Mysterious Ways

Faith and Hope

Lurch Wingert was sitting on the steps of St. Pete’s again.

 Maria Odowsky would call it “sprawled,” and had called it “sprawled” repeatedly to the neighbors and even the police before Susanna Klotz told her to let it go and just pray for Mr. Wingert.

Lurch tried to explain to her that living life six foot ten made his back hurt constantly.

Laying down with three of the steps pressing into his back temporarily took the pain away, and St. Pete’s was halfway between his house and the rec center he ran for the city of Tecumseh.

Maria thought it was unseemly, but the cops weren’t gonna arrest Lurch Wingert for unseemly or anything else, they all grew up playing basketball and pool at Joubert Community Rec.

Maria was walking down Parente Boulevard toward St.Pete’s now, nothing new to Lurch, except she had a…Lurch tried to think of the right word.

Posse? They were all elderly, hunched over ladies, not quick or young enough to be a posse.

A coven? No, Lurch was pretty sure that was witches, and he knew no old Catholic ladies ever wanted to be associated with that.

As they got closer, Lurch could see that some of them were already saying rosaries.

A lapsed Catholic himself, he couldn’t think of a Saint feast that this particular Tuesday could be, but he could hear black beads clacking under arthritic thumbs, so it had to be something.

Lurch began to stand. 

Regardless of his dislike of Maria Odowsky, he had no intention of being rude or “unseemly” to a group of women coming to worship at St.Pete’s.

His knees howled at him for standing so quickly, the left, titanium one making an odd sensation on the bottom of his thigh, and he looked down, half expecting his huge frame to bend the titanium right out of the skin.

When he looked up, the group, posse, anti-coven, baker’s dozen, was crossing the street away from St.Pete’s.

Lurch watched them walk, wondering if Maria Odowsky disliked him so badly that she was going to make the ladies make a wide circle and enter the grounds through the rectory gate.

“Oh Lord,” a voice said, and the noise startled Lurch, though he immediately relaxed, recognizing the warm deep baritone of Fr. Miguel.

“Hi, Father,” Lurch said, and made a nickel bet with himself that Fr. Miguel would call him Lawrence, his given name, rather than the television-inspired nickname that he preferred.

“Buenas Tardes, Lurch,” the priest said, and Lurch smiled, glad he had lost a nickel to himself.

The priest was smiling sincerely, but his eyes were looking past Lurch, so Lurch turned.

Maria and the women were walking toward the charred shell of McGettigan’s.

The once Kelly green awning that wrapped around three sides of the building was now just a skeleton of blackened aluminum piping attached to one pillar.

The brick front porch was intact, but the rest of the frame building was gone.

The first of the ladies actually knelt in prayer on the steps.

“Got a good idea this ain’t last rites or a eulogy.”

Fr. Miguel chuckled but was clearly uncomfortable.

“No, I was told about it. I’m to join them, though…”

“It’s a celebration,” Lurch said.

Fr. Miguel nodded. “Yes. It’s ironic. When I was in the Seminary, I was fascinated by the evolution of parables, and how different cultures applied the same parable to their faith, their community.

He paused, and Lurch waited for him to finish.

“I think I’ve become a hero in a new parable.”

Lurch knew the clergyman was very uncomfortable, so he had to tense up from below his titanium knee not to laugh out loud.

McGettigans had been getting clobbered by a short pants and tight shirts chain that had opened in the old truck stop off 75, with its huge ad budget and pretty girls hired from across the state.

So Jack McGettigan, good Catholic man himself, finally cracked and added servers in nothing but thongs and suspenders.

Marky Detmore, who owned the Chevy dealer, loaned Jack money for a billboard on the freeway. 

The old time parishioners were shocked and outraged. Didn’t surprise Lurch a bit, since he was the target of complaints for merely sitting on the steps of the classic cathedral.

Government couldn’t do anything to Jack, because Parente Boulevard was the county dividing line. Jack and his scantily clad servers were in Kylington County, and they were happy to have the tax revenue

So the parishioners begged Fr. Miguel to do something about the filth that Jack McGettigan had foisted upon their neighborhood, county line or no county line.

Fr. Miguel promised, diplomatically, that he would look into it.

He had a talk with Jack.

Lurch Wingert was privy to that conversation through Jack’s retelling

It was basically a “sorry Padre”, a shoulder shrug, and a “can I cook ya a chili cheeseburger?”

Fr. Miguel respectfully and regretfully declined his favorite meal and left.

