We have the opportunity in this modern period to contemplate the grandeur of the universe and to know God in a way never before possible. Satellites, trips to the moon, and space telescopes have shown us a vast, incomprehensible universe swirling with horrendous forces of creation and destruction, and yet every where infused with beauty. The shear magnitude of the universe is enough to make an individual feel insignificant. Except for one small fact. Each of us is a completely unique creation. Our fingerprints are unique. So is the pattern in the Iris of our eye, the DNA in all of our living tissue, and dogs, at least, know that our smell is unique. How is it possible within such a vast universe?

It is not easy for us to contemplate our own uniqueness. Most of us are swept along in the current of civil society, social order and beset by the obligations of day to day life. We hunger for human companionship and are thereby forced to submit to peer pressure and social obligation. In truth, the opening of a vista to our inner being can be even more unsettling and mysterious then the vast reaches of outer space. Where then is the point? . . . what is the process? . . . that will set in motion the construction of meaning and identity?

I was born at 7:30 am, September 18, 1940, in Shelby, Montana, USA, and into the American rural agricultural ethos. Questions were not encouraged and I did not ask, and I performed and believed as expected. During the interview for Naval Officer's School, just before college graduation, I was asked what I thought the United States should in response to the U.S.S.R's construction of the "Berlin Wall." "Bomb them," was my immediate response. "You will make a fine Naval Officer young man," was the response. I was supremely confident in the absolute truth of our values, and the clear separation of good and evil. All that was destroyed by the preparation for, and participation in, the Battle of Tonkin Gulf that marked the beginning of the overt war in Vietnam in the Summer of 1964.

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Metanoia

There had been an immediate implosion of my inner being in Tonkin Gulf. An intense compression of events, feelings and insights with no paradigm to describe it . . . no words to express it. The social expectations of daily existence pressed for conformity and worked against reflection. How can there be coherent communication with those who still reside in a contrived bubble of absolute truth? The subconscious took over and set a course of ever widening disparity between reality and imagined reality. It was self-destructive. I drifted from graduate school to work as a crap dealer in Reno, and then to work as a roughneck in the oil fields.

The degeneration was paralleled by the emergence of a compulsive attraction to commercial fishing. A trip to San Francisco produced the direction to go to either San Pedro or Seattle. I went to Seattle. In the moments I was not walking the docks or talking to fishermen, I was filled with rage . . . for myself. "I must be self-sufficient!" "I can't need anyone . . . I can't depend on anyone but myself!"

I did connect with some Native American fishermen from Alaska. Success in Alaskan fishing requires the ability to make practical, productive decisions based on an unseen reality that does not submit to logical analysis. Intuition was the most necessary mental attribute, and for that reason Native Americans excelled. I too was intuitive, and though it had enabled my survival in Vietnam, it was disparaged by the scientists and engineers of middle America. I needed the Native American fishermen and that set the stage for metanoia.

That Winter, after the Summer salmon fishing season in Alaska began with an invitation to be on the crew of the best fishing boat, with the best Native American skipper in the Alaskan fleet. The dance had begun . . . rehabilitation versus self-destruction. My search for a means of living through the Winter became desperate. I heard the "Third Mass of Christmas Day," a Gregorian Chant by Saint Martins-in-the-field, at the home of the sister of last season's skipper. It connected with my soul. A couple of months later I got a chance to fish with John Courage on the "Heather." On our third or fourth trip to the fishing grounds off the coast of the Olympic Peninsula, John had begun manuvering the Heather at dawn. I abruptly sat up in my bunk. The next conscious experience was abruptly sitting up in my bunk a second time. In between I had experienced a dream of unimaginable intensity and importance.

The dream: The gal who had introduced me to the Gregorian Chant and myself, were walking down the street of an ancient Middle Eastern city. I was carrying a heavy black coil over my head that belonged to her. The weight of the coil caused me to stagger, and finally said I had to set it down and rest. He responded that she would go around the corner and get us some tea. I waited and waited and when she didn't return I resolved to go around the corner and look for her. The city, however, was completely vacant. With a feeling of near panic I ran through the city and entered a huge auditorium filled with people. They were expecting me. When I entered they cheered and threw streamers. I sat down in their midst. After a period of time, a man in a black suit, with heavy black glasses approached and said, "You know, of course, you must go back for her?" "Yes, I know." I abruptly got up and left the auditorium. Once outside I quickly realized I was lost. The City had changed and I could not find my way back to place where I had left the black coil. The dream ended with an intense feeling of frustration.

When we returned to Seattle I shared the dream with her. She thought it very interesting. Later I made another fishing trip with John Courage. When we returned from that trip, the events described by the dream unfolded.

We had lunch together the the next time I returned to Seattle. She said she had decided to marry , but since I was "so needy," she had worked it out with her future husband that I could visit them when I felt the need. During the remainder of the lunch I was most polite . . ."congratulations" . . . "I certainly wish you every happiness." Later, as I walked down the street my solar plexus began to churn. "Needy . . . how could she say I was needy . . . she's the one that's needy." Thus began an inner life or death struggle.

The churning in my solar plexus intensified. I remembered the Gregorian Chant and wanted to hear it again. I walk to the Seattle Library but it had closed for the evening. My frustration increased, the churning in my solar plexus intensified even more. It was getting dark but I walked and walked the streets of Seattle. I cried. My sunglasses hid the tears. An image of her wearing a fur, jeweled robe and crown appeared in my mind. The image became stronger, persistent. When I closed my eyes it was there . . . I could not get rid of it . . . finally in frustration, "Why do I have to tormented by this? . . . it is not her!" Immediately it flashed into my consciousness . . . "I have made a god of her!" The image disappeared, replaced by the answer . . ."god" . . . "god" . . . "how could I have made a god of her?" I remembered the dream. In the dream her hair was done differently . . . she had never done her hair that way . . . except at lunch that same day . . . what was the connection? . . . the dream . . . the lunch . . . the image of her as a god? . . . need . . . need! . . . NEED! . . . I needed to make a god of her! . . . why? A vast and terrifying abyss opened within me . . . a swirling vortex of emptiness . . . of chaos . . . it gobbled up my identity . . . my imagined successes . . . my personal history. I had fabricated a false god to escape the abyss . . . but the effort failed. Was there anything left? . . . would life ever again have meaning?

I walked and walked the streets of Seattle . . . perhaps death was the only escape? . . . no . . . death cannot stop the torment of the soul. Perhaps I will become a vegetable in some Veteran's Hospital?

And then the clear, intense and logical statements / questions began to appear on the plane of my consciousness.

If I had a need for a god and did not know it, does that mean I had a need for a god and just not discovered it?

The statement / question remained clear and present in my mind. I contemplated it. Indeed, it was logical and I accepted the premise.

If I had a need for a god and had not discovered it, does that mean I was created with that need?

The statement / question remained clear and present it my mind. I contemplated it. Indeed, it was logical and I accepted the second premise.

If I was created to need a god, does that mean there is also in creation an answer to that need?

The statement / question remained clear and present in my mind. I contemplated it. Indeed, it was logical and I accepted the third premise.

Is not there a God who has always taken the initiative in responding to that very need?

"The Christians have always said that about God, but I have never believed in God, and I don't know if I can."

With that I returned to my apartment and went to sleep. All through the night I dreamed of religious services and incense and prayer. I awoke with the firm resolve to see a priest, and made a 10:30am appointment at the nearby Saint Anne Church (on Queen Anne Hill). Father Martin listened to my story . . . I cried . . . he asked me if I had ever read the Bible . . . I said I had tried 2 or 3 times but always got bogged down in Levitcus or Numbers . . . he said he could never understand why people always thought they had to read the Bible from the beginning. He gave me a paper back New Testament and suggested I only read the last half of Luke, all of John and some of Paul's Epistles.

