Eve's Daughters (36 page)

That night, after Mother left for the nightclub, Father O’Duggan showed up at our apartment door.

“Hello, Gracie. May I come in?”

“I guess so.” I didn’t really want him to. I was a mess, my eyes red and swollen from crying. He left the door open and sat down at the kitchen table across from me.

“Your mother asked me to come over and talk to you,” he said. “She’s very worried about you.”

“Did she tell you what happened?”

“Aye, Gracie. She did.” I looked up at him for the first time and saw such tender compassion in his blue eyes that I started weeping all over again. He reached across the table for my hand. “It must be very painful for you, knowing what Karl Bauer wanted to do.”

“I wasn’t even born yet! He didn’t even know me! How could he hate me so much?”

“God knows,” he said softly, “God only knows . . . But any man who knows you for the lovely young lady you are today would be proud to call you his daughter. I know I would be.” He held my hand and let me cry for a while, then handed me his handkerchief.

“Did I ever tell you why I walk with a limp, Gracie?” I looked up at him, puzzled by the change of subject. I shook my head. “Aye . . . well, it was my very own father who crippled me. When I was ten years old, he beat me with a length of iron pipe and broke my leg in three places. It never healed right, and I’ve limped ever since.”

“That’s horrible!” I whispered. Then I realized what Father O’Duggan was really telling me—that his father had been as cruel as mine.

“My father was a decent man when he was sober,” he continued, “but he couldn’t control his drinking. We lived in Ireland, and sometimes Da would stop off for a pint or two after a long shift at the docks. By the time he arrived home, he’d be roaring drunk. He was the meanest man alive when he was drunk, and he’d take out his anger on Mam. My brother and I would try to protect her, and of course he would start beating us.”

Father O’Duggan stood, as if the memories he’d stirred made him restless. He paced the floor of our tiny room as he talked, his huge hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. “As strange as it sounds, we accepted this as normal for our family. It was just the way Da was. But what I couldn’t accept was the fact that he cheated on my mother. Do you understand what I mean by that, Gracie? He was married to my mother, but he went to bed with other women. When I was your age, one woman’s husband caught my father with his wife and killed him in a drunken rage. After that, Mam and the six of us left Ireland and came to America to live with our aunt and uncle.”

He stopped pacing and leaned against the table, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been a priest for fifteen years, Grace. I’ve been in a good many homes and heard thousands of confessions—and I’ve seen far too many fathers like mine . . . and like Karl Bauer. You see, gazing through the windows at other families isn’t the same as living there day after day and knowing what
really goes on behind closed doors. There is a heartache like the one you’re feeling right now in a good many homes.”

My tears started falling all over again. “I used to dream about what my father was really like,” I said. “I used to imagine that he was a hero like Charles Lindbergh and all the other girls would be so jealous when they found out. Now I wish I’d never learned the truth. I wish my real father was dead!”

Father O’Duggan looked stunned, then sorrowful, and I regretted that I had spoken so harshly. “No you don’t, Gracie. You must never wish that anyone was dead.” He sank down in his chair across from me again. “I’m trying to help you understand that earthly fathers and mothers are human beings—that every last person on this earth is a sinner. Even the most loving parent will disappoint us at times in one way or another. And sometimes the poor example our father sets gets in our way when we try to understand what our heavenly Father is like. One of the tasks God has entrusted to me as a priest is to try to show people who don’t have loving fathers what God the Father is like. Again and again I’ve counseled people whose view of God has been twisted by their experiences. They can’t accept that God loves them unconditionally because their own father didn’t love them. They don’t believe that God will never leave them or forsake them because their own father abandoned them. They don’t think God will forgive them because their own father wouldn’t forgive them. Or, if they had a father like mine, they fear God and run from Him because they’re afraid He’s a God of anger and wrath. I understand your longing for a father. I understand why you wanted to find Karl Bauer. But, Grace, he isn’t the father you’re really looking for.”

