True Confessions: How I Almost Killed a Priest
By now, you’ve probably realized that I’m somewhat of a worrier. Due to my rapidly advancing age and the experience that accompanies it, I don’t sweat the small stuff much anymore. I’ve graduated to the advanced class, and have cultivated the ability to quickly leap headlong into full blown anxiety about major issues such as the decline of western civilization, mass destruction, Death Stars and trans fat. I’ve become so expert at it, that I feel I may be close to reaching some sort of neurotic nirvana.
A few weeks ago, I promised to tell you about how I’d almost given a priest an aneurysm with my compulsive fretting. I’m still traumatized from the experience, but a promise is a promise, so here’s the story:
Tom and I met this priest a year or so ago, while running an errand for a dishonest, bigoted woman Tom worked for. Father B lives in Cincinnati (about an hour from here), and he and I hit it off from the moment we were introduced. As we bonded over lunch, I found him to be feisty, compassionate and intelligent. He’s also quite funny and unconventional (he may be the only priest who, in addition to his Godly duties, manages an apartment complex). We hugged, laughed and talked, and had an all around great time. A few months ago, we made a date to go see the “Bodies” exhibit at the Cincinnati Museum later this month.
Father B is short and round, and has a lot of health problems. His heart is weak and he’s had a stroke. A couple of months ago, we tried to call him (which we do from time to time), but got no answer. “I’m worried that something’s wrong,” I told Tom, and it turned out that I was right to be concerned. He’d been in the hospital for six days due to his malfunctioning heart.
Not only am I a professional worrier, but it’s fueled by a highly overactive imagination. So at the end of February, when we called Father B and again received no answer, my Concern Gland started acting up. He always answers, or calls back within a short amount of time, and on the one occasion he didn’t, it was bad news. So this time, we tried reaching him for two days, then I started calling hospitals.
Let me note here that Father B doesn’t travel. His only family is a sister who lives in another state. He has no parish, so there are no little old ladies to fuss over him. In other words, he has no one to worry about him. Knowing this, I signed up for the job, albeit without his consent.
Maybe it’s a personal thing. Maybe we’ve somehow offended him, I fretted. I couldn’t
imagine how we would have done this, but you never know. Maybe he’d decided that being friends with a lapsed Catholic guy who lives in sin with an organized religion avoiding, lapsed Jewish woman was just not a good idea. So I asked someone else to call him, just to see if he’d pick up his phone. Nope. No answer. Gulp. By this point, I pictured Father B, in all his priestly solitude, lying in a little round heap on the floor of his apartment, clutching his chest and calling out in the dark for help.
I called the police department’s non-emergency number and asked if they had access to records of hospital admissions. The switchboard operator was very nice, and told me no, but that if I would like, they could send someone by to check on him. I imagined a kindly police officer, probably with an Irish brogue, gently knocking on Father B’s door to inquire about his well being. Of course, if the old priest’s car was parked out front, and the officer didn’t receive a response, I also pictured him kicking in the door like they do on COPS, picking the priest up off of the floor, and calling the emergency squad, who would hightail it to his apartment with lights flashing and sirens blasting, whereupon they would immediately perform CPR and save his life.
So I said, “Okay. That would be great,” and gave her his address.
If you want someone to return your phone call, I highly recommend this method, but only if your hide is as thick as Mark Twain’s mustache.
Within half an hour, Father B called. He yelled, he screamed, he ranted. He came as close to cussing as a priest can without jeopardizing his place in God’s Kingdom.
I cried. I’m not kidding, I haven’t been yelled at like that since I was caught smoking at the mall in junior high. I explained to him that I was worried (“Tell your worries to God,” he barked). I told him that I was afraid something had happened to his heart (“When it’s my time, it’s my time,” he griped). I told him that I cared about him (“I don’t know what to do with that information. I’m just not used to it,” he groused). The guy was just spluttering rage all over the place.
“Haven’t you ever heard of faith?” he asked angrily.
I wanted to say, “Well, yes, but only in reference to the George Michael song, or that country music gal who cut all her hair off,” but I kept my mouth shut.
He told me that he had been getting ready for bed, when he heard thunderous booming at his door. He looked at the security screens of his quiet little apartment complex and saw police cars with lights blazing, and cops standing outside his apartment. He said he’d nearly had an aneurysm, and that although he had been perfectly fine, he almost died of fright at that moment. And it was all my fault.