I took my new Bible back to the apartment and read what he had marked. I was electrified. It was all about love . . . about God's initiative . . . reaching out to us . . . dying for us . . . loving us.

I decided to walk. Going down Queen Anne Hill toward the city center energy, healing and good feeling poured into me and lifted me up. I realized I had to find her and tell her because she need God also. I looked everywhere for her, called everywhere and everyone. All to no avail. I became very irritable and frustrated.

At 10pm we were scheduled for another fishing trip. I arrived a little early and sat on the deck hatch and began reading the Bible again. In reading Peter's vision at Jaffa (Acts 10:9-23) I realized the dream was from God. Just like the dream had ended in frustration due to my inability to find her, I was deeply frustrated at being unable to find her. The dream had indicated the city changed . . . of course it had changed . . . it was the city of humans . . . now it was the City of God. Physical search was the means in a human city . . . prayer was the means in the City of God. I prayed. When I looked up she and one of her friends were standing on the dock.

The first Sunday after the next return to Seattle I attended Mass at Saint Anne Church. I did not know the ritual and that made me feel real awkward. Later at the apartment I became obsessed with the idea of praying at a really big church. I found Saint James Cathedral in the yellow pages and decided to walk there. It was much further than I imagined and by the time I arrived at the entrance it was around 8pm. The doors were locked of course. I was disppointed. But there was a veranda along the north side of the Cathedral, and a street light filtering through the trees. I walked around to that side and leaned with my elbows on the balustrade to pray. I was instantly in the presence of an overwhelming power . . . I terrified . . . my hands, arms and body went rigid . . . I could not look up . . . You are a priest flashed into conscious . . . I felt resistence and revoltion . . . You are a priest . . . my inner being melted . . .

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The Holy Spirit

The religious experience was such that I knew I was called to be a priest, but I had no understanding of what that meant or how it might workout. I associated the idea of priest with the Catholic Church and after returning to Seattle that Fall, I went to Saint James Cathedral and received instruction from Father Richard H.. During one of our early sessions he asked, "Have you ever spoke to Jesus as if he were another man?" "That's crazy," I responded, "why would he have the slightest interest in taking to me . . . I've ridiculed Christians and gotten everything wrong about life." "Your assignment for this week is to read the Gospel of Mark from start to finish in one sitting. Make sure you have enough time to complete it, because it's important you read it through to completion the first time."

I did as he requested. The next week he asked me what I thought of Jesus. "He cared about everybody . . . spoke to everyone . . . even outcasts and paupers." "Do think he might speak to you?" "I guess so . . . probably." "Your assignment this week he to talk to Jesus as if he was another man." I resolved to do as I was told, but the thought of speaking to Jesus as if he were another man made me feel insignificant and childlike. I entered the Sanctuary, kneeled and tenatively glanced up over my clasped hands. After a minute or so I said, "Do you love me?" More than you will ever know, entered the plane of consciousness along with a wonderful feeling. I've been totally committed to prayer and Jesus ever since.

Later that Fall I was baptised by Father H. I would very likely have ignored the priestly calling and become a regular Christian except for one unlikely development.

My sponsor for baptism was a male friend who was the only Catholic I knew. He asked if he could invite a couple to the baptism who were good friends of his. I consented. The baptism was uneventful and afterward the four of us spent a pleasent afternoon together. Three days later Aggie - married, mother of two boys - rang the door bell where I lived, and standing on the porch in a cold drizzling rain said she came to tell me I had to be a priest. I stammered . . . fumbled for words . . . said I was thinking about it . . . then she abruptly left.

I pondered her words . . . for hours . . . for days. She took a big risk in coming to my place . . . she didn't know me that well . . . with a husband and two nice boys it could have caused marital problems. Surely she was worthy of great respect. Unknown to her, she had served to reengerize the call that was placed on me during my relgious experience. I resolved to mention that I felt called to be a priest to Father HiatsuI. He was lukewarm . . . thought it was likely an emotional reaction and shouldn't be taken seriously unless it persisted for several years.

I set off for San Jose to visit my Aunt and Grandmother, but the pressure within to be a priest increased gently, but steadily. I argued with the Lord . . . "It's completely crazy" . . . "I've only been a Christian for a few months, there is no way anyone would take me seriously" . . ."they would think me crazy" . . . "maybe I am crazy."

I was emboiled in one of these internal arguments with the Lord during Sunday Mass. The time had come for the "kiss of peace" in the service and I turned to the middle-aged Latino women seated next to me to say, "may the peace of Christ be with you." She took my hand with both of her hands and said, "O Father may you be blessed in Christ." It was a lightning bolt straight into my heart, "She knew!" As I stood there in stunned silence, the Lord whispered, "Yes, she knows."

Within one month I had been accepted into Saint Patricks Seminary in Menlo Park and had been assigned a Latin and a philosophy tuitor as preparation for the Fall term..

In pondering the importance of Aggie and the middle aged Latino woman to my growth as a Christian, I remembered other similarly important encounters. During the Summer of 1966 I worked the night shift as a crap dealer at the Nevada Club in Reno. On that particular night the dice were "hot" and a lot of people were crowded around the table. Right at the height of the action a middle-aged man with greasy black hair and a cigarette stood up, looked me in the eye and said, "I can't stand you, you remind of a priest." I was shocked, and turned to Marie, the Pit Boss, and asked her, "Do you think I look like a priest?" She said, "Well, yes."

The Fall fishing season before the religious experience I was on the crew of the Norma B out of Gig Harbor. Mel and I were the only ones that stayed on the boat over the weekend, because we had no place to go. Mel had been a heavy equipment operator, but when his wife left him he wanted to find a new life. We struck up a nce friendship, and we had many long talks on the deck of the boat after sun set. After that season he went to San Pedro and spent the Winter tuna fishing. It was the following Spring that I went through the "experience." He later returned from tuna fishing. When he located me he exicitedly shared the visions he had of me when he was at sea on a tuna boat. Not only did he "see" my "experience," he saw into my soul at a depth that really scared me.

The point of all this is to affirm that the Son and the Holy Spirit are present and take a proactive role in your redemption, and will bring you the support you need to persevere.

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Shortly after beginning my first Fall Term at Saint Patrick's Seminary, the changes mandated by the Second Vatican Council were implemented and the 5 am morning prayer time become optional to priests and seminaians. From that day until I left the seminary to get married, I was alone in the chapel every morning at 5 am.

I had already realized I felt better if I prayed, and that was enough motivation to get me to the chapel every morning. I learned no special prayers and just kept repeating the "Our Father." Afte a month or so I began to think what I experienced was more than a "feeling." Indeed, it seemed to be more akin to an energy . . . or a spirit. Gradually the idea formed in my mind that if I was experiencing some kind of energy or spirit, I could project it out as well as take it in.

Experiments in projecting out what I received did appear valid, and that set the stage for a more bold experiment. The grounds of Saint Patricks Seminary were laid out so that the "refectory" where we ate our meals, and which was managed by a women's holy order, was in a seperate building. Between the back of the chapel and the refectory was a grove of large olive trees which provided home and sustenance to hundreds of squirrels. The routine was always the same. The asphalt path through the olive grove was always littered with olives and other things squirrels liked to eat or use, and so in the absence of humans there were always a sizeable number of squirrels on or near the path. Anytime a human approached the squirrels would run for the nearest olive tree, and run up the back side of the trunk, keeping the tree trunk between themselves and the perceived threat until they were on a very high limb.

The morning of my first experiment I prayed intensely, continuously, and longer than usual, and when I felt I was literally bursting with the Holy Spirit, I began the walk to the refectory for breakfast. As expected, the first squirrel in the middle of the path saw me and ran for the nearest tree. I poured out the Spirit within me at the squirrel, the squirrel came around the side of the tree about five feet above the path, and stared me in the eye. It remained in that position until the Spirit was dissipated, then went back around the tree and up to a high limb.

