Never Forgotten

Nicholas Rottman

An old priest sat at his office desk. He had just been badly shocked and already his emotions were developing into sorrow and anger. He had just received a call from someone at the diocesan offices – he couldn’t quite recall who it had been, now – who had told him that he was being reassigned to a new parish. After twenty years at St. Mary’s parish, how could they ask him to move now – now when he was nearly eighty! It just wasn’t fair. This place was his home and these people were his family.

The old priest’s secretary stuck her head in the door. “Father,” she asked cheerfully, “I’m headed out for lunch; can I get you anything?” She paused when she noticed the downcast look on the old priest’s face, and then added, “Is everything alright, Father?”

“Everything is fine, Sandy,” replied the old priest, slowly rousing himself from his thoughts. “Go on to lunch. I’m just a little worn out today and I think I’ll go up to my room for a while. Just transfer any calls up there.”

After the secretary had departed, the old priest shuffled his way upstairs to his small room. It was not stylish, and none too neat, but evidence of many happy years was crammed into every corner of the room. The old priest knelt down by his bed and began to pray. He prayed for guidance, and as he did so, his mind began to run back over the past twenty years of his life at St. Mary’s Church, and back even farther to previous assignments when he had been a younger man.

He had lived a good, full life and had always been happy as a priest. Of course, there had been sorrowful times, but they would pass, and the abiding joy of a life lived for others, without thought for self, would return and make it all worth while. But somehow, this time he couldn’t find anything to look forward to – who was he to serve if he left St. Mary’s, who else would love an old priest the way these people, who had grown older with him, did? As he prayed, tears began to run down the creases of his old face. He had never really thought of retiring, not only because there were hardly enough priests left to run all the parishes in the diocese, but also because he loved ministering to his people, his little flock, as he thought of them.

He had always assumed that the bishop would respect his age and his wish to remain where he was and would not ask him to move again. But the bishop had now asked, and he was not prepared. He laughed bitterly in his head; it would not have been as bad if it had been the bishop who had called and told him about his being reassigned. Instead, the call had been made by that young priest who had just been made the new Vicar General and whose name the old priest could never remember. The old priest’s pride had been badly hurt by that. Now he began to get angry again. They couldn’t make him move! He wouldn’t do it!

“Not my will, but Thine be done” – the words of the Lord’s agony rang through his head as his eyes glanced upon the old crucifix hanging above his bed. He took a deep breath to calm himself; getting angry wouldn’t do anyone any good. But like Jesus long ago in the Garden of Gethsemane, his sorrow was terrible and painful to him. He looked up again at the crucifix, and his eyes focused on a lock of black hair, held together with a ribbon, which he had long ago added to the memorabilia that decorated the image of the crucified Christ. The hair had belonged to his sister. She had given it to him many years ago when their vocations had taken them their separate ways. He missed her terribly now, as he had not in many years. Crawling onto his bed, he reached up and took the lock of hair down and began to run his fingers over it.

Comment

1. Lovely!

   — Kate · May 24, 10:50 PM · #

2. Very poignant, congratulations!

   — Nicholas · Jun 10, 12:59 PM · #

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