A VACATION TO FORGET

If anything simply cannot go wrong, it will anyway.
-Murphy’s Law


During life as a Peace Corps volunteer (PVC), another volunteer, Lucy St. Cyr, and I saved our living allowance money for a grand vacation. We gave up smoking and buying American canned food, our only luxuries, and we saved a bundle. We took a bus from Cuzco, Peru to Tacna, a border city. It should have been as simple as walking across the street from Peru to Chile, but it was a holiday on the Chilean side.

Chile was celebrating its retention of Arica taken during a dispute between Peru and Chile in the early 1900s. It was a dispute settled in 1927 by U.S. President Herbert Hoover who made a proposal that both countries accepted. Under Hoover’s proposal, Chile returned Tacna to Peru, but retained Arica. It was our misfortune to arrive in Tacna on a day that Peru had little to celebrate. Accordingly, the border was not open, but we were assured that since we were Peace Corps volunteers, that we would be allowed to cross into Chile. First, we had to hunt down the official to stamp our passports, and to authorize the border opening. Since we were PCVs our search was made easier, and we quickly found the official who stamped our passports after wondering aloud why we would want to go to Chile. Finally we walked across the border to Arica to get a plane to Santiago. In Arica we had an indescribably delicious five-course meal, including a marvelous Chilean wine, for about $2.00.


Our plane was five hours late leaving Arica because of bad weather in Santiago. I thought if the plane couldn’t leave Santiago, how was it going to get back? I hoped the airline would cancel the flight, but to my chagrin they did not. Finally I told Lucy that I would fly only if none of the arriving passengers looked upset. They all strolled into the terminal looking very relaxed and quite happy. Too late it occurred to me that they were probably so relieved at setting foot on the ground that of course they would look happy. And so against my better judgment I flew, and the flight was wonderful. We didn’t hit one air pocket. Of course I stayed awake because everybody else was sleeping and I didn’t want the pilot to get any ideas about napping too. The cockpit door was open, and I actually rattled the pages of the magazine I wasn’t reading, cleared my throat, and even coughed a bit so that the pilot would know that somebody was awake and had an eye on him.

Santiago was a lovely city. People stared at us, but not in an unkind manner. I assumed it was because we were so different. Lucy was blonde and white, while I was black and brown. We definitely stood out. People everywhere immediately identified us as Peace Corps volunteers and welcomed us. It was as if we wore signs. Hotel rates, restaurant prices, and even train rates were reduced for us. It was incredible. Those were the days that the Peace Corps name was magical and opened all doors. We walked and toured the city and thoroughly enjoyed being in Chile. I also noticed there were no other black people around. Once again I stood out. Later I learned that years ago Chile killed off its Indian and black populations.

I looked forward to flying from Santiago to Buenos Aires, Argentina. The morning was clear and the skies were bright. It would be a short trip, only two hours and 45 minutes. I sat in the air terminal and began a mystery story about a plane crash. I felt great. My fear of flying was over. And then I got on the damned plane. Five minutes out of Santiago we started dropping. We climbed back up and dropped again. Something was obviously wrong. I wondered why the pilot didn’t go back to the airport before we got too far from it. The skies darkened and he gamely continued. Fool! I thought. Soon I noticed something new. We no longer dropped straight down, we were now dropping sideways. I wondered if we were about to spin. So I closed the curtain at the window and looked at Lucy. She was sprawled in her seat napping. The two stewardesses had retired to the rear of the plane and sat down. Only the tall, handsome steward patrolled the aisle. I kept peeking over the seat ahead of me to see if the “fasten seat belt” sign was on and it remained on. Finally I held my stomach with one hand and clutched the seat with the other. With each drop I would snatch the curtain back, glance out, rip the curtain shut and collapse against my seat.

Suddenly I looked up to see the steward smiling down and saying something silly, “What’s the matter?”
I managed to show a tooth or two and said, “Heh, heh, is it always like this?”
He played innocent: “Like what?”
“This bumping up and down.”
“Bad roads,” he grinned and walked on.

I wondered why the pilot didn’t go up. I didn’t want to consider his going down! The steward kept taking little bags to the woman seated in front of me. I wondered if she was sick or writing farewell messages on them. Finally that damned seat belt sign went off and we sailed along smoothly. The crew brought out lunch trays and began serving. I couldn’t eat, but I managed to enjoy two glasses of delicious Chilean red wine.

Lucy surprised me by saying, “Whew, was I scared.”