I repeated this experiment a number of times, and it worked every time with every squirrel. At that point a strong need for some kind of validation began to form within me. I scoured by Bible and found the following:

:"He went on to say, 'What is the kingdom of God like? What shall I compare it with? It is like a mustard seed which a man took and threw into his garden; and it grew and became a tree, and the birds of the air sheltered in its branches.'" (Luke 13:18-19)

"I think that what we suffer in this life can never be compared to the glory, as yet unrevealed, which is waiting for us. The whole creation is eagerly waiting for God to reveal his sons. It was not for any fault on the part of creation that it was made unable to attain its purpose, it was made so by God; but creation still retains the hope of being freed, like us, from its slavery to decadence, to enjoy the same freedom and glory as the children of God. From the beginning till now the entire creation, as we know, has been groaning in one great act of giving birth, and not only creation, but all of us who possess the first fruits of the Spirit, we too groan inwardly as we wait for our bodies to be set free." (Romans 8:18-24)

After the squirrels I resolved to experiment with humans.

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More to come - Still Under construction.

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Relationships

Albert

That Winter I was waiting in Seattle for the next salmon season in Alaska, when I was unexpectedly offered a spot on the crew of the trawler Margaret E. The opportunity was unexpected because trawlers are used for bottom fishing . . . true cod, rock cod, ling cod, english sole, pertrale . . . and bottom fishing was dominated by Scandanavians. Usually they were tight knit. The typical crew was composed of relatives and fellow countrymen. The Margaret E was owned by Albert, a Norweigen, so where were his relatives and countrymen?. The first glimpse into Albert came from an old fisherman who was regularly seen around Ballard and always had a story. "Albert," he said, "had been the cook for a lot of years on a top Norweigan boat, when he received an unexpected inheritance. He immediatedly wanted his own boat. His skipper, though, did not think he was ready. The other Norwegian skippers agreed . . . Albert wasn't ready. But Albert was stubborn. And he knew he was too old to wait for their blessing. So he bought a boat anyway. . . the Margaret E. The other skippers were annoyed and refused to share fishing reports with him. That was hard on Albert. Other Norwegians wouldn't work for him. He's struggled ever since . . . can't keep a crew."

The Margaret E was a wood boat that sat too high in the water. That caused a quick, excessive roll in rough weather that was unpleasent, and in really rough weather, dangerous. The net used by a trawler was long, narrow, closed at the toe and stretched at the other end like an old sock. The open end had weights along the bottom, floats along the top, and two heavey iron doors at the sides. When that sock like net was dragged on the bottom with two heavy steel cables that ran through blocks at the end of twenty foot steel booms angled away from each side of the boat and attached to the two steel doors. The doors were pulled at an angle so they, along with the floats, opened up the end nearest the boat. Fish, if any, would be caught in that opening and then trapped at the closed end. It was not glamorous fishing. . . just hard work and that was why bottom fishing was dominated by Scandanavians.

The other guy on the crew was Greg. He was about my age . . . a little more experienced . . . definitely not a talker . . . but we got along well enough. Since Albert spent most all of his time at the wheel, only came into the galley to eat, and onto the back deck when we were retreiving or dropping the net, there wasn't much conversation. When there was no fish the conversation was quieter still . . . and we had no fish. At least not for the first two trips. The third trip was better. We were fishing the southwest corner of Queen Charlotte Sound, not far from Vancouver Island, when we landed a big catch of rock cod. It was a big enough catch that we actually got a descent pay check when we returned to Ballard. Naturally we turned right around and headed back to the same spot. Greg and I were definitely upbeat. We thought Albert was too, but he started acting strange. The second day out, we pulled in the gear and, at most, there was a half dozen true cod in the catch. I was about to pitch them into the hole when Albert came rushing out of the galley with a knife . . . ."Let me have that cod fish . . . that one, that one . . . don't touch it!" He grabbed the fish and slit its belly with a shaky, compulsive kind of action that made him look like a drug addict. He tore out the liver with his hand and left the rest of the fish on the deck. After of moment's pause I went over to the galley to see what he was doing. He was frying the liver. "I've got to have some vitamin A," as he stabbed at the liver with a fork. I went back out on the deck without saying anything.

The next day was gloomy. The cloud coer was slate gray, the water silver gray, and, worst of all, there was no fish. Late in the afternoon we had the gear on the bottom for one last attempt before nightfall. Albert was at the wheel, Greg was in his bunk, and I sat in the galley by myself. I felt the need to pee, and, as was the custom on fishing boats, I went out on the deck to pee over the side. In the middle of the process, the Margaret E made a 360 degree turn. I walked back to the galley thinking . . ."Wait a minute, that's going to tie a knot in our cables . . . what's going on?" My thought process was obliterated by Albert, who had just rushed into the galley. "We just got a gale warning from the weather service . . . we've got to get the gear on board and get into port as soon as possible."

We hurried, but followed the usual procedure in retrieving the gear until we could plainly see that the steel cables were twisted together. That was a big problem. Albert worked the wench slowly as the twist slid closer to the net. We all realized it would only slip until it knotted. It did. . . . at twilight. We had a tangled mess hanging off the stern of the boat, darkness was at hand, and the wind was blowing. Albert stood transfixed at the wench. I was hypotized by the beauty of a wave curling up behind the boat. It then broke over the stern and slammed Greg against the pilot house. I suddenly realized if not for the pilot house he would have been lost at sea. The shock snapped both Greg and I back into reality. The two of us then took charge of the situation as if driven by our unconscious. The plan developed on the fly, and orders were shouted to Albert. Somehow we got a snatch black attached to the tangled mess hanging off the stern, and then Albert lifted the whole mess up and dropped it on the deck. We then had him take a strain on the starboard cable. As he did we removed the u-bolt that attached that cable and door to the net, and then freed it from entanglement. The door popped free and we felt triumphant . . . for a second. Another big wave hit and the boat rolled sharply to starboard. The five hundred pound door swung out over the water until it was almost out of sight. When the boat rolled to port the door came flying back. It was a moment of terror as it slammed into the side of the Margaret E. One or two more of those and we would be on the bottom.

We gragged a short piece of heavy, braided nylon line, secured one end to a stanchion, and when the door came flying back the second time we threw the line around the door cable, took a wrap on another stanchion and held on. It worked. We yelled at Albert to pull in a little more cable and then we secured that door in place. We then pulled the remaining parts of the tangled mess aboard and secured it in place with what line and cable we could find. We made the run back to port without incident.

The second morning in Ballard Greg came into the galley and said two men had come aboard and told Albert they were taking possession of the Margaret E. We were expected to get our personal belongings and leave the boat as soon as possible. That was the last time I saw Greg or Albert.

Later, at home, I awoke in the early morning quiet, and my mind was immediately pulled into contemplation of Albert. He knew he was going to lose his boat on that fourth fishing trip, and that was why he had acted strange. When he heard the gale warning late in the afternoor, he first made a 360 degree turn on purpose to tie a knot in the cables. He had decided to go down with the boat rather than to face the humiliation instore for him. Greg and I were there to keep him alive.

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Dan

During that period I was driven by an inner compulsion toward commercial fishing, but didn't know anything about the industry or even where to look for an opportunity. Since looking around likely seaports cost money, I had to break off the search long enough to pay off billls and save a little reserve. One of those breaks was a winter job as a rough-neck for an oil well service company in north central Montana. Dan was the foreman.He was tall and wiry, and the muscles in his weathered face were always tight. The very first day on the job we ran into trouble trying to repair an oil well pump. I noticed blood dripping from his nose and asked him about it. He replied that it was just his ulcer acting up. To my mind it confirmed his physical appearence. I judged he experienced too much personal stress because he felt responsible for things beyond his control. There was no chance of mentioning such ideas, however. His use of language was awkward and uneducated and he showed no interest in conversation . . . even when we on lunch break.