I was mortified.
“Did it ever occur to you,” he asked, “that I’m an apartment manager, and it’s the end of the month? Did you stop to consider that this is the weekend that I collect rent? Inspect apartments? That maybe I was just too busy to talk?”
Um. No.
He added to my mounting horror by telling me that he’d now have to file a report with the apartment management company, explaining the whole thing. It was their procedure, although until now, he’d never once had to do it in all the time he’d been there
Once he got most of the anger out of his system, he started to laugh. He talked about what a dubious honor it was, being my friend. He said that he wanted to go to the Dead Bodies exhibit with me as a visitor, not to be a part of the display. He took great glee in guilting me, informing me that it would now be hours before he could get to sleep, and that he’d have to watch James Bond movies to calm his nerves. He told me that he only watched them for the action, and had no interest whatsoever in the women. I pictured him turning his thoughts to Jesus and puppies every time Britt Ekland or Ursula Andress appeared on screen.
We have an agreement now. If I’m worried about him, I am to sit on my hands and do nothing. If his number’s up, I am not to intervene between him and the Will of God. I am not to “help,” because according to him, my help will surely kill him.
My mother has always been a championship-level guilter. Born Catholic, and a convert to Judaism, she has a major corner on the market. Over the years I’ve built up an immunity to her wiles, and in fact, I often tell her that her tactics won’t work, because I now wear a guilt-proof vest. But after my experience with Father B, I’ve discovered that a Catholic priest can rip through that vest like an armor-piercing bullet.
I was so embarrassed about this entire incident that I almost didn’t tell you. But in a way, this little blog is my confessional, and I’m hoping that this post will help cleanse me of my misdeed.
Forgive me bloggers, for I have sinned.
betme said,
March 26, 2008 at 2:01 pm
Forgive me Moonbeam for I am laughing my ass off at your expense.
“I am not to “help,” because according to him, my help will surely kill him.”
That is sooooooo funny. I was ready to drive out to Cinci and straighten him out on your behalf. Good grief, people cannot leave us hanging. You had every right to be concerned. (My mind works in much the same manner) Scary huh?
Little Miss said,
March 26, 2008 at 2:41 pm
I love this phrase: “my Concern Gland started acting up.” Now I know what that’s called. I have one too. Hilarious. Love it. As always.
Red said,
March 26, 2008 at 2:45 pm
I see nothing wrong with being a worrier.
This post made me giggle. Im sorry.
thebeadden said,
March 26, 2008 at 2:46 pm
Hahaha, Little Miss just said what I was going to. The “Concern Gland” I just burst right out at that one! Too funny!
I have no doubt that we will be reading your novels one day Moonbeam. It’s just the whole industry right now is having hard times (mostly due to the internet!) and they don’t have the money to spend like they used to.
I tell you, the world is missing out if they aren’t reading your stuff. Somehow, we have to get Moonbeam to the masses!
thebeadden said,
March 26, 2008 at 2:51 pm
Geez…almost forgot. Worry is something everyone can relate to. And to make such an awful feeling (because deep down it is) and to be able to make us laugh about it. Have you ever pitched the idea around to publishers? With all the fear and worry across the globe, the timing would be right!
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 26, 2008 at 4:19 pm
@ betme: Thank goodness the things that happen around here provide some comic relief! If you had driven to Cinci, I would have asked to hitch a ride, so that I could sit ringside. That would have been one hell of a fight!
@ LM: I know you have a Concern Gland, because it acts up when you get around me! I’m glad I made you laugh.
@ Red: I agree. Worrying is our undeniable right as human beings (especially if we’re mothers). But why are you sorry for giggling?
@ BD: Thank you so much! No, I haven’t pitched worrying to publishers. Maybe a how-to guide would sell. “The Idiots Guide to Ulcers” or something.
You’re so kind with your praise, and I’m really glad I make you laugh. I hope your prediction’s correct. I’d love to throw a big blog party.
CuriousC said,
March 26, 2008 at 4:33 pm
A blog party! I’ll bring my spindip… Yes, you should definitely write a book of your short stories.
Heather said,
March 26, 2008 at 5:40 pm
That is so funny and it is so like something I would do(in fact I have done it-called cops to do a “welfare check” on my aunt when her phone was off the hook and I couldn’t reach her).