Suddenly the stewardesses snatched away the lunch trays as the plane started hitting “bad roads” again. I wondered how much more buffeting the plane could take, not to mention me. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth and prayed. Soon the steward announced our landing in Buenos Aires. As we descended, I opened the curtain and peeped out. It was early afternoon, but outside it was pitch black. On our first attempt, we overshot the field. That means we were almost on the ground, not the runway. We could clearly see airport personnel standing in doorways waiting for our plane to crash. We zoomed back up. The steward announced that due to a bad storm we would have to circle for a few minutes. We circled for 30 minutes. I decided that in the event that they had to return to Chile, they would probably have to knock me out. I wanted off that plane.

I never did believe the song, “All God’s Children Got Wings” and I certainly wasn’t ready to test it then. Lucy and I clutched hands as tears streamed down our faces. We were thinking of our families so far away. The steward leaned over us and said something. I didn’t hear what he said, but I had had enough of him. I waved him away. Let us die in peace.

Just before our third attempt to land, the steward announced, in a voice that I can only describe as one of certain doom, that the pilot was going to land. His voice sounded like this is it! Somehow we landed safely. Lucy and I staggered off the plane on jelly legs. For some reason in Latin America often there are photographers at planeside when one lands. True to form, in Buenos Aires there was a photographer who took a picture of us as we descended the steps of the plane, and we looked like two wild, wild women who had escaped from an execution squad. Lucy and did not discuss the flight because we both were painfully aware that we had to return to Cuzco. But I knew what she didn’t know: that my return would not be on a plane.

That evening we went to see Alfred Hitchcock’s, “The Birds.” In the middle of the movie Lucy, who had been relatively calm during that wretched flight, suddenly became ill and we had to leave. She was having a delayed reaction, whereas I, who had nearly whooped and hollered throughout the flight, was perfectly fine. The next day I called our director in Cuzco and told him about the flight. I said we were making train reservations, but some of the passes the train had to cross were closed due to snow, and I frankly didn’t know when we would get back to Cuzco. I told him that we might have to stay in Buenos Aires till spring.

Buenos Aires was a gorgeous city. It looked exactly the way I imagined European cities looked. Here was the home of the famed Argentine gauchos (cowboys), pampas (prairies), incredible beef, and the tango. There were lovely boutiques, fine wines, wide boulevards, and the stunning Casa Rosada, The Pink House, the equivalent of The White House. I could have lived there happily until spring or until our money ran out.

We strolled down the world’s widest avenue, Nueve de Julio, with its centered Obelisk that resembles the Washington Monument. We bought souvenirs such as mate (an herbal tea) cups trimmed in silver, along with a matching silver spoon/straw, some inexpensive leather goods, including a leather stationery case with the map of Latin America on the cover. What better place to hunker down until spring? I bought tons of souvenirs, my plane and train tickets, hotel rooms, food, etc. and I only spent a grand total of $250! We took a fabulous five-day train trip from Buenos Aires to Cochabamba, Bolivia. We played cards, chatted with fellow travelers, ate, and napped. We were just going to overnight in La Paz. What a mistake that was!


****

H O T N E W S!! PORNCHAI MOONTRI AND THE ART OF MODEL SHIPBUILDING

PORNCHAI MOONTRI - "Come, Sail Away! Pornchai Moontri and the Art of Model Shipbuilding"

To see exquisitely carved model ships handcrafted by my talented Godson, Pornchai Moontri, go to

http://www.thesestonewalls.com/gordon-macrae/come-sail-away-pornchai-moontri-and-the-art-of-model-shipbuilding/

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ZANZIBAR

ZANZIBAR

Unity among the cattle makes the lion lie down hungry.
Swahili



Zanzibar was the place I ran to when I tired of Dar es Salaam. How I loved that spice island. The first time visited, I flew over on a Fokker Friendship, a tiny plane that held about 14 people. I expected to smell cloves the moment I stepped off the plane. I never did smell cloves, despite this island being the home of cloves. Zanzibar was calming and luscious in an enchanting, old, quaint manner. The people were beautiful and stately, kind and welcoming, and I adored the old, exquisitely carved wooden doors that adorned buildings. I close my eyes and I see old courtyards shuttered by those elaborately carved doors. The island is also known for its ornately carved, wooden chests that range from miniature boxes to larger chests for linens or a trousseau, all done by master carvers who inherited their skills from their forefathers.

This island was once a nation, a tiny one, but still a nation. It thrived and was a wealthy island. Its people are beautiful blends of the African women of Zanzibar, and the Arab sultans who ruled. Zanzibar is also the site of bloody massacres.The more peaceful a place, it seems to me, the bloodier its history. The kinder the people are, the more fire they have come through. Zanzibar and Haiti are two examples of nations whose history is written in blood, and yet both have incredibly gracious, and welcoming people.

