CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sunday was a time of showing respect for God, and the Church; for over eighty percent of the inhabitants in this hamlet were of the Catholic faith. Father Lonigan was the parish priest who guided his flock with love and a steady hand. Not more than thirty years-of-age, he stood six feet, five inches, yet only weighed one hundred and fifty-nine pounds if that. Lanky, just barely describes this gentle giant with the short flaming red hair and white alabaster shin covered in orange freckles.
But pay heed, he was no novice when it came to church doctrine; for he knew his bible front to back and then some, as it were. All who knew Father Samuel Lonigan had great respect for this peaceful man-of-god; born and raised amongst them, no unkind word was ever raised against him. Not even the Baptists, nor the non-church goers had a cross word to say about this young man, for he helped all in the community, no matter what their lot in life was, or what faith they chose; for as he saw it, all are Gods children and live by his loving grace.
The church was grandiose and well maintained; even in hard times the faithful saw to their house of worship. Two large steeples rose some forty feet at the main entrance, where two large oak doors guarded the entrance to this oblong-shaped old papal-style church. It could hold one hundred and forty sinners; wooden bench-seats covered in thick red-fabric, and every catholic icon covered in gold-leaf showing the power and elegance of Holy Mother Church.
This Sunday was like any other Sunday. At the end of the Mass Father Lonigan would enter the confessional, and those seeking forgiveness would venture forth. Ruth Anderson entered, made the sign of the cross and sat down holding her purse tightly in her lap; contemplating for a moment as she wasn’t sure how much she should confess too. After a short silence she spoke.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was last Sunday. I…I…spoke ill of my neighbor across the street, Daisy Cohen, because her small dog keeps crapping…sorry, I mean…it keeps going to the bathroom in my rose bushes, and when the dirty little varmint…ah, sorry, I mean when her dog ‘Arnold,’ goes to the bathroom, he digs up my roses, and leaves holes all over my rose-bed. And just yesterday I stepped in dog poop, again, for the umpteenth-time. I asked her to keep him in the house or on a leash when he’s outside, but she just ignores me. And only a Baptist would be dumb enough to name their dog after their dead husband, can you believe it?” Ruth was rambling on in her usual manner.
“Father Lonigan spoke softly, yet sternly, “Let’s stay on point, and remember, it’s not up to us to judge others, no matter what they might name their pet. Please continue.”
“Ah, yes, you’re right Father, I’m also sorry I called her a…dumbass. I’m sorry I spoke ill of her to my friends, and I should have more patience and understanding I guess…I mean…I know I should have more understanding and patience. And I’m sorry I hit Arnold with a broom when I caught him messing around my trash cans.” Ruth now sat silent.
“Is there anything else?” Father Lonigan asked with simple love and sincerity in his voice.
“No Father.” Came her meek reply.
“I want you to say two Hail-Mary’s, and one Our Father’s, and I think it would be a nice gesture on your part to give some of your roses to the widow Cohen?”
“What?!” Ruth was momentarily caught off guard, but quickly regained her composure. “Uh, well…I’ll think about it.”
Father Lonigan knew Ruth had a good heart underneath her rough and somewhat prejudiced exterior, “If you make this goodwill act of contrition, it just might bring about a new friendship.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, alright, alright, I’ll do it.” She said with some trepidation in her voice as she fled the confessional; yet she was a woman of her word.
Ruth Anderson was sixty-six and was a retired second-grade school teacher. For reasons only known to her, she never married, nor had children. She was roughly five-foot four-inches tall and was heavy set. White hair pulled into a bun was her everyday style, and she did not believe in coloring it. She always wore thin white gloves when out and about.
Mable Zeeks was next, she referred to Father Lonigan as ‘Father goody-two-shoes’ when he wasn’t around. She entered and crossed herself. After the standard opening she came straight to the point, “I’ve said some very bad things about those Satan Worshippers who call themselves the ‘Monday Night Mystics,’ and I’m not sorry, not one bit! They should all burn in hell and God is with me on this, so don’t try and tell me otherwise Father. You know I’m right, and the church should do something about them practicing their witchcraft; sacrificing animals when there’s a full-moon. Its sacrilege, you should…”
Father Lonigan has listened to this same diatribe for several years now with great patience, and once again he politely interrupted her, “Now my child, we have discussed the notion of ‘live and let live’ on other occasions. Have you been praying for them to see the true light of our savior Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, I have been praying; praying they all die and burn in hell! Which is what God wants for them!” She yelled as she stormed out of the confessional as usual, and as always, madder than a wet hen.
Father Lonigan said a prayer for her, which was his usual way of dealing with the over-zealous as he saw her to be. He prayed that one day her heart would open, and be filled with everlasting love for all of mankind; or he’d settle for Mable to at least find some tolerance of those who lived in Saint Cloud.