I swear Moonie we must have been sisters in a past life!
You must have had a really “special” childhood since your mom was Catholic and converted to Judaism. I can only imagine the guilt. I survived Catholic school so I know about the good old Catholic guilt and how overwhelming it can be. WOW is all I can say. I am surprised you survived.
Kaylee said,
March 26, 2008 at 5:59 pm
LOL I liked that post and I am sure not sure that i would say i am doing okay today but i am here alive
Maxine said,
March 26, 2008 at 6:10 pm
You know me – I would have yelled back that he knows I’m neurotic and he should have just answered the damned phone! There can’t be that many rent checks to collect!
I smirked at your story, but I’m so glad it was you who got yelled at and not me. My inner asshole would have become an outie in a heartbeat.
Kisses,
Maxine
Brian said,
March 26, 2008 at 6:26 pm
I wanted to say, “Well, yes, but only in reference to the George Michael song, or that country music gal who cut all her hair off,” but I kept my mouth shut
Great story! Now go do twenty “Hail Marys.”
thebeadden said,
March 26, 2008 at 7:09 pm
I’m not being kind with my praise….
I’m come here for purely selfish reasons. I love the way you write, make me laugh one moment and then an emotional train wreck the next!
All for free
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 26, 2008 at 8:13 pm
@ C: Yum!
@ Heather: Sis? Is that you?
There’s a fine line between a “special” childhood and an insane one. I think my helicopter hovered a lot more over the latter.
@ (((kaylee))): I’m glad you stopped by. I’ll stop by your blog in just a few.
@ Maxine: Your comments were much funnier than my post. I’m from a different part of the south than you, and my inner asshole usually stays fairly hidden (unless I’m really pushed). However, tonight I’m out of cigarettes and it’s not pretty around here. No, not pretty at all.
@ Brian: Hail no!!
(Sorry, I couldn’t resist)
@ BD: Okay, then I’ll just shut up and bask in the glow!
joanharvest said,
March 26, 2008 at 10:52 pm
I laughed my healed ass off over this one. A similar thing happened to me about 15 years ago. This little old lady who my parents knew through their “Seventh Day Adventist ” church they belonged to was about 92 and no one had seen her for a couple of days and she had missed church. Well, my Dad got nervous about her and thought we should call the police. She lived alone in her own home. She was a feisty little thing and when I say little I mean it. She was very, very short. She was also vocally , oh what’s the word–obnoxious. One day at work she came in and looked at me and said, “You’re getting fatter” and I looked at her and said “And you’re getting shorter”. Dead silence ensued. Then I started to laugh, I was laughing so hard I had to leave the room.
Anyway, we called the police and they went to her house and sure enough she answered the door. She was fine and very pissed at us for calling the police.
Well, at least your priest forgave you after his rant. I didn’t know priests were supposed to get so angry. I thought they were supposed to forgive you right away. I wouldn’t have wanted to go to confession with him when I was young. I’ll bet if you confessed stuff to him he’d give you a huge penance.
Adam said,
March 26, 2008 at 11:25 pm
Well, I think he’ll probably return your calls pretty quickly henceforth!
Don’t be too hard on yourself… I’ve worked in law enforcement for almost 10 years now (true, I’m just a computer geek, but I understand some protocol, nonetheless), and I have to say, sending multiple officers, and especially sending multiple cars with lights blazing, is quite a bit of overkill. I mean, every department has their own procedures, but damn… all that for a simple welfare check?!?
Maybe when you told the dispatcher that you were worried he was rotting on the floor, she misunderstood you and thought you said “he was robbing a store”.
Sometimes Saintly Nick said,
March 26, 2008 at 11:28 pm
What a wonderful friend you are to Father B! I’m sure he appreciates you—although being a professional worrier fueled by a highly overactive imagination might be a bit traumatic for him. If you get tired of sitting on your hands, you may want to count down from a million and then do it again before calling the police to check on him. As Alex would say, “OK?”
[:-)
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 27, 2008 at 12:02 am
@ joan: I can just picture that interchange between you and that grouchy little old lady! Hilarious! I like it that you were all looking out for her.
Yeah, I’ll bet Father B gave out some hellacious penances. He used to be a high school teacher, and said that he was really strict. I’ll bet he was!
