I must admit I had no idea that he was still alive.
How could he be?
When that little girl in the pleated green skirt and white chapel veil pinned to her curly-top hair knelt in Mass every Friday morning and dared glance up at him; he seemed so very old.
And that was almost 50 years ago.
Perhaps it was his solemn countenance that Mom insisted was holiness and myself and all my childhood friends assumed was unhappiness. Perhaps it was hard for him to smile or laugh because he was pastor to a poor church and school, St. Patrick’s, instead of one of the parishes that had new stained glass windows and professionally sewn “Alleluia” banners on the altar. Perhaps he was still angry about the Crucifixion.
The nuns implored us to watch Father Scully closely, because his eyes were the eyes of Christ and his love of the Lord was one of perfection; it was saintly.
Every morning Sister Teresine, our principal, led us in prayer over the crackly old intercom system. We prayed for the sick of the parish. We prayed for our Pope and Bishop. We prayed for our loved ones. We prayed for Father Scully, the leader of our flock.
But secretly, silently, I always prayed for Uncle Bill…St. Patrick’s custodian. His real name, Mr. Yarawsky, was tricky to pronounce and for twenty-five years he would be ‘Uncle Bill’ to the thousands of children that attended our small, Catholic elementary school. From the moment we lined up on the pavement to raise the flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, to the sound of the final bell and the fast-walking, never running, dash to the parking lot, we knew Uncle Bill would take good care of us.
Forgotten milk money or a tumble on the sidewalk and bloody knee…Uncle Bill was there. A broken desk or kickball stuck in the tree…Uncle Bill was there. So many years later I can still see him atop the school tractor mowing the play yard grass or smoothing the baseball field sand. His sharp features softened by a broad smile and talkative eyebrows. He seemed to know when to peep his head in and reassure the chatty-child who was sitting, head on desk at recess, while the sounds of her classmates wafted in through the open windows. His key chain opened the maintenance closet where the good smelling dust was held to cover up the mess your upset tummy made.
And when your tears articulated the fear of an unbecoming nickname or hurt feelings, Uncle Bill would take your hand and calm your heart. It seemed that he was truly the shepherd of the flock.
Both these decent men died last week and their passing provided me a much needed lesson.
A lesson in judging.
As I read Monsignor Scully’s obituary and online guestbook I was struck, no…I was humbled by the words offered to describe this holy man. And though many memorials reflected the tall, brooding priest that seemed to speak for a harsh, halting Lord, the words of his current flock were adjectives that described great gentleness and kindness. Loving devotion and years of dedicated service to so many who learned to know God’s word from Monsignor’s soul.
Mr. Yarawsky’s eulogy included years of service at St. Patrick’s and as a Deacon in the community. Pages of fond, touching memories from the children that called him Uncle Bill filled the space beneath his smiling picture.
I guess the little girl in that hand-me-down uniform was mistaken about these two men. They weren’t so different after all. They had different mannerisms and gifts. Different styles and stances. Different ways to lead you to the same path. One wore starched work clothes and an easy grin, the other layers of anointed robes and the occasional nod. In reality, their jobs were to keep their flock safe here on earth and prepare them for eternity.
They did a really fine job and now these two loyal shepherds have been called home…I sure hope Uncle Bill takes Father Scully for a ride on a heavenly tractor!!!
http://www.tampabay.com/news/publicsafety/article1129733.ece
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tbo/obituary.aspx?n=william-yarawsky-bill&pid=146115118
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