So the winter wore on with hard work and minimal communication. And it was cold. At one point Dan and I went out to service a pump in the Texaco field, when it was 22 degrees below zero and the wind was gusting to thirty miles per hour. At one point I was certain the tip of Dan's nose turned white. But in his usual stoic manner he said it was nothing. I felt anger. Anger that we should be working in such circumstances. Anger at being stuck in a frozen oil field. Anger at state of my life.

Naturally I looked forward to spring and the chance to again pursue commercial fishing. When Dan and I jumped into the truck at the end of the last day of work in the oil fields, he started talking. Talking like he had never before talked.

"You know . . . every person's different . . . and what it takes to get a good days work out of 'em is different. You gotta study 'em . . . figure 'em out . . . figure out what it'll take to get 'em to work."

"Take you for instance. You're a talker. Man, you love to talk. But when you talk you don't get nothen done . . . you're completely worthless. But when you're mad . . . woe . . . I've never seen any body work as hard or get as much done as you when you're mad. So I had to think of ways to make ya mad as hell. I had to keep thinking of new ways to make ya mad so you wouldn't know what I was doing. Hey, we got a lot done this winter . . . I'll miss ya."

It was a total mental shock. I couldn't think of one thing to say . . . my conscious mind had been blanked out. All I did was clench my jaw, and mutter a, "See ya around," when I jumped out of the truck back in town. I was mad . . . again . . . but I didn't want to admit it, even to myself. It took me quite awhile to admit to myself that Dan was extremely intelligent and very observant. He was so far ahead of me for the entire winter that I still can't identify his various strategies. He owned me that winter.

The Lord has used the memory of Dan over and over again to instill in me a true spirit of humility . . . and that a truly gifted person can reside anywhere, under any circumstances. We will only know who they are when we are humble enough to acknowledge them.

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Father L.

I finally worked up the courage to tell the pastor of Saint Victors that I felt called to be a priest. His response was quick: "I've been watching you and wondering if you might be a candidtate for the seminary. I certainly think you should try it out. I'll send you up to the Director of Vocations for the Diocese with a positive recommendation."

Maybe I should have been pleased with his quick approval, but I was not. I wanted to explain myself, and share the events that preceded the decision. In short, I really wanted to be taken seriously. His quick approval made the whole effort seem insubstantial.

The meeting with the Diocesan Director of Vocations was not satisfying either. He voiced his scepticism, but said he would send me down to the Rector of Saint Patrick's Seminary solely on the strength of my pastor's recommendation. He likewise showed no interest in my thinking, or past experiences.

The Rector of Saint Patrick's Seminary was a completely different breed. He greeted me warmly, escorted me into his office, and invited me to sit in a chair just infront of his desk. "I have three questions for you. What was your religious experience? How did it lead you to the conclusion you should be a priest? What are you going to do about celibacy?"

He proceded to listen intently without saying another word for the next three and one-half hours. When I concluded he responded, "You are in the seminary on my authority. There are adminstrative matters that must be dealt with but they will not affect your acceptance. Meanwhile, I will provide you a Latin tutor and a philosophy tutor to help prepare you for the Fall Term."

It was impossible to discribe how wonderful it felt to have someone validate all those experiences and feelings.

Seminary opened that Fall with a solemn and magnificent Mass. Father L., as rector, gave the sermon and it was memorable.

"The Church has been the Church of the encampment. We had settled down and established our perimeter. Our behavior became predictable, and our knowledge was known and orderly. That all changed with the Second Vatican Council. We are no longer the Church of the encampment, but the Chruch of the exodus. The Holy Spirit called on us to strike camp and begin a journey. Journey means change and we were unprepared for change. Our knowledge was not up to the task . . . our leaders do not understand how to lead an exodus. But there is no turning back. The Spirit spoke and we responded. We must now concede we are not the leaders that will bring the Church to the new destination mandated by our Lord. We need new leaders. You are those new leaders."

He became my spiritual advisor and I was one of five seminarians in a field experience group he supervised. It was the first year the changes mandated by the Second Vatican Council had been implemented in the seminary, and that meant there was a good bit of confusion. That was perfect for me. It allowed be to spend a lot of time studying issues important to me, and the most important issue was my own psychology. I read every book on the subject in the seminary library, including everything on conversion and religious experience. In addition to the theological foundation thus constructed within, my soul was formed by the Lord during the early morning prayer time. That was possible because morning prayer was made optional with the new changes. It was the most important and most rewarding year of my life.

Later in the year Father L. began to make homosexual advances. At first they were subtle . . . a hug that was a little too intimate . . . or a hug with a kiss on the cheek. He never verbalized his intentions so I often wondered if I was making too much of it. One way or the other the academic year came to an end. I went off to work at a San Francisco church for the summer, and Father L. spent most of the summer in Baltimore.

The next Fall was different. Father L. became much more aggressive and obvious in his homosexual advances. It would start with innocent hug that would linger as he pressed his leg between my legs and try to kiss me. I reacted with two equally strong and contradictory emotions. My body would freeze and become as rigid as a board, and I would become sexually aroused. The rigidity dissipated soon after I got away from him, but the effects of sexually arousal lingered. I soon realized those lingering effects grew over time and that I would not be able to resist his advances for much longer.

It was the night of our regular meeting in his capacity as my spiritual advisor and I knew I had come to the end of my ability to resist. On the way to his suite I stopped by the Chapel where I had spent so many mornings. It was dark, I was alone, and I just poured my heart out to the Lord. "Lord, I cannot resist this man anymore . . . if you don't want this sexual relationship to happen then you have to prevent it . . . I cannot . . . I do not have the strenght." After a period of quiet I went to Father L.'s sute and knocked on the door, and then knocked again, and then knocked a third time. No answer. I though I could hear voices from his suite so I concluded he was busy and returned to my room. It was three weeks before I realized I had not been alone with Father L. once, and began to wonder if that was an answer to my prayer. It was another month before I knew within myself that the Lord had made a move. Indeed, I was never again along with Father L. Meeting were posponed, cancelled, or others were present for various reasons.

I got a different spiritual advisor and limited my contact with Father L., but the situation was more complicated then I had first understood. I went through two new spiritual advisors and connected with neither. They were very intelligent men but did not have Father L.'s charisma, intuitive understandind, or spiritual presence. The situation was exacerbated by two married women at the church where I was doing field ministry. They called me every day I was around that church, and one had gotten a little tipsy at the pastor's 25th anniversary party and rubbed her preast on my shoulder infront of everyone. I left the party immediately, but the effect lingered. I became alienated from the seminary and quite discouraged. I went to the Chapel early one morning, as had been my custom, but the Lord was not there . . . the Holy Spirit was not there. I panicked, believing I had somehow offended the Lord and he had withdrawn his presence from me. Over the next two weeks I confessed every sin, real or imagined, that I could bring to mind. I tried to talk about it with my new spiritual advisor who proved to be clueless. I became more discouraged.

I was in that discouraged state when I returned to my room one afternoon. I noticed Saint John of the Cross's, Dark Night of the Soul, on my desk. It was a fairly new paperback and so the pages and binding were quite stiff, so some of the pages remained in a "bent-up" position. I inpulsive grabbed it and started to read the first flat page. The subject was the aridity of the "Dark Night of the Soul," and it was electrifying. I realized the Lord had purposely taken me into a period of aridity in order to change my relationship with him. No sooner had that realization come to me than a powerful spirit of masculinity enveloped and infused me. The feeling was at once exhilerating and indescribeable. I once again felt the presence of the Lord and the Honly Spirit during prayer time, and I had strong inner drive to do masculine things. I galanced through a Life Magazine in the library that featureed a story of two mountain climbers. They were pictured from several different angles hanging on the vertical face of El Capitan in Yosemite National Park. One look at those photos and I said out loud, "I can do that." Remarkable because I had previously been afraid of heights. In any case, I bought a pair of rock climbing boots and had several small climbing experiences. Another seminarian and myself bought the materials to make a big surf casting pole, and we bupt it together in my room. We made several surf fishing trips to nearby beaches to try out the near gear.

