The Story of Me · Kettle And Candle

The Story of Me

I pulled a couple of old notebooks out of my closet to use as journals for this class and found some writing in one of them that was from a silent retreat I was on more than a decade ago. I don't know the exact date but it appears to be from around 2012 as I write about my parents and obviously they were still alive at that time. Anyway, I thought I'd share one of the things I wrote. I have always wanted to, felt called to, pulled to, write my story. I've never taken the time to actually do it, but this is what I wrote on that retreat 14 years ago.

The Story of Me

I am the youngest of six children, 5 girls and 1 boy. Born to the most amazing parents, a living example of God's love and mercy. The church (Catholic) was our life. It was our education, our friends, our socializing, everything. At a very young age I felt the presence of God. His love, mercy, and compassion.

Growing up with four older sisters certainly came with its challenges, but it was a gift as well. There was always someone to play with, talk to, fight with, cry with, and hug. We were best friends and mortal enemies, confidants and co-consipirators. We shared a room for most of our childhood, a bed, and always a bathroom. There was no escape! That's probably why I like living alone so much now.

The two oldest, Ann and Barbara, went off to college while I was still pretty young so most of my time at home was without them. Ann got married when I was 8 and Barbara when I was 9. They both had their first born when I was 10, both boys. I loved being an aunt and they took advantage of that (in a good way). Saying "aunts change dirty diapers," etc. Being so young I was very close to my nephews and the rest of my neices and nephews that followed. Except most of my sister Cassie's kids, but that will come later.

When I was 11, my world as I knew it changed forever. My favorite uncle, who was also a priest, was murdered. Two men robbed the rectory where he lived, killing him, his housekeeper, and a nun that was visiting. They were found stabbed downstairs and my uncle was found upstairs in his bedroom, shot in the back of his head.

I was in the car waiting for my daddy. I don't remember where we were going, but it was just the two of us. I was his baby girl and I tagged along with him whenever I could. As he was walking out of the house the call came. Mom answered the phone. The two of them came out, rushed me out of the car with no explanation and drove off. My sister, Dianne, was sitting on the floor in the den watching TV. I came inside and asked her what had happened. She saw the story on the news. They didn't say the names of the victims, but of course, we knew right away who it was.

Mrs. Carmen from across the street came over to take care of us. I ran to our bedroom and fell into my bed and cried, hard and loud, for a very long time. Dianne and I hugged and cried and neither of us knew what to do. I didn't want to eat or sleep or anything but cry.

The funeral was quite a spectacle. All of the priests from the diocese and the bishop were there. There were reporters everywhere.

A few days later they caught the two men. They walked into a Winn Dixie and started shooting people. They were sent to Angola with three consecutive life sentences for the Winn Dixie murders. They were never even tried for my uncle's murder. It was definitely them. They left fingerprints everywhere and they had the stuff they had stolen.

My dad said he prayed about it and realized that my uncle would have wanted him to forgive his murderers. So that's what he did.

There's another writing that I'd like to share from that same retreat, but I'll do that later. I look forward to getting to know you all and sharing things like this story, that I've never shared with anyone.

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