The women, with the exception of two using walkers, were all on their knees now, singing a hymn.

Lurch couldn’t pick out the words, but it was unmistakably joyous.

Lurch pulled a plastic container of cinnamon toothpicks from his pocket and offered one to the priest.

Fr. Miguel declined.

“I should probably go join them now. The truth of this little parable,” he said, ‘is going to be a hard alligator to wrestle.”

Fr. Miguel plastered a smile on his face and walked off the steps of St. Pete’s.

Across the street a young fireman was washing the emergency medical truck, looking over his shoulder at Maria and her friends.

Lurch Wingert noted that the doors to the church were unlocked.

Fr. Miguel had been asked about it, and utterly refused.

“It’s a sanctuary. Anyone is welcome, anytime.”

Nate Dipleau, Junior, was probably no longer welcome at St.Pete’s though Fr. Miguel would never say it.

Lurch hoped Dipleau was smart enough never to show his face again, not so much for anything he had done to the church.

Nate had been part of a little basement poker game that Fr. Miguel ran at St. Pete’s like all the priests before him had.

Lurch had stopped playing years ago, partly because the walk down the steps and back up was agonizing to an old baller’s knees.

Half the pot went to the players, the other half to the Society of St. Vincent DePaul.

Sometime about a week ago, someone had stolen the cash box from under the sink in the church kitchen.

Father Miguel Serrano de Castaneda Alamantra was certain Nate Dipleau had done it.

The priest confronted Nate, simply wanting the money to be returned.

They argued, Nate left.

Unsatisfied with Nate’s response, Fr Miguel followed him outside the church and into Parente Boulevard.

Lurch had heard a number of rumors about what the friendly priest had said to the roofing contractor, but one thing was certain, captured by the security cameras in the firehouse:

Nate Dipleau, Junior, had punched Fr. Miguel in the mouth.

Tommy McCanty looked out the window at just the right time, and ran out to help the priest.

Nate Dipleau, Junior, ran into McGettigans, almost knocking over a server who was getting a rash from the buttfloss she wore to work five nights a week.

Everyone on duty at the Tecumseh Fire Department followed Tommy McCanty into the bar.

And the Dipleau Roofing and Siding crew was sitting there on their fifth pitcher and second round of jalapeno poppers.

The first chair raised broke across Tommy McCanty’s back and the little place erupted in chaos.

Jack McGettigan hustled out of his kitchen, ordered his servers into the ladies room for safety, and tried to break up the brawl.

Fr. Miguel walked slowly over to McGettigans with a bloody lip. When he got to the front porch, the noises inside were frightening, the chaos too much for the tavern to contain.

So he did the only thing he thought appropriate. 

He prayed for the safety of everyone inside.

Part of the fight spilled out the side door, some of the combatants chastened by the presence of the priest ordering them, in the name of the Lord, to stop fighting.

Fr. Miguel talked a drunken roofer into praying with him.

Then the girls in the ladies room saw smoke through the frosted glass window and smelled it coming through the vents and started screaming.

Schuyler Murphy, on the cusp of retirement after 20 years in the department, let loose a ripped Dipleau roofing shirt and ran toward the screams.

When the girls were safely outside and mostly covered in Tecumseh Fire t-shirts plus one very ripped faux satin Dipleau Roofing jacket, McCanty and the boys sprinted for the gear half a block away.

Murphy ran back inside the bar that was now eerily nearly empty.

Jack McGettigan held an empty fire extinguisher.

Most of the smoke poured out of the back of the building, where Jack always left the door open to walk outside and have a cigarette.

“Clear it, Jack, the house is right there,” Murphy said pointing through the wall to where the firehouse was, half a block away.

McGettigan shook his head.

At first, Murphy thought Jack meant he wasn't leaving.

Then he realized.

Murphy hustled over, twirled Jack toward the side door, double-checked both bathrooms, then exited himself.

Police and Sheriff’s department’s sirens wailed down Parente Boulevard.

Channel 4 would run some bodycam footage of Fr. Miguel praying outside the bar.

Dipleau was the first guy escorted to the EMT truck.

As a rookie took Dipleau’s vitals, McCanty took the time he thought he’d be hosing down his favorite bar to remind the dirtbag that you don’t hit a priest.

Jack McGettigan had gotten himself a little flaming retirement fund.

Tecumseh Fire and the Dipleau Roofing crew would be very sad to see McGettigan’s go, but not as sad as Maria Odowsky was when she found out that her parish priest had not, in fact been praying for the filthy place to burn to the ground.

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