About the same time I was teacing a theology class at Saint Victors. One of those in attendance was an older, distinguished looking man. Several weeks into the class he brought his daughter. He later said he did so because he thought I would be the one who could bring her back to the Church. In stead we got married.

Marriage though was not the end of the story about Father L. Three years into the marriage we were in a crisis and I was pretty angry. I had planned a sales trip to San Francisco, and as part of the planning I had contacted a woman I knew who had been a sister in a Catholic Order and had also been a native San Franciscan. I asked her to help me develop a list of contacts. In the interim the spirit and/or energy of Father L. had returned so powerfully it felt like he possessed me. So I decided the sales trip was going to be a ruse. I would stop by my friends place and develop the list of contacts and then head out into San Francisco on the pretext of selling. In fact, as soon as I got away from her place I was going to head straight for a steam bath and have a gay experience.

I arrived at her place as planned and the first thing she said was, "I've been praying for you and realized it wasn't going to work for me just to give you these names. I need to go with you and introduce you in person." I was speechless. I knew it was the Lord. She did go with me, and I did not make one sale . . . obviously. My mind was in disarray and I was angry the Lord had initiated such a pre-emptive action. At the end of the day I just returned to my wife.

It was several weeks before I could pray. I asked for forgiveness. As I kneeled there contemplating the whole experience a picture came to me of a little four year old boy running out onto a street after a ball. The boy did not see the big truch bearing down on him. Then a man reached out and grabbed the boy by the arm and jecked him back to safety. It took me a while to ask the Lord:

"Was that little boy me?"

"Yes."

"Am I really that young?"

"Yes."

That was sobering. I had thought I was reborn into immediate wisdom and authority. In fact, I had to grow up all over again, and it would take time. A few years later the AIDS epidemic emerged and I realized that was the truck. I felt deeply, deeply grateful for my Lord's discipline.

About fifteen years later my wife and I were involved in some marriage counseling. Part of the process was a battery of tests. When the counselor reported the results of the testing, she said everything was fine except for one peculiaar aspect of my psychology. "You defend your interest aggressively up to a point, but if the other party is epecially forceful or agrressive you will reach a point where you capitulate and give them what they want. That certainly characterized some of my contractual dealings as a carpenter and small building contractor, but I could not understand what could cause such a psychological disposition . As I contemplated my psychology before the Lord, I was taken back to Father L.. I had thought the connection to him was broken and healed, but it was not. When things were going well I forgot him, and his memory had no power over me. When things were not going well I would begin to ponder . . . what might my life have been if I had said yes to him? Such questions are dangerous because they invite fanstasy . . . an imagined reality not derived from knowledge, but from need. Deep in my subconscious I had decided that when the pressure became too great I should give him what he wanted. I also realized it was the psychology of many prostitutes . . . they are molested by father or relative . . . leave home for self protection and dignity . . . and then alone and hungry conclude at a very deep level that they should have just given him what he wanted.

I felt a lot of shame with the discovery that I had the psychological pattern of a prostitute, and I cried out to the Lord about it, "When I went to that seminary I did so in good faith . . . wanting only to obey your call . . . why did you put in that situation?

"You will become a man of compassion whether you like it or not . . . and you will understand."

It wa only after that that I was able to admit that I loved Father L. . . . that I still loved him. He had taken enormous personal risk in embracing my religious experience and supporting my presence at the seminary. He paid dealy for having done so. That time at the seminary was vitally important to my reconstruction in the Lord and I remain deeply grateful.

There is still much to be said about homosexuality, but it must derive from a foundation of experience.

Read "Human Sexuality: A Christian Perspective"

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Healing

After marriage I gradually migrated into work as a union carpenter as a means of making a living. It was during that period as a union carpenter that the Lord began teaching me about healing, and the beginning of that education was dramatic. I woke up one morning with a completely stiff right wrist. The pain was not great, but I could not flex the wrist at all in any direction. Panic set in immediately. How was I to work, and what would we do for money. My prayer that morning was, "Lord, please give me the strength and grace to do your will in my life." Afterward I resolved to keep it to myself for fear of causing anxiety for my wife.

All that day and all of the next day the words, "Lord, let me accept your will," were constantly in my mind and on my heart. Early in the worning of the third day I was standing in the living room just before begining my usual prayer time. Suddenly, and without warning, a powerful energy infused me and instantly caused me to bend over as I grabbed hard my right wrist with my left hand, press it against my thigh, and shouted the order, "Get out of my body!" The pain and stiffness left immediately and never returned.

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Less than a year later a medical doctor friend asked me if I would help with a problem he had at home. I said yes. It turned out there were a number of scrub oaks on the slope behind their house. He had cut several of them down the week before, but instead of cutting off the major limbs first, he had cutt the whole tree down at the base. That left an irregular shaped tree on the ground with branches running off in every direction. When he tried to cut off the branches in that situation the tree rolled, slid, or jerked, and that made the work annoying and dangerous. He wanted me to hold the tree steady while he cut off the branches. So I pushed my knee against a branch, grabbed it with by left on the low side, and then reached back to grab the high end with my right hand, It seemed to both of us that this arrangement would work. So he proceeded to cut down on the next branch with the chain saw. When the branch fell off he lifted the chain saw up against by right index finger.

I immediately felt a spirit of peace come over me. But his face turned while as a sheet. The finger looked like hamburger with one piece of flesh about an inch long hanging down. He wrapped a hankerchief around it and helped me down to his house.

He went to work on my finger. "This piece of hanging flesh will probably die," he said, "but I'll just lay it in there anyway." He put some antibiotic ointment on it, wrapped it, put a splint on it, and then wrapped it some more.

The next morning I had just gotten situated for my prayer time when the Lord said, "We have a battle ahead of us. You must not accept a deformed finger." With that word I immediately became aware of my spirit that enveloped and defined my body. And became aware of the battle over my finger. There was a picture of a deformed finger, a picture of a normal finger, and a strong force pressing in on me to accept the deformed finger. The battle raged for two days and it required every ounce of my physical and spiritual strength to stay with the Lord and see, on the level of my spirit, a perfect finger. On the monrning of the third day I got up for prayer and the Lord abruptly said, "The battle has been won. Put it out of your mind." I obeyed, and thought no more about the finger until I went to see my doctor friend after seven days, as he had requested. He was shocked to see a perfect finger. There was no infection, and no scarring except a faint outline of the inch long piece of flesh that had been hanging, but was now was fully integrated back into my finger. That faint outline is still visible today as a testimoney to the validity of that experience.

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Later, I had gotten it into my mind that Lord allowed me to get sick in order for him to get my attention. It seemed logical since it was so easy to be swept along by the demands of making a living and raising a family, and easy to neglect quiet prayer time with the Lord. Anyway, for about the next year everytime I got a cold, felt like I was getting the flu, or in any way felt I was getting sick, I just stopped and said, "Lord, I do not have to get sick for you to have my attention." Then I proceeded to listen. Everytime the feeling of impending illness left immediately.

Though that experience may seem insubstantial, it was an important steop in my education.

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At the time our family was attending a small church. That in itself did not seem significant, though previously we had attended only very large churches. In any case, we always sat in the back. I loved singing in Church, but only as a member of the congregation. After attending that church for a couple of years we were invited to be part of a team that would lead a weekend retreat and spiritual conference at the church. We were both pleased to be asked and said yes. I was specifically asked to help with the singing, and that too seemed very agreeable.

