The
priest was happy to have a fire burning. It was a cold winter night and
it felt good to be settled in for the evening. His small parish in Charles
County, Maryland, was a good one with simple but hardworking and faithful
people. True, the area was a bit remote from the rest of the Archdiocese,
but that had a positive side as well. However, such sentiments were left
unexplored and never expressed. The wind howled outside like a woman's
cry, and it was ever so dark. Peaceful, that was what this assignment was,
like a perpetual retreat. The Catholic cleric counted himself fortunate.
He opened his breviary to say his prayers before going to sleep. He had
barely begun when there was a knock at the door. Perhaps it was just the
branch of a tree? Knock, knock. No, there it was again-- who could it be
at this late hour of night?
Throwing
on his cassock he went to the door and opened it. "Yes, can I help you?"
said the pastor, somewhat irritated at the interruption.
"Father,
you have to come quickly, my father is dying!" cried a young teenage boy.
"You have to come quickly, he needs the last sacraments!"
The
priest became immediately alert. He grabbed his coat and kit and ran out
the door with the boy. Journeying to the house, he noted that the boy was
only dressed in a flimsy shirt and shorts. He was even barefoot. No doubt
the boy had run out to get him at a moment's notice, thinking only of his
father. He put his coat over the pale cold skin of the child. "Goodness,
boy, if you're not careful you'll catch pneumonia yourself!"
"I'll
be okay, Father. The main thing is that you take care of my old man. He
meant to contact you before this, but, well, he never thought his health
would go so quickly. We don't have a phone so I ran to get you."
"You're
telling me that you ran all this way to get me? You're quite some boy.
But rest and warm yourself now," replied the concerned priest. The boy
pointed the way and the priest made good time to their home.
Upon
arriving, the priest jumped out and ran into the house. If the fellow was
as bad as the boy made out, there was no time to lose. Sure enough, there
he was, lying in bed and quite sick. The priest heard his Confession, anointed
him, and gave him holy communion-- it would be his last.
Sitting
alongside the old man, for that was assuredly what he was, the priest began
to chat with him. "Ah, I see you have a picture here of your son," said
the priest picking up a photograph near the man's bedside.
"Oh
yes, Father, that's my boy," returned the old man.
The
priest added, "You must be proud to have a son like that, running all the
way from here to the rectory for the priest."
"What
Father? What do you mean?" he asked.
"Your
boy, rushing half-naked to get me to insure you would receive the Last
Rites-- that was quite a feat."
"But
Father," said the old man pointing to the picture, "my boy has been dead
these eighteen years, it was summer and he drowned."
This
story was told and retold to me many times by my father. It is a wonderful
testimony of the value of the sacraments and the bond of love which transcends
the grave.