As a Child... Part 2
with
James Nealon
There were about ten Catholic churches in the small town. They
would tower over me as I walked with their gorgeous neo-gothic
architecture and there sweet incense laden open doors beckoning me
to come into them and find there what they assumed I so desperately
needed
It was walking by one of these buildings that I walked into,
literally, a man who made me look small by comparison. I tried to
apologize but my manners had been a tad lax of late and he smiled,
nodded his head in understanding and asked me to sit.
He was puffing on this archaic cigar that was as long as my forearm
and I looked from it to his face and saw the starched collar of the
cloth and immediately sat up a little straighter. My life may have
been going nowhere, but my mother and father taught me to respect a
man of the cloth.
He saw my attempts at respect and calmed me down, threw his cigar to
the gutter and motioned for me to follow him into the church behind
him. I had nowhere else to go so I followed him. He still had said
neither his name or anything else.
I followed him to his church and walking behind I realized he was at
least four inches taller than I was and more than a few inches
wider.
We sat down in one of the pews away from the few people who were
scattered within and talked. Not about God or anything near it, he
introduced himself as Shaemus McCoy, a priest with the church and
told me that if I needed somewhere to go, somewhere to sit down
during my travels the door was open twenty-four hours a day.
I said I would think about it and we talked, and we talked long. It
was well after dark when he finally patted me on the arm and told me
to go home to my mother. I smiled, nodded and shuffled myself
home. I think about it now and he never mentioned the Church a
single time, he was a man who saw a boy in despair and helped him.
In the days and months to come he would talk to me every day. He
would help me with my drug and drinking problem and even helped me
to shrug off, most of the time, the insults and abuses of those who
I was afraid of at school.
I will never forget Father McCoy. As a plus sized man himself I
know he had endured parts of what I did, I never asked and he
volunteered, but during that time together, I knew.
There is always someone who will listen to you, who will sit down
with you and take a moment to care for the issues you have.
Do
not despair.
