Friends, I have finally returned home and now, as Jessica Hahn once infamously said in a commercial for her 900-number phone scam, ” I can reveal the secrets I have heeeeeld for so long.”
You’ll be shocked and amazed about what I have to say about Harvey’s month-long early summer road trip. Because of course I’ll be doing this all again in about four weeks. Of course.
Let’s start with my favorite thing in the world, the daily sacrifice of the Mass. You all know of my great devotion to daily Mass. My dad instilled this in me at a young age. Side note: fathers, make the effort. You will not regret it. For the past several years, I have been blessed to have a priest-friend join our families at the Outer Banks beach house we rent each summer. Father says a TLM for us every morning. It is truly edifying. I have been his server at each of those Masses. My part is truly non-edifying. Unfortunately, this year, Father called me to say, last minute, that he had come down with some kind of bug and would not be able to join us. This was, to say the least, a bummer. But we pressed on and turned to prayer.
I asked Blessed Mother to assist us in finding a priest who would offer the venerable and august sacrifice in the ancient Roman rite.
What she gave me, instead, was a chance to reflect on the absence of Her Son and a fair amount of comic gold to boot. Let me explain.
On our very first day at the beach, I laid out in the sun, the peaceful sound of the gently crashing waves of the North Atlantic providing so much white noise. I pondered two things. The first was how I allowed myself to get so fat. Seriously, I was pretty jacked just a year ago. The second was how I was going to find a trad priest. On the first count, I realized that processed foods, a busy life preventing me from lifting as much as I used to, and general apathy contributed greatly. The second was an answer that evaded me. Until…
One of our friends came up to me and said, “Hey fatty, I think I just saw a priest.” My reply? “OK, you didn’t have to say that hurtful nonsense, you drunk, and two? I think you meant a puddy tat, not a pweest priest.”
We “conversated” as the mentally inept kids say and I discovered that he was being totally earnest. He had, out of the corner of his eye, seen a man in full cassock walking in the neighborhood. Since he probably saw two of these priests due to his alcoholism, I assumed that at least one of them must exist.
I hatched a plan quickly. I grabbed one of my nieces and we went on a priest hunt!
First stop: the house next door. Those people had seemed friendly when they approached us earlier on the sand asking to borrow a bottle opener. I picked up a bottle opener from inside the house and we went over and rang the bell. Well, they were indeed friendly. Turns out they’re from New Jersey because again, of course they are. They just thought it was the most amazing act of generosity that we stopped by to gift them something that wasn’t ours in the first place.
Then I dropped the bomb.
“By any chance, do you have a Catholic priest staying in this house with you?”
To my surprise, they didn’t bat an eye.
“Not us, but I think the house next to us does. We thought we saw a monk or something going in there earlier.”
A monk? This was getting stranger by the minute.
We said our good bye’s and took off for the house next door. This involved walking about three-quarters of a mile since there was a large dune in between the houses. When we knocked on the door, no one answered. But on the way back down the driveway something caught my eye. There was a car with a Virginia license plate, the bracket of which said, “CHAPLAIN”. Peeking into the rear window of the car I saw a garment bag with what appeared to be vestments hanging from a hook. We were getting close!
My niece and I ran back to our house and, taking out paper and pen and using my best Catholic school nun penmanship, I wrote the following or similar:
“Dear Father, We are a group of four families comprising about 50 people total who are staying two houses down from you. We usually have a priest with us but he couldn’t make it this year. Could you find it in your heart to come and offer Mass for us this week? There is a generous stipend attached. Sincerely in Christ, Harvey”
Granted, there were some other details about him not mocking me for looking like a beached orca but you get the idea.
I folded the note up and handed it to my niece and asked her to run it back and pin it under his windshield wiper.
Did I mention that I may or may not have also taken a picture of the license plate and that I may or may not but probably don’t because I’m not about to get anyone in any legal trouble, have submitted that photo to a friend in law enforcement to find out who owned the car? I didn’t mention that? Sorry. It’s kind of important if it actually happened.
And just as I was sipping on another splendidly refreshing Dutch Courage*, the cop I may have sent the picture to texted back.
“Vehicle is registered to St. Such and Such Russian Orthodox Monastery”.
I did a Danny Thomas spit take and I really do not like to waste gin.
As quickly as I had penned the letter, I jumped on the phone and called the niece.
“Hello?” she said as people do.
“ABORT ABORT ABORT!” I shouted as maniacs do. “He’s not one of us! He’s, he’s, he’s… valid but we can’t use him! Run back and get the letter but don’t let him see you!”
Boy, she loved me in that moment.
The next morning, we drove two hours to the nearest trad parish, laughing the whole way about our predicament the evening prior.
What am I to make of this? Well, as I mentioned, I believe the Blessed Mother may have been trying to teach me something about mourning the absence of Christ as she did on the first Holy Saturday. During the upcoming week, I was only able to make a weekday Mass once. But I did come to rely more heavily on the Rosary and to reflect on those dark times prophesied by Daniel about the Sacrifice disappearing for a while. How will we be ready? WILL we be ready?
I do not know the answers. Jessica Hahn did not know the answers. The Russian monk did not know the answers.
But I do know this.
Our Lady has a great sense of humor.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 