The event began on a Friday evening. Eight of us were to stand in front of the congregation and lead the singing. Right away I felt uncomfortable, and when the music started my voice completely froze. I felt dismay and anxiety, and began to notice questioning looks. At the first break in the singing a apologized to the gal in charage and begged off any further participation. I remained confused and deeply embarrassed.

The next morning during my prayer time I felt annoyed with the whole experience.

"Why, Lord, did I have to endure that humiliation?"

"I've been healing your relationship with your Mother."

"Really? So why was why was this going on without my knowledge?"

"You would have sabotaged your own healing."

Images and feelings from childhood flooded my mind, and my attention gravitated to my sixth year. World War II had recently ended and my Mom, filled with energy and optomism, began teaching dancing and singing. In truth, she was very gifted. Her voice was a strong, beautiful soprano, and she was also very talented at tap dancing and ballet. It was pretty overwhelming to a six year old boy, especially since the war years had been pretty gloomy. A couple of things, however, were very clear. My Mother was the unmitigated center of attention. I was to be inconspicuous. "A young boy should be seen and not heard," was regularly heard in our home. To be seen and not heard . . . to be seen and not heard . . . Mother was to be the center of attention. I appropriated that word into my subconscious as a little boy, and had collided with that embedded word in front of the congregation.

How Lord, can you heal such a powerful admonition? , , , such intimidation?

Gently . . . gradually . . . without your conscious knowledeg of intent. The push you felt to sing came from me. During all those years when you could only sing if you were hidden at the back of big churches, or alone with your son in the middle of the night when he was crying from colic. But that's no longer enough. It's time for you to be involved in this.

I gradually developed a dominant voice at church, as I overcame the admonition against being conspicuous. Even as I made progress in the area of singing, the Lord began to show me there was more to face in my childhood. Mother was very successful with her dance classes and in 1947 and 1948 put on a couple of dance recitals that were no less than spectacular for our little town. One would imagine that would earn her acclaim, but the actual result was jealously. The next several years were characterized by increasingly bitter arguments between Mom and Dad, that culminated in their divorce. As I pondered those years before the Lord, my mind repeatedly focused on the time Mom wanted me to be her dance student. She said, "I will teach you to dance the, "Sailor's Hornpipe," and proceeded to demonstrate some of the steps. She announced I would lean the "Buffalo Step," in tap dancing, demonstrated the step repeatedly, and each time insisted I try it. I did attend her first dance class, but felt very uncomfortable. Later I told her I didn't want to dance because other boys would think I was a sissy. I believed the "sissy" theory was right for many years. It did seem reasonable, and had that "All-American Boy" feel to it. But the Lord kept pressing in on me on this issue. Why would she want me to learn to dance if she demanded that I remain inconspicuous? And I had learned to whistle when I was five, sitting on the edge of the kitchen talbe watching her iron clothes. She was helping me, "Purse your lips like this." Then she would purse her lips. After trying and trying, I finally make a whistle sound and she lavished praise on me. I loved to whistle for the rest of my life. There was also the memory of Christmas when I was six. I had two older sisters and a younger brother. My allowance at the time was 25 cents a week. On a Friday afternoon in the early Fall, after I had gotten my allowance, my two older sisters approached me and said, "We think all four of us kids should go in together on a Christmas present for Mom. We want to get her a musical powder box. Are you going to be in on this?" "I guess so," I said meekly. "Well thengive us your allowance." I handed over the quarter hesitantly, not really sure this was such a good idea. My apprehension grew each successive Friday, with the predictable arrival of my sisters to collect my allowance. In spite of those feelings, Christmas that year was wonderful. Mom made it seem like that musical powder box was the most tresured gift anyone could imagine. She hugged each of us, and I felt so proud. And I cryed forty years later after she died and I discovered she still had that musical powder box on her bedroom vanity.

So there was a major conradiction in my understanding of my childhood. I had no idea how to proceed, but the Lord had a clear plan. A very gifted woman Marriage and Family Counselor affiliated with our Church. The thng she taught that really resonated with me was psychological traits and family dysfunction was passed down through multiple generations. I had been left a small trunk full of old family photographs and ancestoral information handed down from my Grandmother, to my Aunt, and then to me. Some of the photographs predated 1875. Since it was information from my Father's side of the family, my focus shifted there. I had heard my Grandfather's story any number of times. He had been raised a Quaker in Indiana. As a teenager he had wanted to be an actor and a poet, but his Quaker mother said no son of hers would be an actor or a poet. In fact, he would be a dentist. He became a dentist. I didn't think much about the story until I began looking through that trunk of photographs. There were several pictures of him during his teenage years. He definitely had the look of a man with refined artistic sensibilities. There were also a number of pictures taken of him after dental school. He no longer exhibited refined sensibilities, but rather a stern, often angry, countenance. The Grandfather I knew as a boy was stern, and often angry. In reflecting on Grandfather before the Lord, a memory of him when I was five returned. Grandfather lived in the house next door. Dad and I had gone over there for lunch. Grandpa always demanded to be waited on, and that task was passed between my Dad and Grandfather's pal, Frank Henry. That time Frank Henry was fixing lunch. The three of them were talkers, and so I was left out. As soon as I had eaten, I slipped away from the table. Dad had previously shown me a trunk of Grandfather's old dental tools. I quietly went up the stairs and straight to that trunk. Being a very curious kid, I was completely enthralled by the contents. There were pliers of every imaginable shape, and drills, and mirrors. I had stuff all over the floor when Dad came up the stairs and said, "Come on Son, we have to go home." I was disappointed at the time, but did not understand the significance of the memory. Nevertheless, it stayed with me and I thought about it often. Years later, when Dad was down for a visit, I shared that memory with him. To my complete surprise, he remembered that day also, but from another perspective. "What happened downstairs?", I insisted. "Dad told me to get my nosy kid and get him out of his house." The information hurt, but it did confirm Grandfather's feeling toward me. That was important because my oldest sister remembered him as fun and kind. Why the difference? Of all his children and grandchildren, I was the one who reminded him of himself when he was young. The issue was deeper however, then a simple projection of his feelings. During a subsequent prayer time the Lord brought to my mind a very ugly fight between my parents that occurred not long after Mom's second dance recital. On the surface the fight was over money, and it was very scary for me. Mom and Dad were on opposite sides of the kitchen table, yelling at each other, and the rest of us were back in the shadows. It seemed to last forever. Finally Mom threw a small bowl at Dad and hit him on the side of his forehead. Dad said, "I'm taking the kids and going over to Dad's house." My second sister immediately said, I'm staying with Mom." My younger brother immediately said, "I'm staying with Mom too." My oldest sister said, "I'm going with Dad." The focus was suddenly on me and I hesitated, then said, "I'll go with Dad too."

"Why Lord, did I go with Dad? Did I feel responsible for his feelings?" If so why? Dad didn't seem to care much about me. Most of the time he seemed to barely notice my existence. So why did I turn away from Mom?"

"There was a pattern . . . a determination passed down through the men of your family . . . to crush creativity."

The pattern clearly applied to my Grandfather. The photos from the trunk, the volumes of poetry my Dad inherited from him . . . the early promise followed by crusihing suppression. The pattern applied to my Father. He was handsome and intelligent and determined to graduated from the finest university in the United States. He did graduate from Stanford University in the Spring of 1929. But the stock market crash in the Fall of 1929 brought him back to our little town in Montana where he died many years later. The same crushing suppression was the object of that bitter fight between my parents when I was a little boy. That rejection, true to form, followed the earlier promise established by the two wonderful dance recitals. I had begun to learn the way of the men in my family at Grandfather's house when I was going through his dental tools, and then got kicked out. The admonition to be seen and not heard came from my Father and Grandfather, not my Mother. By the Spring of my sixth year, following that memorable Christmas, I had picked up enough of that male pattern to reject my Mother's desire to teach me to dance. There were indications in the trunk of the ancestoral material, that the pattern extended further back then mygrandfather.

