface of Chet's mind. He didn't have an answer for Becky.

3

Monday Afternoon
9 October
Salt Lake City, Utah

The woman needed to wipe the tears from her eyes.
The small-statured man with dark eyebrows and gray hair offered her a facial tissue.

"Thank you, Bishop Lanning. I know it's going to be difficult, but as you say, I have no other choice."

Lanning tonelessly reiterated his main point. "Divorce is always difficult. It pains me more than you know to counsel it for you. But your husband has been excommunicated. Unless you remarry you cannot be called
forth to exaltation. The devil has taken control of your husband," John Lanning said with feigned empathy.
Why don't you tell her what you really think?
a cynical little voice asked him.

Lanning pulled a business card out of his desk drawer and handed it to the woman. "Here, call this man. He's one of us, and has handled divorces for my flock before."

She took the business card and rose from her
chair to leave. He gently rested his hand on her back as he guided her to the door. He closed it and returned to his desk. Lanning sat there silently and motionlessly for several minutes. A dam broke inside his soul. He began to cry in heavy, deep sobs. He cried for the woman, for her husband, for their five children. For himself.