Dream In A Suit
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It was the first Sunday in May that Father O’Toole, the pastor of Saint Anne’s Catholic Church, led an afternoon service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. The church was built between 1892 and 1903, designed by Cass Gilbert to be a symbol of America’s strength as well as its faith. It had been rebuilt several times since then. Today it was surrounded by high-rise office buildings.
Father O’Toole took his seat before the congregation and cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard through the organ music filling the sanctuary with sound. “I’d like to welcome you all to today’s service,” he said. He paused for a moment and smiled as everyone turned around to look at him. “The theme is Mother’s Day.”
“Mother’s Day?” one woman whispered from the third pew behind Father O’Toole. “That wasn’t mentioned in the bulletin I picked up this morning. And how could anyone possibly remember that?”
Others laughed quietly. Most were dressed in their Sunday best, while others wore suits or dresses, some even wearing hats. There weren’t any young children; they usually attended mass during the week on Wednesday nights.
He waited for a minute before saying, “Yes, Mother’s Day. I thought it would be appropriate to honor mothers everywhere by dedicating our service to them.”
Several people applauded politely. Some of the older women looked confused by the announcement but nodded and continued smiling as though they knew what was going on.
“We have three mothers who’ve made great contributions to our country. They’re not all here this day so we’ll only mention them briefly.” He paused for a moment, thinking of where to start. “First there’s the mother of the American flag—it came into being in 1777, two years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
The original stars and stripes flew over the United States Capitol during the Revolutionary War.”
“And the mother who brought the Pledge of Allegiance into use is still alive,” someone called out.
“Yes, Mrs. Katherine Lee Bates who wrote ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ She’s also known for her patriotic poems, including ‘America.’ We’ll play a recording of it later.”
Some men chuckled quietly when they heard “God Save the Queen” playing softly through the speakers. The congregation sang the words together until it ended.
Father O’Toole smiled and nodded at each new hymn played on the organ and then said, “Next we’ll sing ‘America.'”
There was no applause for the song, just some whistling from younger children and a few smiles from adults.
After the last note faded away, he asked, “How many of you have children or know other parents? How often do you give your child flowers or candy on Mother’s Day?”
Most hands went up, including Father O’Toole’s. “Then I’m sure you realize why Mother’s Day is celebrated today, although it didn’t become official until 1914. It was first proposed by Anna Jarvis who held an annual memorial for mothers lost in the Civil War. It became a federal holiday in 1908 and President Woodrow Wilson declared it a national day of thanksgiving in 1916.”
He paused to let the organ music fade away before continuing. “Our second mother was a mother to our military forces—to the soldiers of World War I.” His voice rose in volume and intensity as he spoke.
“She was born Helen Grace Webb in Philadelphia in 1884, the daughter of Irish immigrants. When she was twelve, her father died and she had to leave school because she couldn’t afford tuition anymore. But instead of getting married, she worked hard. She raised chickens at first, but soon found work as a nursemaid and then as a teacher at a local girls’ college.”
A few more women clapped as they listened intently.
“In 1911 she moved to Washington D.C., and worked at the YWCA to help provide food and shelter for women, children, and the homeless.”
As he talked, the organ music began to build in intensity, and he added, “She helped establish the YWCA in every state and in twenty foreign countries. At the age of forty, she married William J. Travis, and they had one son together. But she devoted her life to improving the lives of women.”
The organ’s melody faded away and a single loud trumpet blared.
“On September 6, 1917, President Woodrow Wilson asked Congress to declare war on Germany. Mrs. Webb joined with another woman to write the poem ‘America,’ which would later inspire us to sing the national anthem.” He paused to smile at one woman before saying, “It was dedicated to the mothers who were left behind to raise their children alone, and to all the mothers who were fighting alongside our troops.”
More applause followed the patriotic message.
“Next we have Mother Teresa,” Father O’Toole continued his speech, trying not to rush through the rest of it. “She was born Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu in Skopje, Macedonia in 1910. Her father died when she was very young and she was raised by her strict Greek Orthodox mother.”
He shook his head and sighed sadly as he continued. “At the age of fifteen she entered a convent to become a nun, but she felt called to serve God and humanity in another way. She became a doctor, a nun, and a missionary to Calcutta, India in 1947. There she founded the Missionary Sisters of Charity of Jesus and served as its superior until her death in 1997.”