The pressing issues, however, were more immediate. The question lingered . . . could I have been a ballet dancer if I had been open to my Mother? It just so happened there was a woman at our church who had been a ballet dancer, and had taught dancing. She let it be known she wanted to teach liturgical ballet. I signed up for the class. There were just four of us. The other three were married women with children. I took just four lessons that summer, and with the prospect of school beginning and the schedule change that involved, I gave up the lessons. But I gave them up knowing I really could have been a ballet dancer had that been my destiny. The realization didn't seem to be very significant. I felt better, and stopped wondering about it. That Winter our church had a Christmas party, and it was well attended. My wife did a comedy routine that was very funny. When she was offstage getting straightened up, they started playing dance music. A friend of ours asked me to dance with her and I said yes . . . and did we dance. Afterward several other friends said, gee, we didn't know you could dance like that . . . can we can dance with you? One of the older ladies gave me a stern look and said, "Well, I didn't see you dancing with your wife." The truth was, I had never before danced like that. In high school and college I was one of the worst. Something big had happened inside of me, but it was several days before I fully realized the significance of that Christmas party, and that the dancing was symbolic of far deeper healing.

During those years my attention was focused on my relationship with Mom, Dad got scant attention. I didn't think he was much interested in me, and that feeling was once validated by Mother in an angry outburst. "Your Father made me have two abortions before you were born, and when I was pregant with you, he wanted me to have another abortion. He said we couldn't afford another child. But I was determined you were going to be born." I tried to be respectful of him, and he was certainly happy I left the seminary and married. In my mind he was angry at God. Angry that he had gotten stuck in a small town in Montana. Angry about his poor eye sight. Angry about my religious conversation, and commitment. Our relationship was in a state of benign neglect and probably would have remained that way if I was in control. I was not.

My oldest sister called unexpectedly and said, "If you want to see your Father before he dies, you better get up here right away. He's in a coma, and they don't expect him to come out of it." I quickly boarded a plane for my home town.

Dad was indeed in a coma, so the only thing I could think to do was to pray for him So I put my hands on him, according to the gift I had been given, and prayed . . . all one day . . . all the second day . . . and into the third day. In the afternoon of the third day Dad abruptly sat up and began babbling about things that happened when he was a young man. I felt a rush of anger and said to myself, "He doesn't even acknowledge I'm here!" Then I was schocked by the Lord, "Shut up and listen!" I listened . . . for the first time in my life I really listened to Dad. It sounded like a confession . . . "Is this a confession?" He looked straight into my eyes and said, "Yes." My eyes flooded with tears. My Dad and I experienced the deepest conceivable reconciliation that afternoon, and my eyes still fill with tears everytime I think of it.

Later, on the flight home, I read from my Bible, "For I am certain of this: neither death nor life, no angel, no prince, nothing that exists, nothing still to come, not any power, or height or depth, nor any created thing, can ever come between us and the love of God made visible in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Romans 8:18-19) I realized that the anger that I had attributed to my Father was my own anger, and what my Father really felt was fear that he would not be forgiven. I pondered all that had happened before the Lord, and after awhile I asked, "Had he tried to make that confession before, and I just couldn't hear it?"

"Yes."

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These stories of healing are shared as a testimony to the deep abiding love of our Lord Christ Jesus. It is true the Lord sometimes heals through spectacular event, but the over riding purspose of such healing events are the building of faith and/or the establishing of authority. The Lords's preferred means of healing is process . . . day by day . . . grace by grace . . . because the roots of infirmity and dysfunction are deep, often very deep. That does not mean we do nothing. We must inquire of the Lord, listen to the Lord, and pray, 'Our Father who art in Heaven hallowed by thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread . . ." Our daily bread is the grace we need everyday, day by day, to heal, to transform, to become. And it is grace that is given.

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Death

Father O'Neill

Father O'Neill was the Latin tutor assigned to prepare me for studies at Saint Patrick's Seminary. I was an eager student, which delighted him immeasurably. In addition to my education, we shared a keen interest in classical music. My Aunt often had unused tickets to the symphony and opera, and when she offered them to me I invited Father O'Neill. Latin was his real love. He recited from memory long passages from Virgil just he hear the beauty and rhythm of the language. Latin was also the source of his great personal distress. The Second Vatican Counsel had mandated that Mass was to be said in the native language as soon as the change could be implemented. So he knew, and his students knew, the study of Latin was a complete waste of time. Though it caused him to feel unwanted and unnecessary, it only served to make our friendship a more delightful interlude . . . a friendly and stimulating remembrance of beauty gone by.

It ended abruptly early one Monday morning in August. I was reading the morning paper and drinking coffee at my Aunt's when I involuntarily opened to, and began reading, the Obituary Section. To my shock it told of Father O'Neill death. He had had a heart attack at a Seminary picnic on Saturday.

The instant I finished reading the obituary notice Father O'Neill's presence was so strong I could almost touch him. He appeared to be looking at me expectantly, as if there was something he wanted from me. I immediately made a commitment to pray for him. Later that day I spent quite some time at Saint Victor's in prayer, and continued praying for him each day thereafter. His presence . . . expectant presence . . . remained with me. I began to feel there was something he needed that I did not understand. Some kind of prayer . . . some kind of forgiveness . . . maybe a sin he hadn't confessed . . . maybe something in his life he could not resolve. I continued prayiing for him.

After about two weeks I was sitting by myself at the back of Saint Victor's in the early evening twilight. The presence of Father O'Neill was still with me, and I was reflecting on our friendship before the Lord. Suddenly, and without conscious thought, I knelt and prayed, "Lord, allow me, to take responsibility for Father O'Neill's sins, and any other thing that would prevent him from being with you." Father O'Nell's presence left immediately and never returned. I had a very strong sense of rightness about what I had done, but never was given any explanation of what I might have taken on, or how it might impact my life.

I had been called as a priest by the Father, and I had no idea what that meant. Gradually I assumed it meant being a Catholic priest according to the established custom. After all I had experienced in the Seminary (see Father L. above), and after I left the Seminary to marry, I pondered my call as a priest before the Lord . . . was the call real? . . . had I betrayed the Lord? I turned to my Bible and read, "Every high priest has been taken out of mankind and is appointed to act for men in their relations with God, to offer gifts and sacrifices for sins, and so he can sympathize with those who are ignorant or uncertain because he too lives in the limitations of weakness. That is why he has to make sin offerings for himself as well as for the people. No one takes this honor on himself, but each one is called by God . . ." (Hebrews 5:1-5) The memory of Father O'Neill, and all that transpired after his death came to memory and I understood immediately the meaning of that Bible verse. I was appointed to act for men in their relations with God, to take responsibility for their sins, and to offer myself as a sacrifice.

Father O'Neill had stayed with me after his death until I had understood the real meaning of my call and destiny in the Lord.

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Grandmother

I spent quite a lot of time with my Aunt and my Grandmother during the period of just before, and during, the time I was in the Seminary. Grandmother had been a beautiful Victorian lady when she was young, and treasured things such as her crystal and her silver set that reminded her of that period. She was in her nineties at the time I was there and life had gotten more simple for her, and at the same time for frustrating. Her major concern nearly every morning was finding either her slippers or her robe. She would get increasingly irritable as she looked about the house and would invariably reaach the point where she would say something like, "Well, it was right there! So somebody has taken it!," and whe would send a stern look at either my Aunt or myself. Both of us had long since learned to say nothing is such circumstances.

After she got worked-up in such a manner, she would announce that she was going to read her Bible. She would grab it and sit down at the dining room table, and bend over until her eyes were about six inches from her Bible. She would then lift the right side of her wire glasses, squint her right eye, and read her Bible for about fifteen or twenty minutes. Then she would abruptly stand up and walk directly to the thing for which she had been looking.

