Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [2]
The Monsignor smiled. “I’m sure you will find your first call to be a rewarding one. You serve a diverse congregation. There are Hispanics, Anglos, and Native Americans in the area.” He stood up and held out his hand. “We are pleased you are here. There has been much prayer offered on your behalf.”
The young priest reached for the extended hand and bowed. He understood it was time for him to leave, that there was nothing more to say. He backed away, his head still lowered in reverence. When he reached the threshold, he stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door behind him, closed his eyes, and breathed out. “And so it begins,” he said, turning to walk away.
Father George Morris hailed from Grove City, Ohio. Before accepting this call to New Mexico, before the train ride from Cincinnati to Albuquerque, the bus to Gallup, and the taxi to the diocesan office, George had never been farther west than Dayton and no farther south than Beckley, West Virginia. He began seminary, also in Ohio, at age sixteen, without even finishing high school, and had never met a Native American or spoken a sentence in Spanish. At age twenty-four, a senior in seminary, he had requested a mission call, an opportunity to serve the Church in a developing country. He thought it was the will of God for him to leave the United States, leave the seductive ways of Western civilization, the wily temptations of such a secular society, and minister to simple and eager parishioners. His mentor and the other priests at the seminary, however, thought otherwise.
They did not know the reason for the young man’s request, had no knowledge of the details leading to his discernment process. They asked, but never learned, why he wanted to leave the country. And so, in the end, they did not agree with him. It had been unanimously decided by all those issuing the calls of young priests, making ministerial assignments to the recent graduates, that Father George Morris should stay stateside for at least eight years before being sent to serve in the mission field, which was considered too far away from supervision and community.
Father George walked down the hall, away from the Monsignor’s office, and shook his head. He was remembering the decision handed down by his mentor, the denial of his request to go to Haiti or join the Dominican Order in Trinidad. “How much farther away from Western civilization and supervision could I be than I will be in Pie Town, New Mexico?” He spoke out loud and then glanced around, making sure he was alone. He knew his tone was sarcastic and resentful. He certainly did not want to be found ungrateful or recalcitrant by his superiors in his first call. He knew that no matter what had been decided for him, created for him, after everything that had happened during his last year in seminary, this was to be his place of service, his place to exercise his vows and prove that he was capable of the authority bestowed upon him.
Father George headed out of the office in Gallup and to his sleeping quarters in the back of the building and wondered what the Monsignor knew about him, wondered what records had been kept by his mentor, what letters had been sent from Ohio to the Diocese of the Southwest, what conversations had been shared. He wondered if this was punishment or opportunity.
With one night left before he was to begin his ministry, he decided he would go to the chapel for private worship. As he entered the small room, where candles lining the wall flickered with the prayers of the sinners and saints from Gallup, Father George genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and moved to the altar. He knelt, alone in the chapel, and spoke the words one more time. Part intercession and part petition, it was the name of his own salvation. “Pie Town” was all that he said, and it was the evening’s final prayer.
Chapter Three
Pie Town.” Trina woke from a deep sleep, whispering the name of the place from her dream, a name that brought her ease and delight, a name of a place that made