Again, he waited for a few moments, allowing time for the organ music to end. Then he said, “I’m sure you’ve heard of Mother Teresa’s charitable works, her dedication to helping the sick and dying. But she also worked for peace and reconciliation between nations.”
He glanced around at the people listening and continued, “Mother Teresa has been recognized for her humanitarian efforts throughout the world.”
There were more nods among listeners who had already heard her story.
“This year is special for Mother’s Day because it marks the 100th anniversary of Mother’s Day.”
When Father O’Toole turned back toward the organ player, he looked like he wanted to cry. “We honor her today because we remember that there are mothers who have suffered great tragedies, mothers who have lost children or loved ones or both. And some mothers may be struggling to raise children alone; others may wonder if their own mothers will ever come home again.”
More women murmured, while a few men nodded somberly.
Father O’Toole said, “And yet, despite all these hardships and disappointments, Mother’s Day should remind us of the love of mothers everywhere. Mothers have always been willing to sacrifice for their children, even when they don’t think it is right to do so. Our mothers raised us and protected us, nursed us when we were sick and made us strong. They showed us what it means to be loyal.”
The organ began playing a soft melody. “They took care of us, no matter how many times they might have hurt us along the way. In fact, Mother’s Day was actually established during World War I after President Wilson issued a proclamation that urged Americans to observe Mother’s Day as a day of prayer for peace.”
He cleared his throat. “But this was not to be our final war.” He paused and waited. “So today we honor mothers for those who gave their lives, as well as mothers who lost sons, daughters, and husbands in Vietnam, in Iraq, and Afghanistan. We remember those who have given their lives defending our nation.”
The organ’s melody faded and ended abruptly. The organ stopped and the congregation rose from their pews. Many of them went out to find coffee, sandwiches, or desserts, and others gathered around the altar rail for conversation. One man was smoking a pipe and talking with two women about the organist and whether he could play other tunes.
Father O’Toole stood beside the altar rail and waited for everyone to clear before continuing his talk. “As we continue to honor women who have shaped our nation, we turn our attention to Rosa Parks, who refused to give up her seat on the bus in Montgomery, Alabama. She was arrested and tried for violating the Jim Crow laws of the time.”
Another round of applause followed as he continued, “Mrs. Parks was not the only person to fight racism during this era. In the early 1950s, a group of black college students staged sit-ins at segregated restaurants across the South to protest discrimination.”
His voice sounded like he was reciting something he’d memorized. “In 1960, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. led a nonviolent movement of peaceful protests against racial segregation in Birmingham, Alabama. This is where Dr. King was struck by a police baton and nearly killed. He later received the Nobel Peace Prize for his work to end racism throughout the country.”
One older woman turned from watching the altar boys clean the church to look at Father O’Toole. “How much longer?” she asked. “You’re going to bore us to death.”
He smiled politely and said nothing.
After waiting several minutes, he spoke again. “And yet, in spite of all our efforts to overcome prejudice, we still struggle. For every step forward there seems to be a backward step. That’s why it’s important to recognize those brave women who continue to strive for justice and equality.”
He paused and shook his head. “We can never forget those women whose names should be remembered on Mother’s Day, and we certainly cannot forget the mothers of the children who fought for their rights and died doing so.”
A few women looked down at their laps, but most kept quiet. A few of them glanced over at a bulletin board near the altar that featured a large portrait of a smiling Dr. King and another picture of an African American girl who held a sign that read “Keep hope alive.”
Father O’Toole continued, “In honor of the women who gave birth and nurtured children through their blood, sweat, and tears, we also remember those mothers who have sacrificed much for their families: those mothers who have lost sons and daughters in battle; those mothers whose husbands have been lost to prison, illness or accidents.
We must remember the mothers who have suffered miscarriages or stillbirths and those mothers who have endured the loss of one child to another. But most especially, we honor mothers who have suffered great losses and sorrow because they did the best they could.”
He paused, then looked at the women seated in front of him. “Let us pray.”
***
“That’s enough,” Father O’Toole said when it seemed like no one else was interested in the rest of his talk. Some people left quietly, while others lingered behind.
