Lincoln Logs: May 21 - 24, 1999
On Friday, May 21, 1999, Sharon and I flew to Lincoln, Nebraska, for a getaway weekend, intending to enjoy the creature comforts of Nebraska’s grand hotel, The Cornhusker, the safety of the city’s streets, and any fine dining opportunities that might surface. We are not accomplished travelers, and so the prospect of not needing an automobile in a strange and distant city appealed to us. I had been in Lincoln a year earlier, and remembered that we could walk to anything we wanted to do. Lincoln would be home until our scheduled departure on Monday, May 24.
These words are being penned for the enjoyment of the reader, including us during those times when we elect to reminisce about some of our joys of life together. No amount of planning on our parts, no alignment of the planets on their paths, could have resulted in the unique and delightful series of events and experiences that we are about to recall.
While waiting my turn to deplane in Lincoln, I thought I heard the gentleman in the window seat across the aisle from us, mention to the lady in the seat beside him, that he was in town for an ordination.
Moments later, near the baggage claim, there was a display piece showing some of Lincoln’s attractions and accommodations. The cleric from the plane was already there. I approached the display, and related that my wife and I were looking forward to a delightful and relaxing weekend in Lincoln. He confirmed that he’s "in town for ordinations."
He looks like a priest, and so I risk asking how many men will be ordained. "Nine." On the presumption that I looked as surprised as I felt, I volunteered that I was from the Toledo Diocese, and we had just one ordination this year. He trades information, telling me that he is from Philadelphia, and they had ten ordinations this year.
One of the pictures on the display piece was of the curved stairway in the lobby of the Cornhusker. "Nice place," I tell him. "We’re staying there." He is, too!
Since our paths might cross, I introduce myself. He returns the favor. But I don’t quite catch the last name. He repeats it, but I’m still not a hundred percent sure. "Kelly, with an ‘S’." That helped a lot. Richard Skelly.
Maybe we should not always talk with strangers. But it is Lincoln, he’s dressed like a priest, he’s older than I am; what harm can kindness do? My faith in humankind is rewarded when he asks if we need a ride to the hotel. I thank him for the offer, but assure him that the Cornhusker periodically runs a van to and from the airport, and we had planned to catch that van.
Outside the terminal, Sharon and I both keep a watchful eye for transportation to the Cornhusker. After ten to twenty minutes, Sharon wonders if we have to call the hotel. "I don’t think so." Ten minutes later, I make the call.
Sharon, the new girl in town, was right. The Cornhusker lady who answered my call asked my name and what airline. John Hermes, TWA, party of two. She’ll have someone there in ten to twenty minutes.
As we were sitting outside, Sharon noticed that two people in the distance were crossing the street. "That lady just dropped her sweater!" Neither one of us can yell very loud, so I locked my gaze on the couple, measured their gait and made mine faster, and set off to retrieve the sweater. It actually turned out to be a yellow towel, but when I caught up with them getting into their car, they thanked me enthusiastically. I heard her remark to him as I turned away, "It has your name on it."
Our kindness needed no reward. Virtue is its own reward. On my way back to the terminal, I spotted the Cornhusker van at about the same time that Sharon did. We were about equidistant from it, me as far behind it as she was in front of it. We watched helplessly, as it pulled away, carrying the wrong party of two!
Back into the terminal I go. My call to the Cornhusker is answered quickly and efficiently.
"I called a while ago about getting a ride from the airport, and ... "
"Is this Mr. Hermes?" she inquires in a manner that seems more refreshingly helpful than devoid of good manners.
"Yes, it is," I confirm.
"He left without you," she explained.
"We thought so, too."
"I’ll ask him to come right back." And she did. And so did he.
Upon arriving at the Cornhusker, whom should we meet finishing his paperwork at the reservation desk, but Father Skelly. We chatted some more, overheard his room number, got our assignment, and caught the elevator to our room on the third floor.
It was lunchtime in Lincoln, a fact that led us back to the ground floor and one of the hotel’s restaurants. We seated ourselves at a table for two, and placed our orders.
Before any of our food arrived, the hostess led Father Skelly in our direction. We intercepted them, and encouraged him to join us, moving our place mats as we spoke. We now know that our actions spoke louder than our offer, and yet he was gracious enough to accept our offer without dwelling on how pretentious we must have seemed.
We found him to be very interesting, talkative, informative, entertaining. By way of introduction, he’s 72, has been a priest for more than forty years, intends to keep at it until mandatory retirement in 2002, and spent a lot of his ministry teaching. Biology and religion, to be exact. As school staffing became more challenging, he reasoned that it would be easier to hire a biology teacher than a religion teacher, so he taught religion exclusively from that point forward.
