with an archbishop, and suddenly go little-girl shy. “Yes, I think I do.”
“I admire that,” he said. “I envy it. One of the aspects of this job I dislike, and there are many aspects to like, is that it leaves so little time for quiet prayer. I often think of Thomas Merton at the Gethsemane monastery, placing a notice on the bulletin board, pleading with his fellow monks not to elect him abbot for just that reason. He put his prayer life first. The right thing to do.”
“He’s become a hero of mine,” I said, and I barely kept myself from telling him it was Father Welch who’d introduced me to Merton. And then I felt, guiltily, that I was turning my back on Father Welch in his moment of trouble, and I was angry at myself again.
“Yes,” the archbishop agreed, “Merton was a radical in some ways, wasn’t he, perhaps even a troublemaker. But a Catholic monk to the end and a good one, I believe.… Well”—he took a breath and kept his eyes fixed on me— “tell me why you’ve come.”
“I think,” I said, and then I stopped, completely intimidated. I tried to remind myself of the pledge I’d made, to accept what came, to emulate Christ’s courage, Mary’s surrender. I could feel Father Alberto pushing me. I clasped my hands together and said, “For a long time, my whole life, really, I’ve been having, I don’t know what to call them…spells, visions, moments, sometimes hours when I’m
taken,
I guess that’s the way to say it, taken in prayer. It’s been happening since I was a small girl. I had a grandmother who was very devout and I was very close to her, and then later there was a priest at St. Anthony’s; he died not so long ago, Father Alberto Ghirardelli. I’d confess to him every Saturday, and then after a while, as I grew older, the confessions turned into long conversations about these spells and other things. I was a little worried that maybe there was something wrong with me. I had friends. I had a fairly normal life, except that my mother died when I was very young, but then there was this other part of me where I’d just go
off.
It worried my father. He took me to see doctors when I was in the second and third grades. I even had some tests done at Mass General, which is where I hope to work one day. I’m a nurse, training to be a nurse, I just finished—”
The archbishop shifted impatiently, the tiniest of movements.
“I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “You’re nervous, it’s fine. But tell me exactly why you wanted to meet with me. Because of these moments in prayer?”
“No, no, Archbishop. If it was just that, I never would have come here and bothered you. In fact, it wasn’t my idea to come here at all.”
“It was Andy Welch’s idea.”
“Yes, it was…and I read about him today in the paper. Just now. On the train.” I waited for the archbishop to say something then, but he only shifted his eyes out the window—sadly or angrily, I couldn’t be sure—then looked back at me. “I feel like the last year especially, I feel like God has been giving me a specific message in these times of prayer. Instructions almost. It’s very intense. Confusing to me, intense, troubling. But it feels absolutely real and clear, and one of the reasons I spent so much time talking with Father Welch was because I worried it might be something else.”
“What is the message, exactly?”
“I feel,” I said, and then I had to push hard against a big wave of fear, a hand cupping itself over my lips. “I feel very strongly that God is asking me to become a priest.”
I watched him closely then. He didn’t laugh, didn’t seem in the slightest bit surprised. I decided he must have been given advance notice by Father Welch or perhaps Monsignor Ferraponte. He watched me carefully, unsurprised, unmoved, and, as Father Welch had warned me, impossible to read.
“How?” he asked.
“Excuse me, Archbishop?”
“How,” he repeated, “exactly
“I admire that,” he said. “I envy it. One of the aspects of this job I dislike, and there are many aspects to like, is that it leaves so little time for quiet prayer. I often think of Thomas Merton at the Gethsemane monastery, placing a notice on the bulletin board, pleading with his fellow monks not to elect him abbot for just that reason. He put his prayer life first. The right thing to do.”
“He’s become a hero of mine,” I said, and I barely kept myself from telling him it was Father Welch who’d introduced me to Merton. And then I felt, guiltily, that I was turning my back on Father Welch in his moment of trouble, and I was angry at myself again.
“Yes,” the archbishop agreed, “Merton was a radical in some ways, wasn’t he, perhaps even a troublemaker. But a Catholic monk to the end and a good one, I believe.… Well”—he took a breath and kept his eyes fixed on me— “tell me why you’ve come.”
“I think,” I said, and then I stopped, completely intimidated. I tried to remind myself of the pledge I’d made, to accept what came, to emulate Christ’s courage, Mary’s surrender. I could feel Father Alberto pushing me. I clasped my hands together and said, “For a long time, my whole life, really, I’ve been having, I don’t know what to call them…spells, visions, moments, sometimes hours when I’m
taken,
I guess that’s the way to say it, taken in prayer. It’s been happening since I was a small girl. I had a grandmother who was very devout and I was very close to her, and then later there was a priest at St. Anthony’s; he died not so long ago, Father Alberto Ghirardelli. I’d confess to him every Saturday, and then after a while, as I grew older, the confessions turned into long conversations about these spells and other things. I was a little worried that maybe there was something wrong with me. I had friends. I had a fairly normal life, except that my mother died when I was very young, but then there was this other part of me where I’d just go
off.
It worried my father. He took me to see doctors when I was in the second and third grades. I even had some tests done at Mass General, which is where I hope to work one day. I’m a nurse, training to be a nurse, I just finished—”
The archbishop shifted impatiently, the tiniest of movements.
“I’m sorry. I’m rambling.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “You’re nervous, it’s fine. But tell me exactly why you wanted to meet with me. Because of these moments in prayer?”
“No, no, Archbishop. If it was just that, I never would have come here and bothered you. In fact, it wasn’t my idea to come here at all.”
“It was Andy Welch’s idea.”
“Yes, it was…and I read about him today in the paper. Just now. On the train.” I waited for the archbishop to say something then, but he only shifted his eyes out the window—sadly or angrily, I couldn’t be sure—then looked back at me. “I feel like the last year especially, I feel like God has been giving me a specific message in these times of prayer. Instructions almost. It’s very intense. Confusing to me, intense, troubling. But it feels absolutely real and clear, and one of the reasons I spent so much time talking with Father Welch was because I worried it might be something else.”
“What is the message, exactly?”
“I feel,” I said, and then I had to push hard against a big wave of fear, a hand cupping itself over my lips. “I feel very strongly that God is asking me to become a priest.”
I watched him closely then. He didn’t laugh, didn’t seem in the slightest bit surprised. I decided he must have been given advance notice by Father Welch or perhaps Monsignor Ferraponte. He watched me carefully, unsurprised, unmoved, and, as Father Welch had warned me, impossible to read.
“How?” he asked.
“Excuse me, Archbishop?”
“How,” he repeated, “exactly
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