Mary walked to the door with a stack of bulletins she had made and handed one to each of the men in the vestry. The two men who had been talking earlier came out and stood by the open doors to welcome everyone inside.
Father O’Toole closed the book in which he’d written notes and placed it back on the lectern. He looked at Mary and motioned for her to come close, and whispered something that might have been a question. She nodded and smiled.
She returned to her chair. The priest stepped off the platform and went out the same door. Mary listened as he spoke with some of the men standing around the doorway.
Father O’Toole returned to the lectern and took his place at the podium. He folded his hands together and bowed his head. “Now let us join in prayer.”
With no sermon to hear, I felt strangely relieved that Father O’Toole didn’t speak for any longer than he needed to. It would’ve been nice if the congregation could sing or say a verse of “Amazing Grace,” but since that wasn’t possible, they sat in silence until the service ended.
Father O’Toole’s last words were the same as usual: “May God bless you and keep you in His grace.”
I was glad the service was over before it even started. I hated listening to someone read a speech about how wonderful and saintly my mother was. Afterward, I stayed in the vestibule while Father O’Toole greeted the congregation, shaking hands with a few.
The woman who’d complained earlier came over and put a hand on Father O’Toole’s arm. “Didn’t he mention your name today, Father?”
He looked startled, and then he laughed. “Yes, Mrs. Smith. Of course, he mentioned your name.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear that,” she said. Her face reddened slightly, and she looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. She was probably embarrassed at having asked such a silly question. “Good day to you, Father.”
Mary joined me in the vestibule where I waited until Father O’Toole was ready to go. When he saw Mary, he smiled.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked.
“Yes, Father. Thank you for letting me help today.”
Father O’Toole reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to her. “You’re very welcome.” He nodded to Mary. “Thank you for all your hard work today.”
Mary accepted the money and slipped it inside a small purse she carried in her pocketbook. She nodded. “It was my pleasure, Father. And thank you for inviting me to come.”
I followed Father O’Toole out of the church. As we walked through the cemetery and approached the street, people gathered outside of the nearby shops and watched us pass. They recognized him as soon as he left the church doors and waved at him from across the road.
He smiled and waved back at them. The people were so friendly toward the good doctor, it almost made me feel guilty for not being as accepting of him.
As we turned onto a side street, Mary said, “Father O’Toole seems like a nice man, Mother.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed, but it was true that he seemed kinder and more genuine than Father Gant had been during our first meeting. I hadn’t realized until that moment how nervous Father Gant was in this new role that he’d assumed. But maybe he was just trying his best to be patient with a difficult parishioner.
The sun was high overhead by the time we arrived at the hotel. I wanted to walk down to the waterfront again. With the sun beating down on us and not a cloud in sight, I decided to stop by the saloon instead and buy one of those ice-cold sodas that tasted like water mixed with sugar and a touch of lemon juice.
Mary stopped beside the bar. “Mother, are you going to join us?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. We should eat lunch first.” I thought it would be better to take our meals in the dining room of the hotel rather than in front of a bunch of strangers who would surely ask questions about our relationship. “Do you mind waiting here?” I asked Mary. “Maybe I can catch up with you later if I get hungry.”
“That sounds good,” Mary replied. “I’ll be right back.”
While Mary was away buying soda, I went to the bar and bought a glass of beer for myself. Then I ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and another cold soda. While I waited for my order to be prepared, I sat next to a big man who had a bottle of whiskey in front of him.
I’d never seen a man drink alcohol straight like he did. It surprised me to see a grown man drinking like an old cowhand, but I couldn’t help watching as he tipped back the amber liquid, swallowing it with no pretense of taking a sip. I wondered why men drank so much when they were only hurting themselves in the long run.
When Mary returned, I handed her the drinks and then took a seat next to Mary. She took a swallow of the soda before saying, “How about joining us? I’d love to have someone to talk to.”
“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “We’ll wait for a table in the dining room.”
The two women moved aside so I could sit next to Mary. “So tell me about Father O’Toole,” Mary said. “What’s he like?”
“Very different from Father Gant, that’s for sure,” I responded. “And I don’t know what to make of him yet. But I hope I learn something about him by the time the week is over.”