Did he know that Nebraska had just one winery, and it wasn’t too far from Lincoln? I had been there once before, but because we did not have transportation, we were not planning any visit. If he were looking for something to do on Sunday, it would probably not be difficult to find.
We were curious to know what specifically bought him to ordinations in Lincoln. He explained that one of the young men being ordained, Peter Mitchell, had spent his deacon year at Father Skelly’s parish. Then we wondered why a man from Pennsylvania would get ordained in Lincoln. As it turned out, Peter is from Wisconsin. He is, however, being ordained for the Lincoln diocese. Lincoln for several years, we were told, had been sending their seminarians to Philadelphia for study.
Peter Mitchell is the first born in his family. Father Skelly brands him as being a fascinating and talented young man, a pleasure to work with, a treasure for the priesthood. Father could have sung his praises all afternoon; his admiration for Peter will never fade. What a nice endorsement!
As we parted after lunch, there was a gift shop. All three of us visited it briefly. Although we purchased nothing, I was intrigued by a tie, with inscriptions in Latin. Father Skelly admired it too, read some of it, but obviously had no need for a tie.
Sharon and I retreated to our room to plan the rest of our day. We knew we wanted Italian for supper, and so I headed back to the lobby for a refresher on directions.
Sitting alone in the lobby was a nun, doing some reading. I sat down next to her and asked if she were in town for ordinations, too. She put her reading aside, a sign that she did not mind the interruption, but instead valued the company. She was in town for ordinations. Upon finding out that we, on the other hand, were not, but were instead just weekend visitors, she accepted that without any further question.
It was when I told her my name that I discovered, too late, that she was a little hard of hearing. She turned her good ear to me and asked me to say again what my name was. Still not grasping my name, she asked me to spell it, which I did. Several times, actually. "Herm?" "Herman?" "Horn?"
Apparently, Sister has had experiences like this before, because she has a solution. "Write it for me." She located a very small pad of paper, and one of the skinniest pencils I have ever seen. I took her paper, but in place of her pencil, I got my pen, being careful to seek permission to use it. "You can use your pen," she said. "Print it for me," was her next instruction.
I protested that I don’t print very often, and my handwriting isn’t bad. "Is it okay if I use cursive?" She considered my request, and then granted it. "You can use cursive." Once she saw my name in writing, she knew my name, at least for the time being.
As we continued our visit, Sister reached into a bag and pulled out a plastic bag containing prayer cards with a medal attached to each one. They had finally arrived from California just a day or two before she had to leave on her trip. She reviewed the prayer card for the Immaculate Heart of Mary and the medal that came with it. She hoped she would have enough for everyone who needed one. Would I like one?
I would be honored. In fact, so that I could always remember whom I got it from, would she be kind enough to sign her name to the prayer card? That seemed to catch her off guard. "You want my name on it?" "Yes. That will be another way for me to always remember from whom I got it. You can even use my pen."
After she jockeyed for the most comfortable signing posture, she accepted my pen. She paused, and I detected a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Shall I print, or can I use cursive?" I considered her request, and then granted it. "You can use cursive."
Sister Loretta Semposki has very nice handwriting. It might be a nun thing.
Sharon and I arrived at Vincenzo’s, our choice for Italian dining, a little too early. They don’t re-open until five. We found a courtyard area with tables, chairs, benches, and a small fountain. We sat down, trying to pacify our Ohio stomachs; five o'clock Lincoln time is when they normally get fed, anyway. We notice the little shops and the tanning center that all open into the courtyard. We also wonder if people live in some of those buildings, or work in offices, because we notice some double glass doors. No one enters through them, but people exit through them, and we also observe people passing in a corridor behind them. It’s rather relaxing, waiting.
When it’s time for Vincenzo’s to re-open, we go back out to the street, turn right, enter Vincenzo’s, walk down a hallway ... and just beyond the double glass doors on the right, enter Vincenzo’s on the left! In retrospect, those few extra steps helped, because the food was tasty and the portions generous.
We fully intended to breakfast in the hotel. Everything is tasty and convenient. Surprise! Father Skelly was already enjoying his breakfast. We joyfully accepted his invitation to join him. He shared with us his highlights from Friday night: deacons had been ordained at the cathedral, and he was able to meet Peter Mitchell’s parents.
By now, he felt comfortable enough around us so that he could excuse himself once he was finished eating. He was looking forward to the ordinations to the priesthood later that day, as well as a more error free trip back to the cathedral. He admitted that he didn’t get all the turns right the first time he had driven to the cathedral!
