“Hello, I’m Megan. I’ve been a member of St. Elizabeth’s since I moved here from a suburb outside of Erie, and um… I work at the Outlets… but I won’t say which store because I don’t want anyone to visit me there and see me pulling my hair out.” Everyone laughed as they gave Megan approving nods of understanding.
When the remaining attendees finished their introductions, Professor Madsen spoke with an abundantly charming nature. “Stephen Madsen from Gettysburg. This is my first visit to the parish. Father and I are old friends, and though he often harasses me about taking more time off for more frequent visits, my demanding job prohibits me from such leisure. Otherwise, I’d be here every week to take advantage of your famous bake sales.” More controlled chuckles. The members gazed on him, starry-eyed.
“Stephen here,” Father Paul proudly added, “is a professor of Early Childhood Development and Behavioral Psychology, employed in the Education Department at Gettysburg College. We barely see each other, but we always have our annual golf tournaments, don’t we?” Madsen played along, turning to the priest and smiling.
“Gettysburg, huh?” the homeless man spoke more loudly than etiquette approved of.
Madsen clenched his teeth. Every time that idiot spoke out loud, it was like trying to enjoy prime rib, but your doorbell rang every time you were about to take a bite. “That’s right,” he said with a forced smile, “Gettysburg. Pennsylvania.”
“You a Civil War buff, Professor Stephen Madsen?”
“Not particularly, but I’ve been to the exhibit and the battlefield. It’s very educational, and the tourism is great for the economy.”
There was a second of silence, which Father Paul intended to take advantage of by formally starting the session, but just as he was about to open his mouth, the man blurted out again in voluminous projection; “Ever see any ghosts, Professor Stephen Madsen?”
The priest and the professor turned again at the man, though smiling, they both gave looks that advised the man to stop interrupting so they could get on with Bible Study. “No,” Madsen answered with a grunt of a laugh, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”
He turned again with his smile to Father Paul, who now addressed the group. “Okay, if everyone would open their bibles to…”
“I been to Gettysburg once!” the man’s voice clanged again like that doorbell being pressed one too many times. “’Bout ten years ago!”
“What an amazing coincidence,” Madsen retorted, not even attempting to hide the cynicism brought on by his irritation. “And what were you doing there, meeting with your stock broker?”
“Just hangin’ out with some buddies. But I didn’t see no ghosts neither, Professor Stephen Madsen.” His voice was so loud and disruptive, it reminded Madsen of his much younger years, of his first job out of undergrad, teaching eighth grade. After the first week of witnessing his carefully perfected lesson plans blown to smithereens by too many under-medicated delinquents who blamed their chaotic, “Daffy Duck” behavior on being diagnosed with ADHD, Madsen quit, swearing never to have anything to do with adolescents again. He wouldn’t have been surprised if this impulsive scum before him was one of those eighth graders who never grew out of that intolerable phase.
“Sir, if you would please!” Father Paul scolded in an impatient and commanding tone that caught everyone off guard. None of the parishioners had ever seen their pastor come so close to losing even a tidbit of his renowned, gentle composure. But it got the job done this night.
“Sorry! Sorry!” the man said, straightening up in his chair like a school boy being called out by the teacher. “I’m sorry, Father! And the name’s Cliff.”
“Yes. Cliff.”
“Cliff,” the man repeated. “Not sir. I work for a livin’.”
Madsen grunted another laugh in staccato and cleared his throat simultaneously.
“Cliff,” Father continued in that scolding tone, “I would hate to ask you to leave on your first night of Bible Study, so please open your bible.”
“Okay,” he submitted in that same annoying volume. “Where are they? I didn’t get one. Came in late. Was lookin’ for the bathroom.”
Jesus, Madsen thought, this IS eighth grade all over again.
“Over on the table,” the priest answered steamily.
