Remember me as loving you, a story recovered

Here’s a story I took to a workshop Ruth Stotter and John Boe led on spiritual storytelling back in 2017. What a day it was, with each story told unlike any others shared that day. I thought I’d lost mine, but I just stumbled upon a draft that’s close to what I ended up telling at the workshop.

Remember me as loving you

Jim was in his recliner the other day, watching a Warrior’s game, when I passed by. He looked up and called, “Hey, what are you up to?”

I paused. “You remember that workshop I’m going to on spiritual stories?”

“Is that coming up already?” He took a sip of soda.

“This Saturday. I re-read the announcement, and all participants are invited to bring a story, so I’ve been in my office trying to think of something. That’s why I was reading Rumi last night before bed. I thought I might find some inspiration there.”

“Oh, well, when it comes to spiritual, you don’t need to look any further than Seamus O’Malley.”

“Father O’Malley? I don’t think so. … Father John Powell crossed my mind, though. He was a positive influence in my early years.”

When I was seven years old, my aunt Ruth O’Neill married Bill Powell. And with that marriage I didn’t just gain an uncle, I also gained his brother, John Powell, a Jesuit priest, who livened things up at family gatherings. He told jokes, played show tunes on piano and coaxed everyone to sing along. He also became the go-to priest for baptisms, marriages and funerals.

When I was eleven, he was the one who led everyone in the rosary at my father’s wake. And in the following years, he and my grandfather came to visit my sisters and me. I remember the love in his eyes when we all sang together. I felt like he could penetrate right into my soul, like he saw who I was, when nobody else was even looking for me.

Several years later, Father John became a celebrity in Catholic circles. He published books that combined Catholicism and popular psychology in ways that people found accessible, and his books sold in the millions. He traveled throughout the country, and sometimes internationally, giving retreats and seminars. During the early ‘70s, he would take my sisters and me to dinner near Loyola University in Chicago, where he was on the faculty. He encouraged us to order lobster and steak. That’s how I learned a vow of poverty doesn’t mean a priest can’t have a generous expense account.

After I moved to California, I kept in touch with Father John. I’d write about things that perplexed me, usually having to do with relationships. He always responded with encouraging thoughts. At the end of every letter he wrote, “Remember me as loving you.” An especially powerful message if you think of God as love, a perspective I find appealing.

Jim grabbed a mini pretzel from a bowl near his chair and popped it into his mouth. “John Powell. He must have had charisma. I think his books still sell.”

“But then there’s that other stuff about him, which kind of throws a wrench—”

“Oh, no.” Jim leaned forward in the chair, gripping the arms with force. “That’s not spiritual. That’s for Jerry Springer.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know what to say about Father O’Malley. He is your story to tell, not mine.”

“You never liked him because he called you Laurie that time.” Jim waved his hand as though to shoo me away.

“I got over that, eventually.”

The time in question was when Jim took me to his parents’ house for dinner for the first time. It turned out they’d invited Jim and me—and Father O’Malley, which put me on edge. I pretty much did write him off as a dismissive priest, like others I’d met who patted me on the shoulder and couldn’t even get my name right. I didn’t know then that he called just about every young John, Laura or Sue ,Johnny, Laurie or Susie. It was one way he expressed affection.

I also didn’t know what a help Father O’Malley had been to Jim when he was a struggling alcoholic. The father saw the good in him when no one else, not even his parents, did. Jim sobered up early in our relationship, so I don’t know what it’s like to live through an alcoholic’s downward spiral; I only know the long, complicated recovery process.

Initially, I didn’t think Father O’Malley compared to Father John Powell, a Jesuit, a scholar, a powerhouse with whom I could be honest. With most devout Catholics, I tended to go into hiding. This was the result of a childhood in which my father distanced himself from the church but never told our extended family. At family gatherings, he forced my sisters and me to pretend we went to mass regularly. When we didn’t enroll in Saturday Catechism classes for public-school students, we had to tell our aunts and uncles we went every week, without fail, and somehow bluff our way through any questions they asked about what we’d been learning.