Following breakfast, Sharon and I did some walking, including exploring parts of the hotel. When we returned to the lobby, who should be standing on tiptoe at the registration desk but Sister Loretta. I approached the desk, touched her forearm, and greeted her. "Hello again. It’s nice to see you."
"Good morning, Mr. Hermes. Good morning, Mrs. Hermes."
She remembered me, after all. As for Sharon, Sister Loretta had not been introduced to her in the first place.
There was another lady standing there with Sister Loretta. We were not introduced. Sister Loretta was very much the center of attention. In her joy of living and her zeal to help others, she talked about "spiritual economy." She recited a prayer, which she labeled as being spiritually economical. I wish that I could remember that prayer.
A little later Saturday morning, I returned to the hotel lobby, allowing Sharon some primping time. Sister Loretta, the lady companion from earlier, and two youngsters were sitting in the lobby. Of course I joined them!
The lady asked Sister what time she got up that morning. Sister usually gets up around three. Sometimes she sleeps until four, but she doesn’t like to do that. It’s too disruptive. She can’t get as much done. I asked her if she treated herself to a nap in exchange for getting up so early. Yes, in the afternoon, if she has time and is tired, she’ll take a nap. She’s learned that she needs about five hours of sleep each day -- but she doesn’t need it all at once.
I asked the lady if she took naps. "Every chance I get." The two youngsters answered the same question more efficiently: "Yes."
Sharon surfaced, found out that the young people were from Wisconsin, and all four in that group were heading to the ordination. A gentleman more my age joined the group, and we used that slight diversion to wish them a pleasant day, and to excuse ourselves.
The remainder of Saturday for us was consumed by walking about the outdoor market district, doing some very simple shopping, grabbing a light lunch, assisting at Mass in the early afternoon, enjoying a "bump" (alcoholic beverage) and snacks on the second floor lounge, and culminating with perhaps the finest dining experience available in Lincoln.
The Renaissance Room thrilled us with pampered attention and tasty menu selections and leisurely consumption. Jess was our waiter, and while it was readily apparent that there was a dividing line between servants and those to be served, we quickly warmed to Jess, relaxed him, and learned enough about him to understand that he was mostly, although not entirely, joking when he mentioned that he could use a little more help on Sunday, his only day off, with his moving.
We don’t remember the name of our appetizer, but it turned out to be thinly sliced, almost raw, beef, rolled for presentation, and eaten on thin toast. We were surprised to find that my salad selection was prepared at our table. Some bacon was fried, greens and spinach were tossed, then wilted, then combined. And it was sumptuous. Sharon seemed to enjoy her house salad as well.
Sharon had ordered scampi and pasta, and I had opted for steak Diane. Surprise again, since my main course, it turned out, was also prepared at our table. To give us a fighting chance at enjoying our experimental choices, we were first served small glasses of lemon sorbet to clear our palates. Odds are, the main courses would have been delightful without that precaution, yet we truly appreciated their attention to detail.
A storm blew up during our meal, complete with wind, lightning, thunder, and driving rain. At a table not far from us there appeared to be two priests, sipping some drinks, and enjoying nature’s spectacle.
Our meal and the storm ended at about the same time. We thought. Someone appeared with "fresh glasses" of ice water. We didn’t realize that there was anything wrong with the glasses they had kept perpetually filled. And Jess needed to know if we wished any after dinner drink or dessert. His demeanor suggested that we had options and we could make choices, but realistically, if we had enjoyed the experience thus far, it would be borderline criminal to end it before some type of appropriate closure.
I took the bait and selected an exotic coffee (prepared at our table) and solicited Jess’s direction for a tasty dessert. The one he led me to select was also prepared at our table. Trust us, each of the four times that fire roared up near our table, we felt a little self-conscious.
By the time the guest check arrived, imagine our surprise to realize that we had been pampered for two hours! What a delightful and memorable experience.
Sunday morning, we were led to our breakfast table in the Terrace Grill. You’ve heard about this place often enough by now, you may as well know its name. While awaiting our order, who should appear at our table but Father Skelly. He let us down gently when we eagerly asked if he had come to join us, explaining that he was already with some other people. I could not gauge if he remembered our comments from Friday about not being able to take a tour of a local winery because we lacked transportation. Regardless, he made himself unavailable when mentioning that Father Peter Mitchell’s first Mass would be 2:30 that afternoon at the cathedral. It was his understanding that a light lunch would be provided by the family afterwards. After his brief visit, he returned to his table, and we finished our breakfast.