Megan watched the man use effort to rise from his seat and limp his way to the white table to fetch a bible. She found herself crossing her legs and squeezing hard to avoid peeing herself. Though she didn’t approve of the man’s immature behavior, she regarded him as someone who didn’t know any better, and couldn’t help himself. Yet the whole fiasco made her want to laugh until she cried, not because of the man’s actions, but more-so because of Professor Madsen’s and Father’s reactions. It was like watching a comedy at the movie theater. She was drawn to him again and watched him noisily limp back to his chair.
Though she could hear Father Paul now directing the parishioners to open their bibles to a certain book, chapter and verse, she was too distracted to pay attention. Quickly, she turned to her neighbor on her left and asked her in a whisper to repeat what page the priest had said. After opening her bible, she glanced again at Cliff, who was now seated. He must have felt her eyes on him because he looked her way, smiled, and gave her a wink. For the second time this week, Megan was taken aback by the electric blue of the homeless man’s stunning eyes.
Chapter XVI
Father Paul, as usual, was the first to select a passage from the Holy Bible. He read from the Gospel of Luke, 9: 49 – 50. It was a short reading, pertaining to the disciples ordering a man, who was driving out demons in Jesus’ name, to stop because he was not part of their group. Jesus then told his apostles not to stop the man because, “Whoever is not against you is for you.” The reading was followed by the group’s interpretation of the passage. Most agreed that this particular reading taught that there are many different denominations of Christianity that can serve for good in this world, regardless of their differences.
“Anyone can carry out the Lord’s work,” Irene remarked. “It doesn’t matter if a person is Jewish, Baptist, Hindu… even Muslim. If he’s doing what’s right and good for others, then it’s not our place to judge. The passage teaches tolerance.” Everyone nodded in agreement. Megan nodded too, though she personally noted Irene’s subtle singling out of the Muslim faith. Her tone when stating “…even Muslim,” suggested that the PREP coordinator housed some prejudiced beliefs, despite her vocal urging of tolerance.”
When the discussion of the passage seemed to expire, Father Paul invited anyone who may have preselected a passage during the week, to read it aloud and then share his or her own take on the meaning. Megan had found a passage she wanted to cover this evening, but she preferred not to go first. She looked from left to right, in unison with the rest of the attendees, waiting to see if someone else would claim dibs. Every now and then, Megan would steal a quick glance to her right at Cliff. She observed that he had apparently settled down; not the same obnoxious fellow who came into the building so abruptly at first. Now he sat quietly; hands folded on his lap, head down, eyes closed. The change in his behavior was so polar, Megan partially suspected he had merely fallen asleep.
Gloria raised her hand. “I have something, Father.”
“By all means, Gloria,” the priest encouraged.
“I happened to take a liking to the First Letter of John, Chapter One, Verses Fifteen to Seventeen.” She cleared her throat while waiting for everyone to turn their bibles to the right page. Then, filling the part of the veteran lectern, she read quite articulately:
Do not love the world or anything that belongs to the world. If you love the world, you do not love the Father. Everything that belongs to the world – what the sinful self desires, what people see and want, and everything in this world that people are so proud of – none of this comes from the Father; it all comes from the world. The world and everything in it that people desire is passing away; but he who does the will of God lives
forever.
“This happens to be a favorite of mine,” Gloria noted.
Funny, Megan told herself, she says that every week no matter what passage she reads.
“It reminds me of the Tenth Commandment,” Gloria continued, “and how we shouldn’t covet or worry about ‘keeping up with the Joneses,’ so to speak. When our minds are occupied with want of material possessions, it causes us to forget about the important things in life: love, family, God… Vincent was like that. You know, my late husband. He was always set on making more money. He used to play the lottery every week, never stopped dreaming about what he would do if he ever won… the things he would own, the places he’d go.
“I used to tell him, ‘Vincent, you shouldn’t worry so much about money. It isn’t everything.’ But he would just try to justify his obsession by saying, ‘Money is freedom, Gloria. I sure don’t want to spend the rest of my life slaving away at the office until I’m too old to work, and too old to do anything but sit in front of the T.V. watching the news all night. I want to enjoy life.’ Well, little by little his income improved, but it was never enough. He spent his whole working life always trying to make more. He never seemed to enjoy life at all. In the end, you can’t take it with you. On your deathbed, you won’t lie there thinking about the things you never had, you’ll only think about the things you never did. Vincent is gone now, God rest his soul, and I miss him. But one thing I’ll never do is live that way.”