Zanzibar was always wealthier than the mainland of Tanganyika, and considerably more modern. It had a thriving television station and those who could afford televisions had them. When the two countries joined and became Tanzania, television remained forbidden on the mainland. President Julius Nyerere said television would never be permitted on the mainland until everybody could afford one.

Once, instead of the 20-minute flight on a Fokker Friendship plane, or 17 minutes on the newly acquired jets, I decided to take a leisurely boat trip over to the island. The trip took four hours. There were hundreds of people on the ship. I napped and read in my cabin until we arrived. After we docked I left my cabin. The women were lined up on one side of the door leading to the gangplank, and men lined the other side. I noticed only the line of men was moving. The women began pushing to get off. To my horror the men pushed them right back. I looked around but could see no ship attendants to maintain order. There were more men than women and that indicated that we would be the last off the ship. One of our Fulbright professors was waiting for me at the dock, and I knew he thought – as did I - that a diplomat would be among the first off. It was not going to happen that day. Diplomat or no, I got in line with the rest of the women and let myself be jostled and pushed as they were. I resented the fact that the ship’s crew were nowhere in sight, and I was furious that the men had so little regard for the women.

When I finally reached the deck I saw that the gangplank went straight down instead of sloping onto the dock. A young American man tried to help me off. He said the gangplank was the one used for cattle. Somehow the ship crew was unable to “find” the gangplank for humans. Women were falling into the water as the men pushed them out of their way. The women tried desperately to hang onto their belongings. It was a scene from hell. It was as if somebody had yelled, “Fire!” The young man stayed behind me to try to keep me from being pushed and pummeled, but when I reached the gangplank I balked at going down. I knew I would fall into the water. He was encouraging me to go down, but I was too scared. I needed space before venturing down that gangplank. When I hesitated, I was immediately shoved aside.

My new friend managed to get off, and stood on the dock yelling at me to throw my huge handbag so that I could use both hands to help myself disembark. I did not want to throw my handbag to a total stranger. I didn’t know his name or anything about him. In my purse were my passport, money, my diplomatic carnet (I.D. card) from the Tanzanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and I was going to hang onto it no matter what else happened.

I tried putting my handbag around my neck, but it almost choked me because it was so heavy. I also had an overnight bag, but he never asked me to throw that. All around me women were screaming and pushing and being pushed. The men wanted the women to get out of their way. The young man continued trying to coax me down the cattle ramp, but my feet were unable to get the leverage I needed to go down the ramp. Finally, I saw him leaving the dock.

I tried to plant my feet and maintain a stance to prepare to go down the gangplank. I had to push people away from me, and finally I was able to make the dangerous trek down and onto the dock. I wore a dress that had tiny buttons down the front. I never unbuttoned it all the way because there were about 40 buttons. When I got off the ship I looked down, and every button was undone. My dress stood wide open. It took a lot of rubbing, gyrating, and twisting to get 40 buttons undone, but undone they were. And so was I! I was hot, sweaty, and looked as if I had come through a battle, which I had. I calmly put my overnight bag down and continuing to hang onto my purse, managed to button every single damned button on that dress that I never wore again.

It had taken me over an hour to disembark, and the Fulbright professor had left the dock, assuming that I was not on the ship since I was not among the first to get off. I took a taxi to my hotel and immediately made arrangements to return to Dar es Salaam via plane. I had had enough of Tanzanian ships.

The Zanzibaris are warm and outgoing. Fatma was a dear friend who was a curator at the museum in Zanzibar. Periodically she would come to the mainland and spend a week or longer with me. She was a wonderful cook, and she loved cooking. Before she returned to Zanzibar, she always prepared food for me to freeze and have after she left. She told me once that “security people” in Zanzibar had warned her that she should not become too friendly with Americans. I told her not to endanger herself. She pooh-poohed the idea that there was any danger and continued visiting me.

In December of 1979, Fatma came to spend Christmas with me. Fatma was Muslim, and I suppose she wanted to see how Christians celebrated the birth of Christ. I had also invited an elderly American woman, Ruby, a professor from Temple University who had been staying at the dingy YWCA, and who came into my office to get some information. I could not see her remaining in that dingy YWCA over the holidays, and I invited her to move into my residence. After all, I had four bedrooms and four baths. I welcomed the company. The three of us were invited to the homes of embassy families, and I hosted a big Christmas party with dancing. The three of us laughed a lot, and had a wonderful time. I went off to Mass on Christmas Day after leaving tiny presents for my two guests. We were invited to the home of the USAID Director for a traditional Christmas Dinner. Everyone made Fatma and Ruby feel welcomed, and I felt especially blessed in having such delightful houseguests at Christmastime.