At the Cornhusker, when you leave the Terrace Grill and walk past the elevators, you’re half way to the lobby. It was our intention to trek to the University of Nebraska campus, either to walk off breakfast, or to justify having had it in the first place.
There were some familiar faces in the lobby. The first person I spoke with was Sister Loretta, admitting that, because of our meeting and conversation on Friday, I presumed she was from California. "Oh, no, the medals came from California. I’m from Michigan."
That same familiar lady was with Sister Loretta again, and yet as far as we knew, she still lacked a name. "We keep seeing you here, but you have us a disadvantage. We don’t know your name."
"I’m Liz Quinn."
"Are you from Michigan, too?"
"No, I’m from Philadelphia."
"Oh, are you here because of Father Skelly?"
"No, I don’t belong to his parish. I’m Peter Mitchell’s aunt."
"We keep seeing you with Sister Loretta."
"She’s a good friend of the family. In fact, the family is going to be having breakfast here. Father Peter is supposed to be joining them, too. Then this afternoon we’re all going back to the cathedral for his first Mass."
We turned to leave, and while I imagine there was some slight hesitation on my part, a videotape probably would have shown a well executed 360-degree turn. I tried to preface my question for Father Peter’s aunt. "We keep hearing so much about Father Peter. Would it be terribly intrusive of us to stick around and meet him?"
What a relief! She thought that would be a wonderful compliment.
Very shortly, a couple joined our group in the lobby. There was that same "gentleman more my age" from Saturday’s meeting in the lobby! It’s Robin Mitchell, Father Peter’s father. We don’t have an opportunity to meet him, as he is busily trying to organize breakfast, mostly by following the prompts of the other half of the couple, namely, Sue Mitchell, Father Peter’s mother.
Seizing the first lull, Aunt Liz told sister Sue that these people were waiting to meet her and Father Peter.
"I’m John Hermes, and this is my wife, Sharon. We just happen ... "
"Oh, you’re from Toledo," Mrs. Mitchell said.
"That’s a strange piece of information for you to know about us," I admitted.
"Monsignor Skelly mentioned you," she helpfully added.
Monsignor Skelly had neglected to mention to us that he was a monsignor!
Early in our introductory chat, Mrs. Mitchell invited us to join them for breakfast. When we told her the truth about us already having had breakfast, she graciously accepted our thanks and regrets, and understood our situation.
She then continued. "Our son is saying his first Mass at 2:30 this afternoon at the cathedral. We’d love to have you join us." Pausing just long enough to catch her breath, she asked, "Are you Catholics?"
"Yes, we are." And then, at the risk of beginning to sound like turn down artists, we thanked her for yet another invitation, but suggested it would be highly unlikely for us to be able to accept, primarily because we were pedestrians in Lincoln.
Two priests leaving the Terrace Grill joined our group. Mrs. Mitchell started the introductions. "This is Father Brian. Father Brian, this is John Hermes and his wife, Sharon."
"Oh, you’re from Toledo," were the words that accompanied his outstretched hand.
"We only look puzzled because we are," I responded. "How would you know that about us?"
Father Brian explained, "We had breakfast with Monsignor Skelly this morning, and he told us about you."
"What else did he tell you?" I quizzed him.
"He said you just happened to be visiting Lincoln for the weekend. I’m from Lincoln, so I like it here, but this isn’t exactly a tourist Mecca. What brings you here?"
We gave him a very brief overview of my prior experiences in Lincoln, the reasons and the opportunity for us to visit, and even some of the virtues Lincoln could boast of.
With that, he excused himself, explaining that he had his car and had arranged to give some people a tour of the area.
Shortly after his exit, I heard Mrs. Mitchell say, "So this is the infamous Father Peter Mitchell." On her left, and to my right, stood a freshly ordained, still very excited young cleric.
She continued. "These people are visiting Lincoln this weekend, and asked if they could have a chance to meet you. Sharon and John Hermes."
Odds are, at that point we probably just blurted out, "We met Monsignor Skelly earlier, and he never tires of saying good things about you. We really appreciate you taking the time to meet us, and to accept our congratulations on your ordination."
One thing Father Peter probably did not learn in the seminary was how to be gracious. He obviously learned that early on and well from his parents. We say obviously because he accepted our congratulations by letting us know that "I’m saying my first Mass at the cathedral this afternoon at 2:30. We’d love to have you join us." Pausing just long enough to catch his breath, he asked "Are you Catholics?"
