how are these messages presented to you?”
“Different ways. Sometimes I see myself serving at Mass, raising the chalice, speaking the prayer of communication as the host is blessed. Or I see what seems like a photograph of myself dressed in a priest’s robes, standing at the altar or in the room where priests get ready for Mass. Or I just get a message, though most of the time it’s a message without words. I imagine it’s something like what a person feels when he has a true vocation. I’m sorry. It’s a difficult thing to explain.”
“If it were an easy thing to explain, I’d be less inclined to believe you.”
I had to blink away a small rush of tears and then a wave of embarrassment. I’d half expected him to mock me, give me a lecture on the temptations of the Devil as Monsignor Ferraponte had, even end the meeting as soon as he reasonably could. But now he seemed to be saying he believed me. “I would have come forward earlier,” I said, encouraged, “but I’m…it’s strange, Your Eminence, I’ve taken care of myself my whole life. I grew up in a fairly rough place.”
“Where was that?”
“Revere. I learned to take care of myself. I had some fistfights—I even fought a boy once, when he was tormenting a younger cousin. The word in school was not to mess with me. I’ve calmed down as I’ve grown older—”
“That’s one of the benefits of deep prayer,” he said in a joking way. “Not so many fistfights.”
I smiled. “Yes. I think so, too. But I’m not, I don’t see myself…I’m not comfortable making waves.”
“I’d be less inclined to believe you if you were.”
“And I want to say…I think Father Welch is a good man and a good priest. I’ve been attending Mass at the Paulist Center. I like it there. I’m sorry for what happened, but he’s a good man.”
“He is a good man,” the archbishop said, surprising me again.
“And he never told me about his relationship,” I said. “It’s not like he put the idea into my head for his own purposes or anything…to make it easier for him to be married and stay a priest.”
“You don’t need to apologize for what’s happened,” the archbishop said. “For yourself or for Father Welch.”
A tear leaked out of the corner of my right eye. The archbishop saw it and looked away. I swatted it with the back of one hand. “You’re sure,” he asked, and at that moment it seemed like the professionalism holding the features of his face broke apart a bit. He seemed suddenly very human, almost ordinary. “You’re sure you might not be getting the details a bit mixed up, that the imagery might not be intended to lead you somewhere else? To a life of a different kind of service in the Church? As a missionary, a nun, a deacon…and the robes and altar and so on are just the symbols of that?”
I nodded.
“How, may I ask? How do you know that?”
“It’s an interior knowing. I can’t say how, but I’m sure of it. I’ve thought about that, too, I’ve wondered about it, I even hoped that was what was happening, but it isn’t. I can’t say anything more except that I feel the presence of God behind it.”
“And what is that presence like? How does it manifest itself?”
“A feeling of being surrounded by something that’s all-knowing and totally accepting. Totally. The word ‘love’ can’t begin to describe it.”
“Does it give you peace, coming here like this?”
“Not particularly, no. The prayer does, not this. But if I didn’t try to do this, I think it would be unbearable.”
“Have you asked the Holy Spirit for guidance?”
“Many times.”
“Have you had other…instructions…from Our Lord?”
I shook my head.
“Would you be prepared to sacrifice, in the most selfless way, for this outcome?”
“I believe so, Your Eminence. I believe I already have sacrificed certain things.”
“You feel God is calling you to be—how should we say it?—the standard-bearer for this new
“Different ways. Sometimes I see myself serving at Mass, raising the chalice, speaking the prayer of communication as the host is blessed. Or I see what seems like a photograph of myself dressed in a priest’s robes, standing at the altar or in the room where priests get ready for Mass. Or I just get a message, though most of the time it’s a message without words. I imagine it’s something like what a person feels when he has a true vocation. I’m sorry. It’s a difficult thing to explain.”
“If it were an easy thing to explain, I’d be less inclined to believe you.”
I had to blink away a small rush of tears and then a wave of embarrassment. I’d half expected him to mock me, give me a lecture on the temptations of the Devil as Monsignor Ferraponte had, even end the meeting as soon as he reasonably could. But now he seemed to be saying he believed me. “I would have come forward earlier,” I said, encouraged, “but I’m…it’s strange, Your Eminence, I’ve taken care of myself my whole life. I grew up in a fairly rough place.”
“Where was that?”
“Revere. I learned to take care of myself. I had some fistfights—I even fought a boy once, when he was tormenting a younger cousin. The word in school was not to mess with me. I’ve calmed down as I’ve grown older—”
“That’s one of the benefits of deep prayer,” he said in a joking way. “Not so many fistfights.”
I smiled. “Yes. I think so, too. But I’m not, I don’t see myself…I’m not comfortable making waves.”
“I’d be less inclined to believe you if you were.”
“And I want to say…I think Father Welch is a good man and a good priest. I’ve been attending Mass at the Paulist Center. I like it there. I’m sorry for what happened, but he’s a good man.”
“He is a good man,” the archbishop said, surprising me again.
“And he never told me about his relationship,” I said. “It’s not like he put the idea into my head for his own purposes or anything…to make it easier for him to be married and stay a priest.”
“You don’t need to apologize for what’s happened,” the archbishop said. “For yourself or for Father Welch.”
A tear leaked out of the corner of my right eye. The archbishop saw it and looked away. I swatted it with the back of one hand. “You’re sure,” he asked, and at that moment it seemed like the professionalism holding the features of his face broke apart a bit. He seemed suddenly very human, almost ordinary. “You’re sure you might not be getting the details a bit mixed up, that the imagery might not be intended to lead you somewhere else? To a life of a different kind of service in the Church? As a missionary, a nun, a deacon…and the robes and altar and so on are just the symbols of that?”
I nodded.
“How, may I ask? How do you know that?”
“It’s an interior knowing. I can’t say how, but I’m sure of it. I’ve thought about that, too, I’ve wondered about it, I even hoped that was what was happening, but it isn’t. I can’t say anything more except that I feel the presence of God behind it.”
“And what is that presence like? How does it manifest itself?”
“A feeling of being surrounded by something that’s all-knowing and totally accepting. Totally. The word ‘love’ can’t begin to describe it.”
“Does it give you peace, coming here like this?”
“Not particularly, no. The prayer does, not this. But if I didn’t try to do this, I think it would be unbearable.”
“Have you asked the Holy Spirit for guidance?”
“Many times.”
“Have you had other…instructions…from Our Lord?”
I shook my head.
“Would you be prepared to sacrifice, in the most selfless way, for this outcome?”
“I believe so, Your Eminence. I believe I already have sacrificed certain things.”
“You feel God is calling you to be—how should we say it?—the standard-bearer for this new
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