“He isn’t?” I longed to hear that Mother had made up the whole story—that my real father wasn’t the monstrous Karl Bauer. “Where is my father, then?”

“Your real Father is God. He’s the only Father who will never disappoint you. And from the time He formed you in your mother’s womb, He already knew you and loved you more than Karl Bauer or any other man ever could.”

Father O’Duggan’s words fell on my heart like a welcome rain. I longed to believe that they were true, but I was afraid. “If my real father didn’t want me,” I said, “how do I know that God will want me?”

He pulled the familiar leather volume he always carried from his breast pocket. “Because God wrote everything He wants us to know about Him in the Bible. And one of the things He wrote was this: ‘Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea,
they may forget, yet I will not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.’”

He laid down the book and held out his broad hands to me. I reached across the table and laid my hands in his. “Remember the statue of Jesus on the cross in front of St. Michael’s?” he asked. “God became a man, and He died on that cross to show us His love. The nail prints on the palms of His hands are the imprints of His love for you. Search for
Him
, Gracie, not Karl Bauer.
He’s
your real Father.”

“Mother says we’re not Catholic.”

“I know. Don’t tell the bishop this,” he said with a smile, “but God isn’t limited to one church or denomination. He will find you wherever you look for Him. But churches are a good place to start because they’re designed to help us meet with God . . . we can set up an appointment with Him every Sunday morning. And a priest or a minister can point you in the right direction as you search.”

“How will I know what to do? How do I look for God?”

“Simply sit in His presence and listen . . . and wait. He longs to speak to you, Gracie. Because one thing I know for certain—earthly fathers may reject us and hurt us and disappoint us, but God never will. He’ll never leave you or forsake you, Gracie. He already knows you and loves you more than you can possibly imagine. Isn’t He the kind of Father you’re really looking for?”

Mother knew I was still angry with her when I didn’t snuggle up to read the comics with her on Sunday morning. Instead, while she lay propped in bed with the newspaper and a mound of pillows, I made my own breakfast, combed my hair, and dressed in the nicest dress I owned.

“Now where are you going?” she asked. “You didn’t buy another bus ticket, did you? I thought I already explained that you’re not welcome in Bremenville.”

“I’m not going to Bremenville. I’m going to church.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, dear, we’re not Catholic.” She unfolded the fashion section and tried to pretend that she didn’t care, but I could tell by the sharp edge to her voice that she did.

“You said we’re Protestant, so I’m going to Peace Memorial Church over on Fountain Avenue.”

“You’re not a member there, dear. They won’t—”

“They’ll let me come. Father O’Duggan said so.”

She gave a short laugh. “What would a Catholic priest know about Protestant churches, for pete’s sake!”

“He said I should tell them that my grandfather is a priest in the same kind of church.”

Mother dropped the paper and sank back against the pillows as if she were suddenly very tired. “Not a priest, Gracie . . . they’re called ministers.”

“That’s what Father O’Duggan said, but I forgot the word. He said they’re the same thing, except ministers can get married and have children.”

“I’m surprised Father O’Duggan didn’t try to talk you into going to his church.” I detected a note of bitterness in her voice.

“I wanted to go to St. Michael’s, but he said you wouldn’t approve.”

“He’s right about that.” She picked up the paper again and snapped it open, pretending to read. I walked over to her bed and waited until she looked up at me.

“So is it true, Mother? Did your daddy work in a church like Father O’Duggan does?”

“Oh, it’s true all right.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”

“About Papa?” Mother lowered the paper and gazed at me for a long moment, but she had such a faraway look in her eyes that it seemed as though she were looking straight through me. Her eyes glistened with tears. “Church services usually start at eleven,” she said softly. “You’d better hurry or you’ll be late. Protestant ministers don’t like people to be late.”

I walked to Peace Memorial Church that Sunday with a longing too deep for words. As soon as I stepped into the vaulted sanctuary, I felt the same tense excitement I’d felt as I’d waited in the bus station to go to meet Karl Bauer.
My Father
. I was about to meet my Father.