His ever-gracious mother, although she knew the answer to her son’s question, permitted us to confirm our religious affiliation.
We expressed our appreciation at the invitation, but suggested it would be unlikely that we would be able to attend. Sensing that their breakfast preparations were being finalized, we took our leave.
Once outside, it was so pleasant that we plopped down on a nearby bench. Sharon was facing a side street, and observed a white car go by. She could tell it was Father Brian and three other priests.
The beginning of their car tour almost prompted us to begin our walking tour. But before we got up, we saw two more priests walking away from the Cornhusker. We greeted them with the time of day. They returned the greeting. And abruptly stopped. Looking directly at me, one of them asked, "How was your flaming dessert last night?"
It was the two priests who had been watching the storm from the Renaissance Room the night before. Actually, Father Jerome was a priest, from Connecticut. The other gentleman was still a deacon, but headed for ordination within a month. We admitted that we had noticed them during the weekend, and that they seemed animated in their discussions, and promoters of their beliefs. They did not argue with our assessment, and even stated that not everyone appreciates their zeal. Guess what question they had for us! "Are you Catholics?"
Our morning was becoming a twentieth century version of the account of the Passion. You probably remember it from Palm Sunday and Good Friday services. "Before the cock crows, you will deny me thrice." In case you lost count, we had just been questioned for the third time about our religious allegiance.
In an attempt to shift gears, the topic turned to eating opportunities in Lincoln. They had been to Lazlo’s, and would recommend the ribs. I was honest; Lazlo’s was one of the reasons we were back in town! They are noted for their baby back ribs. Having a microbrewery there doesn’t hurt, either. Father Jerome went so far as to suggest which waitress we should ask for.
We wished them a safe journey, and this time really did head for the campus area.
Sharon surprised me, taking me further into the campus than I had ever been before. The buildings seemed well cared for, as did the grounds, and it helped that so many of the flowers and shrubs were identified with name signs. We walked past the football stadium, and I was moved to share with Sharon one of the truisms of Nebraska and Lincoln. On a football Saturday afternoon, there are enough people in the stadium to make it "the third largest city in Nebraska."
Throughout our trek, my thoughts, and eventually my words, kept returning to the invitations we had received that morning to the first Mass. They seemed so spontaneous. And genuine. "Ordinations and first Masses," I told Sharon, "are a lot like weddings and receptions. Large turnouts are a compliment to the one being honored." We’ve both been to enough weddings and receptions to know that that’s true. My thoughts continued out loud. "I’m fifty years old. I’ve been to lots of weddings and receptions. I can remember being to only one first Mass." There was also a confession. "One of my few regrets in life was passing up an opportunity to attend a friend’s first Mass, back in the mid seventies."
Sharon made an announcement that I don’t believe she will ever have a reason to regret. "If you really want to go, we can go."
Everything felt right.
On the way back to the hotel, I determined that we could catch a cab to the cathedral, and worry about getting back later. I asked one of the doormen / porters if he could recommend a cab to get us to the cathedral. I happened to be talking with Brad, the same man who had shuttled us in from the airport on Friday. First, he wanted to know which cathedral, because if it were the old one, we could walk there. I told him we weren’t that fortunate, because we had to get to the new cathedral.
Brad agreed that "You won’t want to walk that far. Lincoln only has one cab company. We can call them for you. But I’d give them about thirty minutes." I told him that as our travel plans developed, I would let him know if we needed assistance.
Poof! Before Brad could return to his other guests’ needs, there stood Monsignor Skelly. "We’ve been invited to Father Peter’s first Mass," I beamed. "And we’re going. Brad will help us get a cab."
He protested. "I’m driving there alone. You’re welcome to ride with me." We thanked him, and agreed to meet in the lobby at two.
Precisely at two we were back in the lobby. There were some familiar faces. Father Peter’s parents were there, and she introduced us to two of their daughters. There were two unfamiliar faces, and they were identified as Scott and Cletus. Both of them were deacons.
Monsignor Skelly was already there, too. With him were three more people: Mary; her daughter, Mary; and daughter Mary’s friend, Cindy. All six of us, we learn, are now riding to the cathedral together.
Monsignor and the two girls sat up front, and we three adults rode in back. We found out that mother Mary was from Philadelphia, and daughter Mary and Cindy had been students of Peter Mitchell. The three of them, along with Monsignor, obviously thought very highly of Peter.
We five lay persons went into the cathedral, where some ushers explained that family and friends had the first five pews on both sides reserved. The Philadelphians went up front, while Sharon and I stopped about half way up the aisle. In less than five minutes, mother Mary came back to us, and told us that we should join them in front. There was a hint that by now we knew most of the people in the front pews as well as the three of them did.