Yay! Your ass healed!
@ Adam: Can you believe it? It sounds like they sent the entire Cinci police force out there! I’m sure it seemed that way to him. And y’know, I think I’d start with a gentle knock, then gradually pump up the volume. I wonder how many old people have died of fright?
@ SS Nick: I’m not sure how much he appreciates me, since he wants me to back off! I’m still sooooo embarrassed. I’ll see if he’s completely forgiven me when we go to that exhibit.
I like having your perspective here, because I’m guessing that you see it all very clearly from both sides. I’ll try the backwards from a million countdown (twice) and see if that helps.
mittins said,
March 27, 2008 at 3:13 am
hahahahaha my motar would do something like this. on saturday she cleared a beach of childran when she thought she saw a stingray. but that is motars for you.
my advice to you is next time you see him, do something to let him know how much you DONT care about him. trip him over on the hard pavement or playfully push him into some poison ivy. then he will be like “oh we cool again”.
rodneyj said,
March 27, 2008 at 8:55 am
haha. Wonderful story. You have a new fan.
trishatruly said,
March 27, 2008 at 10:19 am
“I may be close to reaching some sort of neurotic nirvana.”
Neurotic Nirvana sounds like a great name for my studio. I’ve been looking for an appropriate name. I think I’ve found it!!!
Hi- LAIR- eous blog, grrrl!!!!
kimiam said,
March 27, 2008 at 11:36 am
moonbeam, that was better than a james bond movie.
Lucky said,
March 27, 2008 at 12:31 pm
“My mother has always been a championship-level guilter. Born Catholic, and a convert to Judaism, she has a major corner on the market.”
GEEZ. I thought I had a bad with the Catholic-can-only-count-on-one-hand-the-number-of-times-she-has-missed-mass mother and the super-uber-Catholic Grandma.
I think what you did was sweet!
Wendy said,
March 27, 2008 at 1:20 pm
I agree with Lucky, what you did was sweet, very sweet. And this is why I hate priests. If he was a regular old guy I could swallow his reaction without a problem, but as a priest who ripped you a new asshold and made you cry, he just underscores what I believe all priests are like underneath the robe.
P.S. – Growing up, all I ever knew of priests were the ones who would show up at my neighbor’s house for dinner parties, where they sat around smoking cigarettes and drinking bourbon. Even back then I knew something was definitely wrong with the priesthood.
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 27, 2008 at 3:25 pm
@ mittins: Ha! Your motar is one smart woman. She probably saved about seventy-three children that day.
I am trying to learn care about the priest, while pretending not to care. Maybe every time he says something to me, like “Nice weather,” I can answer, “I don’t care.” He might like that.
Mittins, you are so full of good advice and wizard power. When I win the Mega-Millions lottery, I would like to hire you as my personal advisor. Would that be okay? Please don’t answer, “I don’t care,” or I’ll cry.
@ rodneyj: Thanks, and welcome!
@ trishatruly: I hope you use it. If you do, send me a business card and I’ll add it to my resumé!
@ kimiam: Wow? Even a Sean Connery one? Thanks!
@ Lucky: Oh, no. Mine is Catholic school upbringing mother and grandmother, raised-by-nuns-in-a-Catholic-orphanage-in-New-Orleans-great-grandmother, send-the-kids-to-Hebrew -school-till-high-school-parents, and assorted other-religious-dogma-believing extended family. Not only do I need a guilt-proof vest, I need a floor-length guilt-proof coat. With a hood. (And thanks.)
@ Wendy: Thanks! My beloved uncle recently wrote me this: “Nobody can chew ass like a priest; I think it’s a course at the seminary. I went to a High School taught by Carmelites and I’ve been ripped by the best.”
I’ve been ripped by rabbis too. When I was in grade school, I once had one pour hot coffee on me, as a joke. Ha.
One of the things that this little episode underscored for me is that just because a person has a deep connection to God, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they’re good at deep connections with human beings (although I’ve met several who are). I think that all of this confused Father B a lot, and the confusion was partly the reason for his anger.
The Vinyl Villager said,
March 27, 2008 at 4:10 pm
I sure hope this was supposed to be funny…because I just laughed my butt off. Well, actually I didnt, its still there, and growing by the minute, but you know what I mean.
I saw The Bodies in Atlanta…did you get to see it yet?