“Why don’t you want to join us?” Mary asked.
“I already ate lunch today, and you’ve been helping him since this morning,” I said. “Let me stay here and let you enjoy your time together.”
Mary hesitated for a second, but then she smiled. “You’re a good son, Dan. Let’s go, Mom.”
She led me away while we headed for the dining room. A short distance from the hotel stood a large building with three stories and a wide porch. On the first floor was an elegant dining room, complete with white tablecloths.
I looked around, but there was no sign of anyone working in the kitchen or the serving staff preparing the food. So, I ordered the chicken pot pie from the menu that was posted on the wall behind the cashier window and paid for my meal before we joined Mary.
Once we were seated in our private corner by a bay window, I told Mary about Father O’Toole and the work he’d done that morning in the hospital. When I described his visit to the sick boy, I saw tears welling up in her eyes.
I knew she cared about the people she worked with, but this time I noticed that she felt a connection to the little boy who had a life-threatening illness. Maybe Father O’Toole was doing more than helping out at the hospital. He may have made an impression on Mary in more ways than one.
I watched Mary as she ate, taking pleasure in seeing her enjoying herself. The meal was excellent, as usual. I didn’t realize how hungry I’d been until my plate disappeared under the hot lights above our heads. As soon as Mary finished eating, she leaned toward me and whispered, “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?”
“If Father O’Toole has nothing else planned for you, it might be nice if you came to dinner with us,” I answered.
Mary shook her head. “I’m too tired to eat anything else. If you’re ready, I can show you where you’ll be staying for the night.”
After we left the restaurant, we walked along the boardwalk and then took a turnoff into a narrow alley between two buildings. Mary stopped by the end of the alley and pointed to a door just ahead of us. “That’s yours.”
“It’s small, isn’t it?” I asked as we reached the doorway and stepped inside. My suitcase wasn’t even able to fit through the tiny entrance.
“Yes, that’s because you won’t have any need for anything else besides this room,” Mary replied. “Now I’ll leave you alone and let you unpack.”
As soon as Mary was gone, I pulled off my boots and put them away. Then I took a look at my room before turning on the single bedside lamp. There was a bureau on each side of the bed, which had a thin mattress and a thin blanket. It looked uncomfortable, but when I sat down and propped my feet up on the footboard, it actually felt pretty good.
I lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what Father O’Toole would do to help the patients in the hospital. And when it came to Mary, I was beginning to wonder why she cared so much about these people. What did it matter if they lived or died?
***
The next morning after breakfast, I went outside to watch Father O’Toole’s work for the day. When I walked onto the hospital grounds, I found him kneeling beside one of the beds and speaking softly to the young woman lying there.
Her head was propped against a pillow and a light-shaded cast was covering her right hand. From what I could see of her face, the young lady looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. A white sheet covered her lower body.
The only thing I noticed on the wall next to her bed was a crucifix, but not Jesus Christ’s cross; the one pictured had a large gold chain hanging down from his chest.
Father O’Toole knelt down and looked over at me. “Dan, would you mind if I talked to the patient?”
He motioned toward her with a nod of his head.
“No problem,” I replied as I turned and started walking away.
I walked around a large tree toward the other end of the building where I saw a row of patients sitting on benches. Each bench had a sign attached to it, and the sign on mine read, “Prayer Requests.” Some of the patients wore dark green uniforms, others wore brown, and some still wore their street clothes.
They all seemed to stare at me as I passed by. One old man in a brown robe stood up as I approached. “Good morning,” he said. “Have a seat with us if you like. We can talk and pray together.”
I thought that was a strange request and decided to walk past without stopping. Instead, I went back to the bedside of the sick woman. Father O’Toole had moved over to another patient, and Mary was now standing in front of a different group of patients.
She was saying something to them in Irish, which must have been what Father O’Toole was doing with the first woman. While I listened to them pray, I tried to make sense of what Mary was trying to accomplish that morning. Why were we here at the hospital? And why was she praying with these people?
While we were praying together, Mary suddenly interrupted our quiet conversation and spoke quietly so no one would hear us. “Dan, Father O’Toole is going to try and help the sick girl today.”
I nodded my head. “How will he do that?”
