age and I look ten years older than him.
“I’m going for cute,” I laughed as my hand scruffed my chin. “Kind of casual today, ain’t ya padre?”
He ignored my comment and grabbed a menu. “Let’s order. I’m hungry.” We filled our stomachs as we filled each other’s ears with our news.
“So tell me about her,” he ordered while he finished his ordered.
“Who?” I asked, “my Mother?” He knows my Mother well and he knows she hasn’t been well.
“No, but how is she?” he asked. We discussed my family and he told me about his. “I meant the woman in the blog.”
“Hey, you read my blog?” I felt surprised.
“Everyone reads your blog,” he said. “I read it every morning. It’s how I keep up with you.” He paused and then assessed. “It’s so you man. Every word is so you. So. Who’s the woman?”
“You asking as a buddy or as a priest?” I lifted my beer to my lips.
“Pick it,” he said as he sipped his coke.
“It’s so funny because I can divide the man from the priest. You know how most people can’t do that? I remember when I was at SJV people acted like the seminarians were already ordained. It sort of creeped me out. So, to my friend I’ll say - man it’s good. To my priest I’ll say - we’ve got some problems.”
“I’m listening,” he said and took another sip.
“Seal it,” I said. “I don’t want to guard my words,” I confessed.
He listened and led my questions.
“Well? What?” I asked.
“Ok, the morality of it all - you know all that. So let’s separate the confession. Let me tell you what I’m hearing. Man, you divide everything too much.”
“What does that mean?” I asked him.
“Ok, I’ve known you for what? Like 25 years? You’re so black and white. You have no middle ground,” he declared.
“True, I hate gray,” I offered no new insight.
“Oh hey wait. I was going to ask you about this anyway but now I see how it works. Mark when you started your blog, it was funny and open and fresh. I laughed and read it to my students.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah, it was funny. But then it was like you rediscovered your faith and you brought theology in. I knew you were back into your groove. I read your words and I thought, man - it’s profound. I began using it in my prayer life. It really touched me and I started using it in my homilies. Hey while I’m thinking about this - write something about your prayer pattern. No one prays like you do. I want to teach it.”
“Seriously? My mother taught me how to pray.”
“Yeah really. Anyway, lately I’ve noticed that you rarely mention your faith and you’ve stepped away from your core. It’s all about you and your relationships. Which is cool but where are you?” he waited for my answer.
“Well it’s all about me. I’m writing about me.” I defended myself.
“Yeah, obviously but in a really removed way. I like reading it in a observational sort of way,” he admitted. “It’s good gossip.”
“The writing is good,” I rebutted.
“Sure, I didn’t say it wasn’t. And I know most of the people you’re writing about. But hey, look. Back up and look at it,” he challenged.
“I’m putting it down so that I can see it. I put my head into words so I can understand it. I don’t care who reads it. The funny thing is that I don’t write it for someone to read it. I just write it. I like the outlet of it.”
“Well ok. I get that. So why not just tell her all these things?” he leaned into his elbows.
“Because I’m not good at putting my thoughts into conversations. I have to think them through. I write about us because I want her to see how I see the things I can’t put into our conversations. I used to tell this buddy of mine, ‘hey want to know what I thought about on my porch?’ and he’d laugh and say ‘sure.’ But, I had arrived at complete thoughts at that point. I don’t know how to put my faith into a casual conversation.” I confessed. “And when I do, people back up. You know that. It happens to you. They act intimidated. They sort of stare at me and I instantly realize that I’ve made a mistake.” I said this secret aloud.
“People are afraid of you Mark,” he said. “Don’t you know that?”
“Afraid of me?” I denied that. “I don’t believe that. Afraid of what?”
“Everyone knows God’s hand is on you. Everyone who meets you knows that. Everyone who has ever known you knows that. Look at your family. Nobody’s family is like yours. You are the Cleavers.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I have a good family.”
“Yeah, and you make everyone act the way they’re supposed to to be around you. Everyone is so scared of disappointing you. Man, look at today! I came here to have lunch with a friend and you had me seal our conversation as reconciliation! Who would do that?”
“But I see you as a man and as a priest” I said.
“But you can’t see yourself as a man of faith and a husband?” He looked me in my eyes. “This has always been your problem. We talked about this in the seminary. You don’t incorporate your faith into
every aspect of your life. You never can see how you can have God and a woman. You can you know. You can have both. It’s called the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony. It can be done. Ask your folks.”
“I know John. I get that. I do,” I conceded. “But let me ask you something. And I swear to Christ I mean this with pure intentions, but if you can see living your faith in a secular world, then why aren’t you wearing your collar?”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Damn! You’re good!” he laughed. “I’ll wear it from now on. But I’m right too. You can do both Mark. You can.”
“It’s not that I never wanted to get married. I’ve been in love. You’ve met most of the women in my life. But it never works out. And it’s not me that walks away. You know that too. You know me better than anyone. You’d think that going to your friend for Confession would be weird but it’s not. It’s great. There’s no pretense. You so get me. Anyway, the women dump me. They always dump me,” I gushed.
“Well Mark, you’re too big a risk.”
“What’s the risk? I’ll stay. I’ll be faithful.” I vowed.
“No, they’re afraid you’ll stay. They don’t want to be the one who’s responsible,” he sighed.
“I don’t get it,” I questioned.
“Go sit on your porch and think about it,” he said.
And so I wrote it down.
November 25, 2007