A few parishioners quietly applauded Gloria’s defiance toward the material world. “I’d like to add,” Father Paul stated, “That your example can also remind us of the First Commandment: ‘I am the Lord your God. You shall not worship false gods before me.’ We may not live in a culture where we pray to pagan deities, or so we think. Many people forget that that ‘false gods’ can take the form of money, power, drugs, even sports or video games.”
Irene chuckled. “I believe that, Father. I keep yelling at my son Kyle to get off his darn gaming computer. He’s playing on that thing any chance he gets!”
“And how many times have you missed Mass on Sunday for your stupid fantasy football?” the young woman near Megan accused, poking her husband in the shoulder. The wide-eyed husband gave an awkward, guilty smile to Father Paul, then put his head down. Megan was sure he would later express his irritation with his wife, behind closed doors, for throwing him under the bus like that.
“Now, now,” Father Paul laughed. “Let’s not cast stones, friends. We all have our false gods that we need to keep in check. I remember that in my younger years at Notre Dame, I often set aside my Theology coursework to support the Fightin’ Irish.” After the group settled their laughter at the priest’s successful attempt to spare the young husband too much embarrassment, he went on. “Now, do we have anyone else who would like to present a reading?”
Once Gloria had read her selection, it seemed to magically vanquish everyone else’s cold feet. No one wants to go first. Everyone wants to go second. One by one, members would offer to share a reading they had found and wanted to discuss. After a little more than an hour had passed, Father Paul looked at his watch. “We have a little more time left. Would anyone else like to share?”
“I would, Father,” Megan chimed in humbly. “It’s from Proverbs. It’s only a short passage, with no true message to interpret…”
“Any passage in the good book can hold significance for one who would look for it, dear.” Father Paul folded opened his palms upward in a gesture for Megan to continue. “Please, go on.”
“Well, it’s Chapter One, Verses Eight through Nine:
Son, pay attention to what your father and mother tell you. Their teaching will improve your character as a handsome turban or a necklace improves your appearance.
“It reminds me of the Fourth Commandment, to honor my father and mother. This one has double meaning for me. The first is that I need to remember to respect my father. He hasn’t been the same since my mother died. He’s kind of given up on everything. I’ve tried to get him counseling; I even scheduled appointments for him… even offered to go with him. He won’t go. It’s been so hard to talk with him that I sometimes feel like I’ve written him off, like I’ve given up on him. But if I am supposed to honor him, I think that means I need to help him get back on his feet, even if he doesn’t want to.
“But the real meaning this has for me pertains to what it says about what our parents have taught us. My mother was the biggest inspiration in my life. She’s taught me so much, and now that she’s gone, I sometimes feel lost without her to guide me. This passage reminds me that I’m not lost though, because my mother is still here with me.” She subconsciously put her hand to her chest and started clasping her shirt, with the cross of her necklace hidden underneath it. “I know that all I have to do is remember all the things she taught me, and then have faith in myself that I’ll be able to make good decisions in life.”
Father Paul smiled. “Our loved ones are not completely gone when they die. If we remember them, and hold true to the knowledge they pass down, then a part of them lives within us.”
“Exactly!” Megan agreed. “There are times when I’m really upset or feel completely alone, or sometimes I’m faced with one of life’s challenges, sometimes a moral challenge, and I find that if I just close my eyes and calm myself, I can hear her voice, still guiding me. And I know that she’s still with me.” Gloria, who was sitting to Megan’s left, gently put her feeble hand on Megan’s, reassuring her that she wasn’t the only one who believed these things.
