“One hundred and two. I think. We’re not always told.”
“I stand corrected. One hundred and two in what? Three years? It’s tremendous. It’s controversial. It’s dramatic, and with new records being set every day for the number of bad things happening simultaneously in the world, people are looking for ways to feel connected to God. You and James are providing answers. That’s what makes this a story that must be told.”
“Zach, you’re not a Catholic. You’re not religious at all.”
“You’re right. But this wouldn’t be about me. I don’t have to be Catholic to believe in all the good you and James are doing,” he said. “You’re on the right side of history. And think about this. If I write a book about the JMJ movement, it would offset the cardinal’s smear campaign. That would be good for you, wouldn’t it?”
Before Zach walked in, I’d been thinking about the fire investigation, which had gone nowhere, but the fire was such a personal attack, it remained lodged in my mind. There was no evidence against Lawrence House, and he was still walking free. I saw him at the grocery store, the gas station, the pizzeria, the thrift shop. He wasn’t on my tail, but he was always around. Sometimes he was accompanied by other men, all of whom looked at me as if I were dirty. There could be another attack. A worse one.
I didn’t want to go far from home.
After the fire, I’d taken a leave from the clinic and was splitting my time between managing the church restoration, consulting with priests who’d come to learn about JMJ, and spending mommy time with Gilly. James had been traveling during the reconstruction, attending services in other JMJ churches, which, as Zach had noted, were sprouting up all over the country.
I really didn’t want Zach to write about us. Our work was about making the Church accessible to everyone. And yet, we were in the public domain. Could I even stop Zach from writing this book?
I stared past Zach to the garden, where Gilly was chatting with the scarecrow. My eyes welled up.
Zach said, “Brigid. Brigid, don’t worry. I won’t do this book unless you and James are behind it.”
“I’ll talk to James,” I said.
“Good,” said Zach. “No pressure.”
Zach was a powerful personality, and his New York Times byline lent authority to all his work. Zach was our friend, right?
He hugged me and kissed my cheek, and I waved good-bye to him from the doorway. A few days later, after a lot of thought and prayer, I forwarded my journals to him with a caution.
“This is just a loan.”
“I’ll take very good care of this,” Zach said.
I hoped he would.
Chapter 102
IT WAS a gorgeous morning in May, and there was an overflow crowd at this, the first Mass in the restored JMJ church. We’d installed new double doors on the southern side that opened out to the large deck and the hay field beyond. I stood alone in the sacristy, listening to James speak to the congregation. I was wearing a simple, loose-fitting white dress with a hem to midcalf, a crucifix on a long, gold chain, and a white linen scarf that covered my head.
I heard James say, “No priest has ever been more moved to celebrate Mass than I. Brigid, please come out.”
I had a nervous stomach, and I felt light-headed, too, but I refused to faint; nothing could ruin this remarkable day.
Last night Bishop Reedy had ordained me by candlelight here in our precious church. I was a priest now, and today, I would give my first Mass.
I assured myself that I could do this, and I prayed to God, saying, “I’ll do my best, Lord. Thank You for my glorious life and for giving me this opportunity to do Your will.”
I walked out to the altar and looked around at the packed pews, the standing-room-only throng that had spilled out into the sunshine. Every pair of eyes was on me, every face was expectant.
James was sitting in the first seat in the front right-hand pew, my usual spot, with Gilly beside him. They were holding hands.
I began the liturgy, speaking to everyone inside the church and to those standing within sight, to those just outside the walls, to all who had heard the bells or thought they had.
I knew every element of the Mass, and I hardly stumbled over the Latin words. I spoke in English, too. I forgot myself and became one with the congregation. I thrilled to the dialogue between us and was uplifted by the voices of our choir, coming from the strong, new loft.
I had not committed my homily to memory. There just hadn’t been time, but I stood at the altar and told the assemblage, “I am so glad to be here. I feel so much love for all of you, and of course I’ve been worried that I might make some mistakes this morning. And then I reminded myself that there was no wrong here, with all of us together in the house and in the presence of God.”