Kaylee said,
March 27, 2008 at 4:27 pm
hey
Kaylee said,
March 27, 2008 at 7:19 pm
can u talk at all tonight?
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 27, 2008 at 9:19 pm
@ The Vinyl Villager: Hell yes, it was supposed to be funny. SOMETHING good had to come out of that fiasco!
It would wonderful if it were really possible to laugh one’s butt off– I’d be LOLing and ROFLMAO constantly, just to stay in shape.
I haven’t see The Bodies yet. Did you enjoy it? The billboards sort of creep me out.
Thanks for stopping by!
@ kaylee: I’m on my way!
thegirlfromtheghetto said,
March 27, 2008 at 9:33 pm
By telling me that your have been raised by someone with dual Catholic and Jewish fate, I now know why you are this way Moonbeam … it’s just in the genes. OMG, that is so funny that you over-react this way. I keep my neurosis on the downlow …. I always overthink and overreact like you do, i love it. I’m so glad he is not still made at you. And, I LOVED the bodies show in Detroit … it is so cool!!!
mittins said,
March 28, 2008 at 2:06 am
ha ha ha, i care !
i hope you win the mega millions lottery so i can personal advise you. i think i saw that in west wing once. i can personal advise you while we walk down a long hallway drinking out of paper cups. or i can be in a trapdoor on the ceiling, and you press a button and i hang out of the trapdoor and advise you, and then i go back into the trapdoor.
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 28, 2008 at 12:07 pm
@ ghettogirl: I try to keep my neuroses “on the downlow,” but they often rise to the surface. I need some little cement shoes for them.
I was worried that the Bodies exhibit would be gross, and I wonder exactly where they got those dead people. Maybe Al Capone’s skeleton is there, playing basketball.
@ mittins: This is a wonderful plan, especially the paper cups part. We would look so cool and important.
I like the trapdoor idea too, but I would buy you a big screen TV to put up there, so you wouldn’t get bored between advisings.
kaylee said,
March 28, 2008 at 5:52 pm
how are you?
The Vinyl Villager said,
March 28, 2008 at 11:37 pm
Moonbeam…
per the Bodies…I expected it to be kinda creepy…but it really wasn’t. I cant describe it…not quite artistic, not quite scientific…but a combination of the two I guess…
go see it if you can!
Lumpy said,
March 29, 2008 at 3:20 am
You writing is too clever! I just smile from ear to ear while reading – “that I feel I may be close to reaching some sort of neurotic nirvana.” and let me tell ya, the pictures are HILARIOUS, love the old fashioned operator lady – You are truly a highly intelligent, funny person and I enjoy your blog! Damn girl, I cannot stop laughing!
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 29, 2008 at 10:09 am
@ (((kaylee))): Please let me know when you’re on today. Concerned about you.
@ The Vinyl Villager: Thanks for the review– I’m looking forward to seeing it a lot more now.
@ Lumpy: I am SO glad you like the blog!!! I love making people laugh, and actually feel sort of guilty when I’m glum. I’ve got my funny bone in the shop today after last night’s real life version of COPS, but I’ll be posting more soon.
Glad you stopped by!
David said,
March 29, 2008 at 3:22 pm
Great post moonbeam. You certainly have returned in full force! Your clergy friend made a lot of good points. If you had simply driven up to Cincinatti maybe he wouldn’t have been so upset. I’m sure you’ve learned a thing or two from this.
LOL: “I am not to intervene between him and the Will of God”. The Power of MMQ!
moonbeammcqueen said,
March 29, 2008 at 11:30 pm
@ David: Thanks! Of course, driving to Cinci was the first thing that crossed my mind, but we were unable to.
I did learn a thing or two: 1: Never check on a priest. 2: When a priest calls to ream you out, wear earplugs.
thebeadden said,
April 1, 2008 at 2:08 pm
I saw this and had to come here. He should be thankful this wasn’t the case! LOL
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/P/PASTOR_STRIP_CLUB?SITE=AP&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT&CTIME=2008-03-29-13-50-33
moonbeammcqueen said,
April 1, 2008 at 2:37 pm
@ BD: We read about this! Of course, it happened right here in good ol’ Dayton. Why did a priest have to drive so far away to go to a strip club? I could understand New Jersey or somewhere closer…maybe we just have a better class of strippers here.