The Protestant church was less ornamented than St. Michael’s or Mam’s church had been, but it was beautiful, just the same. There were no statues, no alcoves with candles to light, and no figure of Jesus on a crucifix—only an empty wooden cross hanging above the altar. I slipped in quietly, while the usher escorted someone else down the aisle, and took a seat in the rear by myself. Stained-glass windows dappled light over me like a sprinkling of jewels.

At first the service seemed alien and confusing to me. The minister talked and read from a book, then everyone sang a song I didn’t know. Disappointed, I almost walked out. But when everyone bowed their heads to pray, saying the words in unison, I began to cry.

“Our Father . . . Who art in heaven . . .”

They were talking to God. He was my Father too. I could bow my head and talk to Him just as easily as I talked to O’Brien or Booty or Father O’Duggan.

We sang another hymn, and this time I turned to it in the book and found the words along with everyone else. The room seemed to spin when I realized they had been written just for me:

My Father is rich in houses and lands
,

He holdeth the wealth of the world in His hands!

Of rubies and diamonds, of silver and gold
,

His coffers are full, He has riches untold.

I’m a child of the King, a child of the King!

With Jesus, my Savior, I’m a child of the King
.

I allowed the words to sink deep into my heart. Here, at last, was the Father I had longed for all my life. He was rich-in wealth and wisdom and love. I was His child. He loved
me
.

I don’t recall everything else that happened that first Sunday. I’m sure there must have been Scripture readings, a sermon, more prayers. All too soon we were asked to stand for the closing hymn. The tune reminded me of the Irish ballads Mick used to sing to put me to sleep. But oh, the words! Once again, the lyrics echoed the longing of my heart:

Be Thou my wisdom, and Thou my true Word

I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord.

Thou my great Father, I Thy true son
,

Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee, one
.

It was my prayer, my heart’s cry. As I sang, I felt the Lord’s presence for the first time in my life. His Spirit washed over me, surrounded me, lifted me. He shone His love in the deepest part of my heart where I’d carefully hidden all of my fears and hurts, and He healed them. I wept with pure joy. I’d found my Father.

As I walked out of the church in a daze, the minister stood at the door, shaking hands. He was tall and thin, with wire-rimmed glasses and silvery hair swept back from his lined face. He looked very kind, smiling at everyone as he greeted them. I thought of the grandfather I’d never met. He was also a minister, like this man.

“Good morning,” he said as he gripped my hand in his. “You’re not Grace Bauer by any chance, are you?”

I was stunned. “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

“We have a mutual friend—Father Tom O’Duggan. He mentioned that you might be paying us a visit sometime. Welcome to the house of God.”

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you come an hour earlier next week, and you can join our young people’s Sunday school class? We’re studying the life of Jesus this year.”

“The man on the cross?”

“That’s right. God’s Son.”

“I’ll be back,” I told him. And I was, though the week seemed ten years long.

That Sunday I took the first step in my lifelong journey to get to know my Father. I no longer cared about finding Karl Bauer. Eventually I professed my faith in Christ, was baptized, and became a member of Peace Memorial Church. The pastor, Reverend Hudson, gave me my first Bible.

The pastor led the young people’s class himself, held in the musty basement of the church. I loved Sunday school, even though the room smelled of stale coffee and fried chicken from all the church suppers. Our class was next to the furnace room, and every time it kicked on, the pastor had to shout to be heard above the ominous rumbling. It gave his lessons an added touch of drama if we happened to be studying the battle of Jericho or the fall of Jerusalem.

A few weeks after I started attending, I made friends with a girl my age named Frances Weaver. “You go to my school, don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes! I didn’t know you were Protestant too,” she said. Nearly all of the other girls in our school were Catholic. “I thought you were a Papist because you always walk home with that priest.”

“Father O’Duggan? He’s an old friend. He knows Pastor Hudson too.”

“I’ll walk home with you from now on . . . if you want me to.”