As simple as her prayer was, the Lord answred every time. I pondered that morning routine of hers, and the Lord's faithfulness for quite a long time. It was especially interesting because the prayers offered during the mass at the Seminary always addressed very important issues, like; the end of war, the end of poverty, the end of hunger, justice throughout the world, and for righteous and just leaders in the world. And none of those prayers were answered. It those cases where the thing happened that had been prayed for, such as the end of war, those who had offered such a prayer apparently forgot they had done so, because they certainly did not acknowledge the event as an answer to prayer. Gradually I understood prayer as the Lord intended. Meaningful prayer was not a request for God to wave a magic wand, but rather for the Lord to enable and empower a committed life. The Lord answered prayers organic to the persons life who depended on him and acknowledged his presence in their life. The prayers at the Seminary were not answered when there was no discipled effort to work for the goal that was the subject of the prayer. And the Lord did not care to answer prayers when it was never acknowledged as an answer to prayer.

In spite of this meaningful witness of my Grandmother, there was one prayer that the Lord apparently did not intend to answer. At about a two or three week interval, she would come into where I was drinking my morning coffee and say, "I had the mose wonderful dream last night." Her face was aglow, and her eyes looed into the distance, "I saw the most beautiful meadow, and beautiful flowers and birds . . . and a voice saying, 'Come home . . . come home . . . come home." Then suddenly the glow would vanish, replaced by irritation, "But I can't go yet . . . there's something I have to do first." When there were other annoyances, she would invariably say to me something like, "Well, I hope you have to live as long as I've had to live." As if that was the most severe consequence she could imagine.

Naturally I became determined to figure out what she had to do before she could go to the beautiful meadow. I first noticed a pattern with my Dad. He came to visit often, was happy and optomistic when he arrived, and depressed when he left. The opposite result that I would have expected. I then realized he always came down at my Grandmother's request. At that point I knew that whatever it was that Grandmother had to do involved by Dad. Then Dad share, during a moment of transparency, that when he was twelve his Mother and Father had gotten into an especially ugly fight. The next day, while Dad was at school, left with my Aunt for Portland to stay with my Great-Grandmother, without telling Dad she was going. My Grandfather demanded to be waited on, and with his wife and daughter gone, he insisted Dad cook the meals and keep up the house. It was a deeply, deeply, hurtful thing for my Dad to endure. The thing that Grandmother had to do before she could die was to tell my Dad that she loved him, and to ask his forgiveness for abandoning him when he was twelve years old. Would she be able to do it?

The next time Dad came down events unfolded in a much more dramatic fashion then ever before. Dad and Grandmother immediately began spending hours in her bedroom alone with the door closed. When they came out both had guilty expressions on their faces. I had the bedroom next to Grandmother's and luckily one day when my Aunt was away they talked loud enough for me to hear. She was telling him she was going to give him all of the mineral rights on the property in Montana, and that he would be a rich man. In fact, she was talking about the mineral rights on the 160 acre homestead my Grandparents claimed in 1911 in Montana. In fact, it was worthless even as farm land, but when they sold it Grandmother insisted on keeping the rights to any oil that might exist under that land. She was motivated by the discovery of an oil field about 30 miles away. That field turned out to have been disappointingly small. Grandmother, Dad, my Aunt, and myself knew those oil rights were totally worthless, but Grandmother 's need for forgiveness and Dad's need to hear that he was loved was so great they both got caught up in the ruse. Later Dad came sneaking out of her bedroom with something wrapped in a towel and made his way to his car. Obviously it the mineral rights documents. During the next several days Dad sneaked out of her bedroom with pieces of her silver set, pieces of crystal, and only the Lord knows what else.

Finally my Aunt blew up, "You're sneaking around here like a kid that has stole candy from the store!," "And you," addressing my Grandmother, "are hidding for hours in your room! What is going on here!" Dad left that day in a very sheepish and embarrassed mood. Grandmother stayed in her bedroom, except to cross the hall to the bathroom. She asked that food be place on his desk by the door as she would likely be asleep.

Two weeks later by Aunt announced that it was time for Grandmother to go to a convalescent home. Grandmother was very despressed, but my Aunt was still angry and would not relent. I visited Grandmother on her second day in the convalescent home and she was still depressed and withdrawn. About all she could say was that she had called Dad again and he was on his way down. That time he arrived depressed. I took him over to see Grandmother, and waited in the lobby for two hours. I was not privy to what happened in Grandmother's room, but when Dad cam out he had a peace that I had never before seen. Late that night the convalescent home called to say that Grandmother had died.

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In every instance where I was granted the honor of an intimate awareness of another person's death, or desire for death, I also experienced the depths of the Lord's abiding love. In each situation, whether it was Albert, Father O'Neill, Grandmother, my Aunt, my Father, my Mother, or others, thr person had reached a point where they wanted to die. Whether they expected death to be a positive or negative experience made no difference. They were kept alive until their earthly life was complete. Whether completion meant forgiveness, reconciliation, or communication of essential wisdom.

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Grown Up

There was such an experience. During the Summer of 1950. My life had been made traumatic by two major developments . . . my parents had recently gotten divorced, and the Korean War had begun. I was living with my Father, and he was a news addict. He throughly read the newspaper every morning, and listended to radio news broadcasts. The news from Korea that Summer was very grim. The little map of Korea in the newspaper every morning, showed a steadily decreasing area controlled by the Allied Forces. Just one look at that map caused me extreme anxiety. When Dad listened to the radio news I would run into my bedroom and put a pillow over my head. But the quiet in my bedroom was no relief from anxiety. I would begin to imagine the universe . . . how big was it? , , , where did it end? I was certain there must be some limit to the universe . . . but where? . . . and what? The thought of an infinite universe caused all of the anxiety to come back. Then I would visualize a wall far out in space where the universe ended, and the thought was comforting. But only for a few moments. The question would pop into my mind, "What's on the other side of the wall? . . . empty space!," and the anxiety would come flooding back.

Early one morning, while in just that state of extreme anxiety, a powerful presence appeared in my bedroom. "You will be the leader of my people one day," appeared on the plane of my consciousness in a very clear, indeliable manner, and then the powerful presence was gone. It was not an audible communication, but something much deeper. I made no response to the communicaton or to the "powerful presence, and had no conscious reaction inside. Nevertheless, the effect was instantious and complete. The anxiety was gone, never to return.

I did not think of that experience again until shortly before the beginning of the period of intense spiritual direction. But the unconscious impact was very powerful. It can best be understood by something that happened four years later.

I had gotten into a fight with my nemesis, Bobby Bradshaw, and he had landed a punch that gave me a bloody nose. As I emerged from the ally where the fight had taken place, Mrs Hannah, the mother of Alan Hannah, a classmate, stopped her car in the middle of the street, rolled down her window and said, "I am glad you got beaten up Dale Evans, because you are such a cocky kid."

My Spiritual Director said there would have other less dramatic experiences of confirmation over the years. In additon, to various experiences mentioned in other parts of this personal account, there is one that is worth sharing.

My first assignment as a newly commissioned Naval Officer was Naval Justice School in Newport, Rhode Island. After completing that school I traveled to my first duty assignment on the 'west Coast with another Naval Officer and a Marine Officer who had also completed Naval Justice School and had been given assignments on the West Coast. They dropped me off first at the Long Beach Naval Base late at night. It was, of course, bad manners for a young officer to report to his ship in the middle of the night, but I had no money for a hotel room, and therefore no choice. It was midnight when I stood on the jetty looking for the USS Maddox (DD-731). Just as I spotted it in group of four destroyers moored together, something like a wind and an energy enveloped me and, "This is where is will all begin," appeared on the plane of my conscious. Indeed, the conscious phase of my formation in the Lord began one and one-half years later in the Battle of Tonkin Gulf, that marked the beginning to the overt war in Vietnam.

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