It is written that you should always assign yourself a low station. That’s the only way to be invited to a higher station. It’s a true enough statement.
It was Pentecost Sunday. We consider it to be the Church’s birthday. The Mass was a thrill. The collection of clergy, the carefully selected music, just the right mix of humility and pride from the parents, the eager presence of a number of seminarians, the active participation of us in the pews ... All could see that Father Peter Mitchell, very much the center of attention up on the altar, was at one and the same time both exhaulted and humbled.
Father Peter had made certain that his parents and siblings would be active participants in the liturgy, thereby making his first Mass their first Mass as well. Sharon and I both thought that one of the more visible participants was the one altar boy. It was the young man from the lobby who had told me that he liked naps and had told Sharon that he was from Wisconsin. A little bit like Monsignor Skelly, he had forgotten to mention something to us; he forgot to mention that he was John Paul Mitchell, and that Peter Mitchell was his brother.
Towards the end of Mass, Father Peter paused to thank the many people who had helped to make today and yesterday possible to begin with, and then memorable on top of that.
Perhaps all of us have at some time experienced being the center of attention. We know that it is a very cyclical experience, further compounded by the fact that it is a fleeting experience. It begins with the thrill and excitement of being in the spotlight, the exaltation of owning center stage, and the inescapable and unstoppable disappointment of having our magic carpet exit stage left or stage right.
The real Father Peter Mitchell began to expose himself a little more fully for the benefit of those of us who did not yet know him well. Center stage has no appeal for him; he cannot stay there, and would not even if he could. He is keenly aware that he is a priest forever; his duty, his mission, his labor, is to do, to be, to teach, to serve. In Catholic theology, he is another Christ. In imitation of Christ, it is his gift to love all, his challenge to teach all, his privilege to accept all, his burden to forgive all.
The man has been a priest for a little more than twenty-four hours, and already he possesses this clarity of vision and further understands that every priest who consents to be another Christ cannot do so for any human glory or reward. In the contradictory world of Christianity, his preparation and expectation must be to be treated like Christ was treated.
A priest must be ever mindful, and can never forget, the taunts hurled at Christ on Good Friday. "He saved others. He cannot save himself!"
Who are we kidding, he wanted to know. Christ could have saved himself. After you create a universe, it should be pretty simple to come down off a cross. But Christ wasn’t in the business of saving Christ. He was in the business of saving others.
A priest, an other Christ, must recognize this. He is in the business of savings others. He cannot afford the time, or energy, or enthusiasm, to save himself.
That’s why he and his brother priests must rely upon the laity and those others who serve the Church. He asked that we please, please, keep him and his brothers in our prayers!
How I wish that I could more accurately convey his insight and his sentiment from those closing remarks!
After Mass, some of us were milling about outside, at least those of us not involved with photo opportunities. At one point, the altar boy was isolated, and I used that opportunity to approach him. "When I first met you at the hotel, you neglected to tell me that you had a brother who was a priest." The sheepish grin that filled his face translated into an admission that he was guilty as charged. I continued, "For as old as I am, I can think of only two other men I know who can say that they have a brother who is a priest. You’re the third, and I would be pleased to be able to shake your hand."
And the young man obliged me.
It seemed that the attention, the recognition, the respect for him and his brother, visibly pleased him.
Down in the basement of the cathedral, what we had heard was going to be a light lunch provided by the family looked a lot more like a meal provided by the parish.
Sharon and I have not had a whole lot of experience crashing parties. It did seem to us that for each one of the two of us, there were about a hundred other guests. Ordinarily, we would have felt out of place, not knowing anyone else. But remember, thus far, little else this weekend could be considered ordinary.
The only time Sharon and I have been first in a food line was at our wedding reception. Typically, we wait until there is not much of a line. We followed that same fine tradition this day as well, and when we had what we wanted on our plates, I suggested that we join a table that had just two empty seats left. Sharon preferred an empty table, just in case the people who rode over with us were looking for someone familiar to sit with. We sat at the empty table. Come to think of it, I’ve been following Sharon’s lead ever since our wedding reception, and things have worked out pretty well.
A moment or so later, a young man carrying his plate slowly moved through the tables, scanning the crowd. He hesitated by our table, and sat down at the other end. After he got situated, I leaned over and asked, "You must not know anyone else here either?"