“He’s bringing someone to the hospital who will help her. He’s hoping the person will be able to bring out her eyes and stop her from hurting herself.”
“What does he mean?”
“It means she’s having a breakdown,” Mary replied. “And when people are having a break—or panic attack—they tend to injure themselves by biting their cheeks and lips, pulling hair from their scalp or cutting themselves.”
“Do you think she has a mental illness?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just an injury from a bad fall.”
When we finished praying, I thanked God for sending me such a nice room for the night. I also prayed the next day wouldn’t be too much trouble, and then I left to join Father O’Toole.
A few minutes later, I joined the priest at his table near the entrance to the hospital where a young man sat. I knew this man, for he had been waiting patiently since early morning to speak with Father O’Toole. I wondered what kind of help he could possibly provide. I watched them greet each other and realized Father O’Toole wasn’t telling anyone about the man until they were alone.
I glanced at the man and saw his dark brown hair was cut close to his head, and he had a thin mustache above his lip. The young man was dressed in black trousers and a short-sleeved shirt made of linen fabric. His shoes and socks were clean as well as his hands.
On his wrist and around his neck hung several silver chains, which had a cross attached to each. He was wearing a gray woolen vest.
Father O’Toole shook his hand and introduced himself and told me the man’s name was Thomas O’Rourke. The priest asked him to wait for a minute while he talked with Mary and then returned to the table. “Thomas, would you please sit down and explain to Dan how you might be able to help one of the patients.”
O’Rourke took the chair across from me. “Well, Father, I have a little experience with people who are suffering from some form of nervous disorder, and I believe it’s because of the way the Lord works through me.”
The priest raised an eyebrow. “Would you mind explaining what you mean by ‘the Lord works through you?'”
“I feel the Holy Spirit moving within me and sometimes use prayer to guide me. That way, I’m not always praying on my own. When I pray in this manner, it seems as if my prayers have more power behind them.”
Mary appeared and sat down next to me. She whispered in my ear, “You should go watch him work, Dan. You never know what’s going to happen.”
After a few minutes, Father O’Toole came back and stood behind Thomas. “Thomas, tell me what you think you can do.”
“As you know, I’m a Catholic priest in New York City.” He held up both arms and motioned as if he were holding a crucifix. “I’ve been working at St. Patrick’s Cathedral for almost five years, and I’ve learned a great deal from the priests there. But most of all, I’ve learned from Jesus Christ.”
“Have you ever performed a miracle before?”
“Not personally. But the people I minister to are blessed when I perform the Mass. They seem to get better.”
“But what would you say is your greatest accomplishment?”
“My best work comes through my ministry to the poor of New York.”
“So when you’re here, you’ll be able to help one of the patients.”
“Yes. In fact, I’ve already done so.”
“Can you be specific?”
“Yes. We have two children in the hospital—a boy and a girl.”
Father O’Toole smiled at Thomas and turned to me. “These are the same two children that Mary brought me last week.”
“They sure are,” I said with excitement.
The priest continued, “One child is blind and another child can’t talk yet. Can you help with any of these conditions?”
“Certainly! The girl, for example, will be able to see again. And the little boy may be able to speak. Maybe not for months, but I’m confident I can help them.”
“How did you learn all this?” Father O’Toole asked.
“Through a series of dreams. One of the reasons I want to come to Montana is because I’m convinced God has called me to do something special here.”
The priest leaned toward Thomas and spoke in a low voice. “You’re very lucky to find such faith in the Lord here. It isn’t too common among priests in these parts. Why don’t you stay with us here until you’re finished helping the children?”
“I’d like nothing better than to work for the Lord and serve the people here in Montana, Father.”
The priest looked at me and I nodded. The priest explained how to reach a place where I could buy food, and then he invited Thomas to lunch. While we waited outside the cafeteria doors, I asked the priest about O’Rourke’s condition in Ireland and why he left.
He didn’t know anything about it, except that he was born in County Cork. He also mentioned that he thought Irish priests were supposed to stay in Ireland.
While we ate our lunches, O’Rourke told me he had a brother who served as a bishop in Dublin. His father was a well-to-do man who owned several stores and a tavern. But Thomas claimed he was a good son to his parents, and his mother often cried when she thought about the time her only child had been taken from her.
The End