HONEST GABE

Honest Gabe

Father Gabe. From the moment I heard, I couldn't stop thinking about Father Gabe. I cried. I was scared. I begged. All in prayer form or at least that's what scratching aside the panic and worry would reveal; prayer. Incessant prayer. And isn't that what we are taught to do? My favorite priest and friend, Father Gabe, had suffered a mild stroke.

Then it snowed in Atlanta, as if to seal the surreal. An unacceptable bombardment of bad events. Really snowed and left me comfortably ensconced, but bitterly stuck for a few days. (No jokes allowed; I have photos that show ankle-deep snow.)

Just returning from working on a cruise ship, I had a long list of things to do, important appointments to keep, people to see, and so on, before having to quickly leave Atlanta again. Mass at St. Ann's was top of that list. And as always, a silent prayer that Father Gabe would be the celebrant. We're probably not supposed to waste God's time on such a wish, but I confess to that sin, thankfully not a mortal one.

I just love Father Gabe. We've shared belly-shaking laughs and childhood stories. Annual retreats where he inspires are a must. And cardinals. Red cardinals. Father Gabe loves them because they remind him of his father and now I love them too because they remind me of Father Gabe. I have a stone with a carved cardinal on my veranda and just mounted a red cardinal mailbox as a tribute. They mean angels in some circles and I am all about angels.

Father Gabe has a way about him … he doesn't stand behind a lectern, he doesn't use notes for his homilies, he sometimes doesn't even end up with what he starts to talk about, but decides another word or idea or God-given graciousness is what he needs to express. He is Honest. Real. He loves us. He loves what he does. Father Gabe's grace radiates from the pulpit yet a piece of that grace stays stuck to him and wherever I see him, I see that grace. I am touched by it and that is why I found myself stuck in the snow, incessantly praying for Father Gabe.

Interestingly, all my personal needs and wants went out the window. No appointments now. No visiting friends, no shopping, no pampering. Only praying. Isn't it funny how everything that matters stops mattering in a millisecond when someone we love stops in a millisecond whatever they were doing that was important to them, because, well, because God decides these things and I don't have all the answers. It does seem to slant towards bad things happening to good people and all, but only from this side of the proverbial fence.

Father Gabe has worked more lately. As the congregation grows and priests dwindle, there are more masses, more baptisms, funerals, etc. I could tell he shouldered a lot more responsibility than he wanted to, but bravely soldiered forward in solid determination to carry through the needs of others. Caretakers are the ones that need the most care themselves, but don't take time to look after themselves. Others are too self-involved to recognize that need for replenishment. I could see it when I looked at him, but stroke? No. I didn't see that coming.

I remember my first reconciliation with Father Gabe. Talk about scared! I didn't want to confess anything, afraid it might take hours if I were to be totally truthful, and who does that in confession? Honesty. It's the hallmark of reconciliation. The thing is, what about penance? I don't like those sitting around and twirling things and repeating words over and over and wallowing in the worry of why did I confide this or that or.... That's why religions have such a bad rap and why Catholics are more likely to go to a fish fry than a confessional booth, but just once … I could survive this just once, say I did it, and if it was that horrible, never do it again. (The confession part, not the sin part, just so we're clear here.)

But surprise! Father Gabe did not rap my knuckles with a ruler. (Maybe only nuns do that.) He did not chastise me nor make me feel at all accountable for being the bad person I turned out to be. He did not shake his head in dismay or criticize my crimes. He was warm and kind and benevolent and unburdened my heart, instantly making room for his permanent place as my preferred priest in that spot he had cleared.

He did ask me one question about a particular unresolved relationship that reverberated for awhile mostly because I didn't really have an honest answer.

Father Gabe asked me, “Are you sure you are not confusing love with need?”

Years have passed and I still haven't answered that to my satisfaction. Good questions sometimes do not have good answers.

And when I wrote and published a book about my own tragedy, I felt the common author's guilt about writing so honestly and went to see Father Gabe who reassured me that honesty is all there is when telling a story. Honesty. It's true. That's why it hurts so much. Afraid to go and give a copy of the book to the person whom I wrote it for, Father Gabe reassured me that if that person had any sense he would be awed by what I wrote. (That person did not have any sense, by the way. If he was “awed”, I never knew.)

Anyway, I'm pleased to report incessant praying really does work. At least that is how I will remember my lost days in Atlanta. Father Gabe is recovering and will be back good as new, or maybe better – as if that were even possible – some time in the future. I learned that all the silly things I worry about and all the plans I look forward to can dissipate in a flash and it won't matter in the end. I missed Mass and that's okay, because if I had made it, Father Gabe wouldn't have been there and I would have had that tiny tinge of disappointment and then felt guilt and then had to go to reconciliation and then the whole cycle starts again.

And because it is my nature to forcibly find all the good in everything, even the worst of the worst, there are things I think Father Gabe might like to know....

First, Father Gabe, thanks God it was your left side! Think of what you wouldn't be able to do without that right hand working the way it's supposed to! That, and you'll be able to drive again soon!

You successfully found your way out of excessive Masses for the Advent season and having to remember all the different colors of the season and the reason and all of that. You can rest through and come back in Ordinary time.

As soon as I heard about your stroke, I remember thinking, oh no, he'll have to quit smoking … and though I know you'll miss that indulgence, eventually you'll not miss it and you will feel better and breathe better and be able to reward yourself with an extra special chocolate instead.

I'm so glad you have a sister who loves you and was able to come help you and since she is a nun, I hope she raps your knuckles if you do not do what you are supposed to be doing to get back to us as soon as possible.

The short homily thing is not going to work for me. The good news is that whatever neurons were killed off on your left side brain were replaced by long dormant neurons from your right side brain, which will kick in and give you super-homily abilities, surprising all parishioners and you simultaneously, so buckle up Gabe!

God sometimes brings bad things to keep worse things from happening. It's hard to reconcile. Honestly, it's hard to wrap any logic around anything when worlds stop. But I am thankful, Father Gabe, that you made my world stop, so that I could remember what is truly important. Grace. Honor. Wisdom. Dignity. Four words I live by that you taught me, Father Gabe.

And here's the best thing of all: After all these years, I finally figured out the answer to your question: Am I confusing love with need?

NO. Because sometimes, and only with very certain and very special people in your life, there is both. Love and Need. Simultaneously. Your mild stroke, my incessant praying for you, the blasted snow, none of it nor anything else will ever take away how I feel about you, Father John Gabriel … I love you. And I need you too.

Love. Need. Together.

Honestly.

Just Another Lori Story