Not a soul. So we introduced ourselves. He is Ken Kalisek. He lives and works in Lincoln, is the youngest member of his family, but at this late writing, I am hazy about why he was at the first Mass. It may have had something to do with him knowing a recently ordained priest or knowing someone who knew a recently ordained priest ... Whatever the impetus behind his attendance, he seemed to know a lot about the local Church.
Sharon was right about the table selection. Pretty soon mother Mary, daughter Mary, and friend Cindy joined Ken and us. Before the meal was over, Scott, one of the deacons who had been at the hotel, came over to our table. Initially, he was visiting primarily with the two girls.
Somehow, the subject of Latin came up. I shared with him Monsignor Skelly’s and my discovery of the tie at the Cornhusker with Latin inscriptions. "That would be so neat to have," he blurted out. "I have to wear ties for another year yet. But I can only wear black. Is it black?"
Upon learning that it was not, his enthusiasm did not wane. Instead, he focused on "one or two other people I know who would really think that was neat. It would make a great gift!"
Sometimes, even I can be spontaneous. I asked Scott if he was going to be at the Cornhusker any time. He said he was going to be there that night. I offered him this deal: "If I buy that tie, and leave it at the registration desk with your name on it, will you remember to pick it up?"
He assured me that he would. And so I did. And so did he.
Meanwhile, back at our table, Sharon and I are still interested in eating at Lazlo’s, and this Sunday night is our last chance. There is only one slight complication. I sense that Monsignor Skelly’s feelings would not be hurt if he were one of the last people to leave this joyous gathering.
You can be the judge of whether this is cruel or kind, thoughtful or thoughtless, but without any further hesitation, I leaned over and asked Ken how inconvenient it would be for him to drive us back to the Cornhusker. According to him, it would not be inconvenient at all.
I told Sharon what I had asked Ken, and what his response had been. She shared some concern about how far out of his way it was. Perhaps the barometric pressure in the room dropped slightly as my mouth dropped open, I sucked in air, and my eyes widened, as I realized too late that I had never asked that question!
Better go find Monsignor Skelly and tell him of this most recent development. As I approached him, he spoke first. "Are we ready?"
"It’s more a question of whether or not you’re ready. It does seem to us that you would be just as content to stay and mingle a while longer. Towards that end, we’ve asked Ken, a gentleman from Lincoln, if he would mind transporting us back to the hotel, and he has agreed to do so."
Monsignor is a good man. He did not seem too relieved to be absolved of any further obligations to us, nor did he seem too disappointed at the opportunity to mingle more.
Sharon, Ken, and I joined a receiving line, the purpose of which was to congratulate Father Peter personally, thank him for his invitation, and receive his priestly blessing. He insisted that we leave our name and address! As for his blessing, I will never understand how someone who knew us for less than eight hours could pray over us in such a heart warming and caring manner!
My final pleasure was to seek out Robin and Sue Mitchell, one by one, and express our gratitude for their invitation, recognize their joy and pride, compliment them for recognizing and fostering Peter’s vocation, and thanking them for their unselfish contribution back to the Church that they very evidently loved.
On our way to Ken’s car, he assured Sharon that Lincoln isn’t big enough for anything to be very far out of the way.
We shared with Ken our intention to dine at Lazlo’s later that night, and we encouraged him to consider being our guest. He complimented us on our selection, yet regretted that too little time remained to alter previous plans.
Lazlo’s may not be much to look at, but the food is very tasty. There is normally some waiting involved prior to being seated. They offer something from the menu called swigs. It’s a sampling of six to eight of their micro brewed beers. I enjoyed them along with my baby back ribs, while Sharon opted for something she cannot remember.
Less than a block from Lazlo’s is a coffee shop, with outside seating available. We stopped there for some coffee to enjoy outside. We sipped and talked and relaxed. And once again, it was Sharon who spotted the same white car from Sunday morning, drive by, full of priests. She said that they were all waving. Since I did not witness the waves, I explained that they were waving at her and totally unaware of me. We both did see a white car turn towards Lazlo’s, and presumed that the occupants were heading to supper.
Monday, for our final breakfast at the Terrace Grill, we were led around a corner and seated out of sight of just about everyone else. Shortly after placing our orders, we observed Monsignor Skelly being led to a table. Before he could sit down, he noticed us, and obeyed our hand signals to come and join us. He had a 9:30 flight that morning, and so we all three understood that this was our final opportunity to visit in Lincoln. Because of time constraints, he was not able to dwell after finishing his breakfast.
We finished our packing, walked just a little more, and made preliminary plans to leave for the airport around 12:30. Our flight was scheduled for a 1:40 departure.