Jim stretched and settled himself in the chair. “Father O’Malley was one of a kind. I miss him.“

Sensing Jim was moving into a relaxed frame of mind, I perched on the loveseat near his recliner. “He was an extraordinary man.”

“You’ve got that right.” Jim stretched and settled himself in the chair.

“They kept trying to promote him, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they wanted him to become a bishop, then archbishop someday, but he always said, ‘I’m a parish priest, proud to be a parish priest and will remain a parish priest.’ That’s where he believed God’s work was really done.”

“They made him a monseigeur eventually, right?”

“Yeah, after he retired and was living at Nazareth House. He told me the archbishop himself gave him the news, sat right on his bed and was as ‘comfortable as an old shoe.’”

“He had a good sense of humor, didn’t he?”

“The best. Once when I was remodeling a deck across the street from St. Phillips, I saw him greeting mourners on the church steps after a funeral. I dashed over to say hello, and I told him I’d never be able to thank him enough because, if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be sober. He laughed and said, ‘That’s a great relief to me, lad, since I’m gettin’ up in years, 85 years now, and will soon be at the Pearly Gates. When St. Peter asks, What good have you done in this life, O’Malley? I can say, just take a look at Jimmy Holland and I’ll get right in.’”

Lucky for his fans, Father O’Malley lived on for more than a decade. Jim went to his funeral, which was so packed, there was standing room only, and people lined the sidewalk down the block. There were fifty-two priests, nine bishops and four archbishops, something unheard of for someone who never aspired to the church’s hierarchy.  Several people spoke at the funeral, one of whom was a priest whose first assignment was to assist Father O’Malley at St. Kevin’s parish in Bernal Heights. He told of his first night in the rectory. Father O’Malley welcomed him, fed him dinner and later showed him to his room. It had a window facing Cortland Avenue, the neighborhood’s main drag. He fell fast asleep, but was awakened at 2 a.m. by a gravely voice calling out, “Nobody loves me except Father O’Malley. Nobody loves me except Father O’Malley.” This continued for some time, keeping the young priest awake.

At breakfast Father O’Malley asked him how he’d slept, and he said fine except for someone calling out, “Nobody loves me except Father O’Malley” repeatedly in the middle of the night.

Father O’Malley said, “Oh that’s Rudy. He was quite the boxer, you know, but now he’s down and out and takes to the bottle. Nobody knows him anymore. Whenever I see him, I invite him in and give him a sandwich and a cup of coffee.”

“Why is that?” the young priest asked.

“Because, my son, everyone deserves to be treated with dignity.”

I choke up when I think of that. It’s so hard for most of us to reach out and love people who are acting in ways that harm themselves and others.

Despite all the money he made for the Jesuits in his career, I doubt Father John Powell had the kind of sendoff Father O’Malley did. After he retired, Father John’s eyesight was failing, so I formatted letters to him in 18-point font. While I was at work on my first memoir, I sent him a few sections. He was invariably enthusiastic about my work. When I found a publisher (that, unfortunately, stopped releasing new titles before mine went to press) he offered to write an introduction. I accepted without hesitation. I received his introductory remarks and I thought I’d add a little bio before sending it to the publisher. I googled his name to make sure I didn’t leave out anything important—and was dismayed with what I found. In addition to accolades for his books, I saw that seven women had sued him for sexual abuse that had occurred in the ‘60s and ‘70s. One of the accusers was only thirteen at the time. The Jesuits eventually settled the suits. Father John was not criminally charged; he was by then blind and bedridden.

After I learned of the allegations, I stopped corresponding with Father John Powell. This, I imagine, is not what Father O’Malley would have done. He would have found a way to treat even a fallen angel with dignity. Right now, I’m just working on remembering Father John as loving me.