“Did you give Olivia my violin?” Walt asked me.
“I did, buddy. She took it with open arms.”
When we reached the edge of the beach and the end of Walt’s backyard, I decided my part in this was up.
“You take him from here, Peter. Out there is where he played for your mother each morning, hoping she’d bring you to him. Now that you’re here, I don’t think it’s fitting for me to be down there with y’all.”
I let go of Walt’s arm, but before we separated, he squeezed my hand. He wouldn’t look at me, nor could I look at him. Old men aren’t supposed to cry, even old saps like us.
When walking proved too difficult for Walt, Peter lifted his father into his arms and carried him down the beach, toward the falling waves and scattered seashells. It took them several minutes to reach Sam. When they got there, Peter laid Walt on the sand, then sat next to him. Sam licked Walt on the face before backing away and sitting down too, all three of them facing the ocean waters.
I wanted to be down there with Walt for his last seconds, but this was a family moment for the Henderson’s. Walt, Olivia, Peter and Sam III were the only ones there on that sandy beach in Edisto, and I think that’s the way God intended it to be. But luckily, there came a sea breeze just then, one that carried a message with it. From my perch near Walt’s back porch, I heard Peter forgive his father as he held him tightly.
A moment later, Walt laid his head on his son’s shoulder, departing for the other side of the ocean’s horizon in the currents of a violin’s melody.
26
September 5th, 1995
I, FATHER Paul Moore, stand now in the back of this small, stone church, preparing myself to help celebrate a Mass honoring the miracle that took place here three years ago. It is a glorious day in this New England harbor town. The autumn breeze swirls pleasantly amidst the changing leaves and over the rocky, ocean waters as the parishioners of Our Lady of the Sea file into their church. Word has spread about the story of Walter Henderson being reunited with his son, Father Peter Davis Henderson, through the miracle of the Virgin statues. To honor what took place here, we will celebrate this Mass, offering thanks for the intercession of the Divine. On opposite years, the Mass will be held down south on Edisto Island, South Carolina, the sister parish that will always and forever be associated with this church in Jamestown.
To begin the Mass, I walk up the center aisle alongside Peter and behind a slew of altar boys and other priests. The choir sings Ave Maria behind us, a song that brings purity to all voices. Though I try to remain focused, I can’t help letting my eyes slide across each pew, taking note of the many souls this event has touched.
Buck Washington, as true a Southern gentleman as there ever was, sits in the front right pew draped in his Sunday best. In his eyes, I can see he is tired. His failing health almost kept him from making it to this ceremony, but I knew he wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Some men’s hearts are made only for kindness, and Buck is one of these men. He was the one who brought Walt’s son to him in the end. Without Buck, this day may never have happened.
Sitting close to Buck is a woman I hadn’t encountered before today, but I feel like I’ve known her my whole life. Sister Marie is approaching one hundred years of age, but still chugs along with just as much energy as one of the many toddlers she helped raise. I often heard Peter say that there is no way he could ever repay this woman, and I’m sure Walt feels the same way. Sister Marie received Peter with open arms when she could have said no, much like the Virgin Mary received our Lord two millennia ago.
In one of the other front pews sits a young man of nearly twenty-five, but his innocence is that of a child’s. Donald Devonshire has sat in this church more than anyone else here today. His grandmother rests to his right, the two of them holding hands. I have often asked the Virgin Mary in my prayers why she chose Donald as her soul to communicate with. Although I have yet to hear an answer, I feel one of my original assumptions could have been accurate. It is true that the mentally challenged are the most like her Son, so I know she keeps a special eye on them, perhaps more so than all the rest of us. Donald will never let unhappiness find him, mainly because of the trust he has in his heart. There will be things he doesn’t have answers to, just like the rest of us, but Donald knows someone above him does have the answers, and that should give us all comfort if only we would trust like he does. “Why do you need to know when she knows for you?” he had asked us that day. I can only pray that I one day have the faith Donald has. He waves to me from his seat, excited by the love that fills his church today, a church which he keeps so neat and tidy. I suppose he is also excited for the Celtics game Peter and I promised to take him to next month. We got him seats right behind the bench, where he’ll no doubt be wearing his green headband.
There are many others amongst the congregation, even some who have been absent between these walls in the past, including a hard-nosed fire Sergeant, sitting quietly up front with his arm clutching his wife’s shoulders. But only one other in particular controls my gaze; a little girl with brown complexion and flowing, dark hair. She’s new to this part of the world, noticed by her shy nature and broken speech. This little girl has begun a new life here, leaving a past of suffering behind. She has Peter to thank for that. He tracked her down from a brief meeting they shared years ago in a small, poverty-stricken village in Costa Rica. Peter has found her a loving home with a lonely widow who was never able to have children of her own. As Juliet O’Day holds the hand of this little girl, it is clear that the two of them will bring joy to one another.
In the midst of all that happened, there is one thing that touched my heart more than anything else. I learned that Walter Henderson played his violin on the beach each morning for his deceased wife. He played as the sun rose from beyond the water, knowing she was up in heaven listening. Through his musical notes, he spoke to God, weaving his whispered prayers into the music and asking that his lost son be brought back to him. Although the statues only warmed the earth for a matter of days, it was Walt’s unrelenting faith that endured for almost half a century. His failures as a man brought sadness into this world, but Walt’s story proves that God has the ability to heal that sadness, if only we would allow his providential grace to take hold of our lives.
All those mornings Walt sat playing his violin on the beach, he hoped his music would lead Peter to him. But as I watch Peter begin the Mass from behind the altar, I realize Walt must no longer play his songs, for the music of the angels soaring all around him will one day bring his son home to him once more.
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