Whether it’s driving a car or living a life, there are always turning points that bring us down new ways, sometimes hoped for, planned, and desired and sometimes unanticipated, unforeseen, and surprising.
One day, not long after I was assigned in 1959 as an assistant to the pastor of the Church of the Ascension in Manhattan, a young woman rang the rectory bell, seeking to speak with a priest
I was the one “on duty”, so I welcomed her in, accompanied by two cute, shy little kids, a five-year-old boy and four-year-old girl
She told me that she was hungry to know more about and come closer to God, and so began a series of meetings and conversations.
One thing stood out—although her life had been difficult and complicated, she had a deep and real spiritual desire. I did my best to help her.
I soon learned about another boy she had, an infant who was dying in the nearby St. Luke’s Hospital. She asked me to go there with her to bless him.
The baby had been born with a relatively rare type of heart disease, and the prognosis was grim. The doctors offered no hope.
I told her how it was when I was a dying infant, how my mother prayed to Mary, through the rosary, for me. And so we did, praying together over the dying baby’s crib.
Thanks be to God, the baby lived! When he was strong enough, she brought him to Ascension church to be baptized. It became a family baptism—the baby, her two older children, and she herself.
The baby’s father was then serving time, but when he was released, he came to the church, too, for the celebration and blessing of their marriage.
All this became a major turning point in all our lives, though, as is the way of turning points, who would have guessed at the time.
The father was my age, and I got to know him—and his personal problems—better. He was very smart, very articulate, and an addict. He loved his wife and his children, but, as he would explain years later, so much of his energy was spent in survival he didn’t have a lot left over for his family.
For better or for worse, I was assigned to studies in Rome from 1962-1965, so I had less contact with the family, although there was some correspondence relating to them—but when I returned to New York, personal contacts resumed.
I had gotten to know the father’s family fairly well—his brother, mother, father, and paternal grandmother—but I had only slight contact with the mother’s family.
As the years passed, my ties remained especially with the parents and the two boys, but I also was in touch, from time to time, with their siblings, and the next two generations of the extended family.
That dying baby still lives, thanks be to God, and we are close. I’m usually identified as his godfather, for lack of a better description of our relationship, and in many ways I’m a sort of auxiliary father.
His own father had a turning point in his life. Overcoming his addiction he found new life, a new spouse, and a new work as a student counselor in a new place—and was dearly loved by many when he died.
His mother, the one hungry for God, had a some tragic turning points in her life, but certainly she must have had that hunger satisfied when she died many years ago.
The baby himself, married with three children, is now a retired educator, who has spent his adult life in serving and helping others. And, I give thanks to God for him!
10 March 2021