THIS MUG BELONGED TO ARNOLD DE PAUL who was a parishioner in my first parish where I was a curate or junior-assistant priest thirty-five years ago. Arnold was middle-aged, deaf and mute and would often come to church, not to weekday Mass, but simply to visit. Our paths would cross when I'd be on a church errand; I'd find him kneeling at the foot of the large crucifix on the side wall or at the communion rail.
Arnold made sounds which I couldn't distinguish as words. I expect my own anxieties got in the way, such that it never occurred to me to sit him down to see if he could write or read lips. A foolishly missed opportunity. We communicated only through smiles, handshakes and hugs. In this world of lonely alienation perhaps that is more than he received elsewhere.
In the spring a senior Washington official died who had a home in the parish. President and Mrs. Reagan flew in for the funeral, the bishop celebrated the funeral Mass, the choir sang, there was a police escort for the lengthy procession to the cemetery, the candles burned and the flowers (like the accolades) were abundant. Like a potted palm, I stood in the sanctuary corner and watched.
A few weeks later Arnold died. I was told to "do his funeral Mass" which pleased me. Arnold's casket was the cheapest, called a doeskin box because of the soft cloth covering designed to conceal the knots in the wood. The only worshipers were his two out-of-town sisters, the undertaker, the cantor, organist and myself. There were no speeches, no flowers and only the two required candles on the altar.
At the end of the Mass I spoke with the sisters for a few moments, briefly telling them how Arnold and I knew each other. They said they'd be around for a week or so, clearing out his apartment before heading back to their own homes. I asked them if they came across some little thing of his that they could let go of, might I have it to remember him by.
A few days later this mug, wrapped in plain paper, was left for me at the rectory office. There was a note inside the mug telling me that some years prior Arnold had gone on retreat to the French-founded Trappist abbey-monastery of Our Lady of Gethsemani in Kentucky. The monks either made the mugs themselves or imported them from a monastery in France.
The mug is curious of course because it has two handles. A little investigation disclosed that French babies learn to drink from cups with two handles, making it easier to hold on tight with both hands. The monks retained this image to remind them of their own littleness and weakness. To "Become like little children" Jesus said, acknowledging being loved in one's dependent vulnerability.
St. Therese of Lisieux wrote of living in her convent with twenty or so other women, "Sometimes I feel as if I am living inside a volcano." I get it, living in this polarized, often contentious, sometimes mean-spirited Church. But in the midst of that I met Arnold. I'm thinking gratefully: how is it that in this life, with all of its vagaries, for seconds in each of our life's story, Arnold's path and my path crossed. I witnessed his prayer born of vulnerability and struggle.
And over thirty-five years of priesthood (today being the anniversary of ordination) that kind of wondrous intersecting has been played out over and over again. That witnessing has been the best part of my priesthood.
And over thirty-five years of priesthood (today being the anniversary of ordination) that kind of wondrous intersecting has been played out over and over again. That witnessing has been the best part of my priesthood.