As the morning passed, we came to the realization that there really wasn’t anything left for us to do at the hotel or in Lincoln except -- leave. We checked with the porter (Brad again) to see if we could leave for the airport at noon instead of 12:30. He checked a registry, said there were three people scheduled to go at noon, just the two of us at 12:30, and if it didn’t make any difference to us, it would be more convenient for them if we went at noon also.
Prior to noon, we returned to the lobby with our luggage, only to discover that the other three passengers were mother Mary, daughter Mary, and friend Cindy! Their flight, with a different airline, was scheduled to leave moments before ours.
It’s not a long trip to the airport, but we did what visiting we could. Monsignor Skelly must have been on my mind, because as we approached the drop off for the airlines, I saw a gentleman sitting outside on a bench. "That looks almost like Monsignor Skelly," I said. All four women reminded me, almost in unison, that he had an earlier flight that morning.
Inside the terminal, the check-in line for TWA was long and slow. Maybe it was a good thing we planned to arrive early. As rumors go, we kept hearing snippets about there being a medical emergency on an earlier flight, or that one of the jets developed trouble with its brakes. Or maybe it was the landing gear.
We are more patient passengers than a lot of people. If mechanical problems develop, we much prefer to have the jet still on the ground. We understand that Lincoln is a very small airport, and does not stock spare parts. Any complicated parts that are needed probably have to be flown in from elsewhere. It also seems that Lincoln only has about four gates, and so if a busted ship is parked at one of them, that’s a 25% reduction in gate capacity.
"That is Father Skelly!" Sharon said, as she poked me and pointed him out in the terminal. We are in no position to lose our place in line, though.
By the time we could check our luggage, Monsignor was there at the TWA counter. He explained that his was the first scheduled flight out that morning, specifics were hard to come by, but his flight got cancelled. Fortunately, he was able to book another flight. He did not seem to mind that it was a different airline or that his connecting flight would be in Kansas City instead of St. Louis.
Kansas City? Sharon and I looked at one another, and then at him. That made him chuckle a little bit. He already knew that he was going to be on the same flight with Mary, Mary, and Cindy!
We walked with him towards his gate, said our good byes to the four of them, wished them a safe flight, and then we headed directly to our gate.
We were not the first people at our gate, but we were among the first. We could see the busted plane through the window. Within ten minutes or less, a cleric arrived. At this point in our weekend, would you really be surprised to hear that he sat down right next to me?
He kept scanning the new passengers. He explained that when the rest of his party arrived, he wanted to be able to say good bye to Monsignor Skelly. It seemed that Sharon and I were not the only ones who knew the good Monsignor had been delayed. We mentioned that his flight should be leaving pretty soon.
Even though it’s against the airport security rules, he asked us to watch his bags while he tried to say good bye. We said we would, and he dashed off. He came back too soon, evidence that they had already boarded.
We struck up a conversation. We talked of how we found it amusing, unique, and memorable that we just happened to be in Lincoln on the only weekend all year long that the town seemed full of priests. Why, just last night, we had eaten at Lazlo’s, and stopped for coffee afterwards, and while we were sitting outside, a car full of priests drove by, all of them waving at Sharon. "None of them waved at me, though."
He looked right at me, and called my bluff. "We were waving at both of you," he explained.
Jaw drops down, and so does the barometric pressure again.
"I was in that car," he continued. "We were heading for Lazlo’s, and saw you both sitting there."
Time for introductions. He is a deacon, Al McLaverty. He came to Lincoln for Father Peter Mitchell’s ordination.
While that piece of news was sinking in on us, a look of relief came over Al’s face as he spotted the rest of his party. The rest of the party consisted of two people: Father Brian Hennessy was one. This was not the Father Brian from Lincoln who had the car; it was the Father Brian who had done a lot of the singing at Father Peter’s first Mass. The other person was Liz Quinn, who, if you will remember, is Father Peter’s aunt.
We’re not done yet. It’s a very full flight, with capacity around a hundred or so. Sharon has a window seat, I’m in the center, and the rest is just too uncanny. Al is assigned to the seat to my left, Liz is sitting directly behind me, and Father Brian is directly behind Sharon!
Our weekend of good fortune was pretty much ended, as this particular aircraft was designed for speed, not conversation. The roar of the rear engines and the close quarters, regrettably, made conversation almost impossible.
There may be some among our readers who will lament on our behalf that we will most likely never see any of these people again. Stash that pity; it is enough for us that we were treated to the experiences and opportunities at all.
We will perhaps visit Lincoln again. We understand that we can never re-live that particular weekend. We also know that we will never forget it.