“How do ya know?” a voice spoke up almost inaudibly to her right. Megan turned to see Cliff, who was still in the hunched over/head lowered position. “How do ya know she’s really with ya?” he repeated, turning his head toward her and opening his eyes. His voice was no longer the boomingly loud intensity it had been before, but a melancholy rasp that resembled despondence. Megan only looked at him. Part of her felt an emotional lashing building up inside her, but she wasn’t sure if this intrusive question was his sincere desire to understand her connection with her mother’s spirit, or if he was ignorantly calling her out by demanding proof.
“I… I just do. I just hear her.”
“But how do ya know? I mean, no disrespect to ya ma’am, I’m just curious. Do ya think it’s really your mom that ya feel? Or is it maybe yerself? Y’know, maybe you’re calmin’ yerself down and all, and what ya really hear is yer own inner voice, just repeatin’ the things ya remember she used to tell ya.”
“I don’t know,” she snapped indignantly. “Maybe. But if it is just me, then it’s me that has taken the things my mother taught me. It’s me remembering her. So by doing that, it still means she’s alive in me. But I think it’s really her. When I hear the advice she used to give me, I feel different… at peace. I feel like I’m back home as a kid. Those times my mother used to rock me to sleep, or sit with me and read to me when I had a fever. That’s the feeling I get when I feel like I hear her voice inside me. Yes, that’s how I know she’s with me. I call to her, and I know she’s there.”
The homeless man raised an eyebrow. He was staring, not directly into her eyes, but watching her hand, as if curious about what the medallion was underneath her shirt that she was clinging onto for a sense of familiarity and comfort. She hadn’t even realized she was finagling with her cross until she saw his curious stare, and she immediately let go of it. “Okay,” he shrugged. “I get ya. I’m just sayin’ maybe ya call to her and ya think she’s there, but it’s really all you. Again, no disrespect to ya. Just thought ya might like to entertain the idea that you have the power to guide yerself… to make yerself feel at peace.”
Megan wanted to deny Cliff’s suggestion immediately. What do YOU know about it? she wanted to shoot off. But the man’s voice was so passive and sad, speaking with a modesty, void of any accusatory tone, that was rather opposite of his previous behavior. She only looked away from him, deciding that he truly wanted to offer an alternative outlook on the matte
r, but it was one she was unwilling to accept.
“That is possible,” Professor Madsen spoke with consideration. “We truly can discover wisdom and guidance on our own. But that wisdom comes from the memory of our loved ones. If not for her mother, Megan may not find it so easy to feel at peace. On the other hand, as Shakespeare once wrote, ‘there are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ We can’t completely dismiss the possibility that the dead can speak to us in their own way.”
“Thought ya didn’t believe in ghosts, Professor Stephen Madsen,” Cliff returned, still with no aggressive character.
“I don’t, but I believe in spirits. When the ones we love move on from this world, their spirits remain with us if we allow them to.”
“But how can ya be so sure?”
“It’s called faith, Cliff,” Megan replied, trying to omit any snappiness from her voice. “No disrespect to you, but how can you be so skeptical?”
The man regarded her with a kind but woeful smile. “Well ma’am, let’s just say you’re not the only one ta lose loved ones.” The man looked down between his knees again, aware that all eyes were on him. “I call ta them too, y’know. Call ‘em in the night, hopin’ for an answer. But I ain’t never heard a damned thing. ’Scuse my French, Father.”
The group, who had been silent during this entire debate, became doubly silent. Time would have appeared to stand still, if not for the audibility of the constant and gentle rain, pattering against the darkened windows.
“Perhaps you haven’t accepted the fact that they’re gone,” Father Paul suggested, breaking the awkward silence with his soft-spoken voice of reason. “Maybe you don’t hear them because deep inside, you don’t want to. Think about your loved ones, Cliff. What do you think they would say to you? Do you think they would want you to live your life…” He paused, searching for the right word.
“As a homeless loser?” Cliff finished for the priest, not lifting his head, avoiding eye contact with anyone.
Agents of Shadow (The Keepers of White Book 1) Page 18