September 11, 2009
The Bishop's Forum
The Year for Priests: From whence is the priest?
by Bishop Gerald A. Gettelfinger
Second in a series
To this day after 48 years of priesthood and 20 years as a bishop I still attempt to fathom the incredible support of my parents and siblings. It is beyond my imagination. I leave the rest to God and history.
In hindsight, one of the most poignant memories I experienced was the reality that I was a son of my parents and the fourth of eight. They took me and my boyish desire to study for the priesthood seriously. As a boy I didn’t quite get it. My comprehension of that grace has only deepened through the years.
Because I had never been away from home, my pastor, Father Earl Feltman, my idol and guide, suggested that he escort me to St. Meinrad, not my parents. So he did. He knew from his own experience that I would most likely suffer from homesickness. He was correct.
For two weeks, I was dreadfully homesick. Painfully, and through both wet and dry tears, I reminded myself of my personal commitment to my dad to stay for a full year before making any decision about continuing in the seminary or not. I did not fail by giving into the homesickness.
There is yet another connection with my parents and family. It was the weekly letter from mom and dad. I promised to write a weekly letter to them as well.
Without fail, my mom wrote to me each week. You have no idea how I waited to hear my name at daily mail-call after lunch. I have the last letter she ever wrote before a devastating stroke in November 1960. That was the November before I was to be ordained a priest in May of 1961. Dad took up the pen in her place thereafter.
Mom’s letters were a life-line of love from home. I carried her weekly letters in my hip-pocket and read and re-read them. Many times the handball-game-sweat-soaked envelope blurred the ink. To this day, I cherish receiving a personal handwritten letter or note. I fear we underestimate the power of the written word to bond families together. Oh, how I cherished those letters and their memories even today.
I remember especially a Wednesday in late October 1949, just over a month since I had left home on Sept. 9. The throes of homesickness had passed and I had become fully engaged in the joys of seminary life. Unexpected word came to me on the playing field that I had visitors. I was in a quandary.
In those days, we were allowed visitors only once a month on a Sunday afternoon. The news of visitors caught me off guard as it was a Wednesday. It was not time for visitors. Who could it be, thought I?
It did not take long to find out!
My visitors were my parents! I had failed in my commitment to write home each week. For three weeks they had not heard from me and were worried. Their trip was curative to say the least. This son of theirs never failed again in that way.
The written word each week was a love-filled exchange. This was true even when the news from home was not always happy due to illness or death of neighbors and members of our extended family.
Next week: Seminary life and family life