{Note: In 1985 I was back on assignment in Washington, DC when I had a telephone call from Fatma. She was working at the Tanzanian Embassy in London as a Foreign Service Officer. It was wonderful hearing from her. We talked about visiting each other soon. Later, she wrote that she had been diagnosed with cancer, and within a few months I learned that she had died. I was devastated. I will always remember her laughter and the fun we had together. Religion was never a factor in our friendship because we respected each other’s religion. Why can’t the rest of the world be as accepting as Fatma and I were of each other? I treasure her friendship, and I miss her terribly.}

MEETING UNCLE MICHAEL

MEETING UNCLE MICHAEL
by Ebony B. Duline (a miniature poodle and adorable)

The first time I met Uncle Michael I wasn’t too impressed with him. If truth be told, I wasn’t impressed at all. He and Auntie Queen rushed in one Friday afternoon from Washington, D.C. A lot of other things had been going on in our house and I knew it had to do with Granny Bertha. My mommy was crying and people were coming in and out and I was all but forgotten…until they left at night, and then my mommy cuddled and talked to me.

When the DC-ites arrived they all ran over to Granny Bertha’s apartment and brought back some things. The next day they spent all day over there and when they came back, they were chattering about how hard Uncle Michael worked and what he had accomplished. Hey, what a big word for a little person like me! Mommy always says I’m my own little person, so I guess that means I’m a person. I still wasn’t impressed with Mikey as I thought of him. He seemed preoccupied and all but ignored me. Auntie Queen was sweet, but even so, I could tell that she was not real crazy about me. My attitude was that they could head back to Washington, and the sooner the better.

The three of them came in long enough to shower and change clothes, have a glass of wine……and, oh, that’s another thing. That Mikey was slurping down anything liquid! Mommy had bought him a six pack of some foreign beer. He swallowed that down like it was water and was looking for some more. She seemed surprised that the six pack was not going to last until Sunday. Mikey then looked around and began drinking wine. He could drink and he never got drunk!

Mommy gave me a quick walk – emphasis on quick! – and they were off to dinner at Granny Gladys’ and Grandpa Dougie’s. And why didn’t they take me? That is my question! I had been to my grandparent’s home before. But oh, no, they left me home alone. I had time to think about this visit and my thoughts were not nice!

It wasn’t enough that Mommy gave Auntie Queen the master, oops, the mistress’ suite while we slept in the library as she loves calling that little hole. I call it the black hole of Calcutta cause all you can see is books and magazines piled on top of more books and magazines. A computer sticks up out of the chaos. And that was where I had to sleep while Auntie Queen lolled in MY suite. I was loath to understand why I had to give up my bed just cause Mommy wanted Qwenie to be comfy. So there Mommy and me were stuffed in the library for two nights. There was hardly room for me to turn my ass-sets around. The sofa bed took up all of the space. So, I was not too happy about the sleeping arrangements. Plus, I had been alone all day and now they were going out for half the night.

The next morning Mikey said he would take me walking. Humph. I didn’t want him taking me anywhere. He’d barely said hello to me in two days, and now he wanted to take me walking. What an experience that would be! Mommy was so happy that she didn’t have to change out of her nightgown and take me out. She could get breakfast started. I wasn’t happy worth a dime.

Off I went with Mr. Mikey! He chatted as we walked and I ignored him. I did my bidness and told him to take me home. I led the way. He didn’t know anything about walking me. I wanted my mommy to walk me.
When we got back home, Mikey went into the guest bathroom to wash his hands. Mommy was in the kitchen rattling pots and pans. I decided it was time to let everybody know what I thought of the way I was being treated. I got in the middle of the living room floor. I squatted and I peed and peed just as Mikey walked in, and at the same time Mommy came out of the kitchen. My timing was impeccable! There’s another one of those big words that I know! Mommy shrieked, “Ebony, what are you doing?!” She could see that I was peeing. Mikey yelled, “What a nasty, disgusting little dog!” I was gonna show him disgusting!

Mommy asked Mikey what I did outside. He said I did everything. Neither of them knew then that we doggie persons don’t let out all of our urine at once. We always save some in case we come across a spot that needs to be marked. And the living room definitely needed to be marked as MY territory and not Mikey’s! Mikey retreated to his room in disgust. Mommy’s face looked like a thundercloud. She was hotter than a firecracker as Uncle Rabbit used to say. She grabbed paper towels, stain remover, rubber gloves, and I ran into the library and out of sight. I could hear her talking out loud, and I was pretty certain she had not learned those words in Sunday school. Later, I heard her telling Mikey and Qwenie that Granny Bertha’s death and all the excitement caused by that probably caused me to act out. I really wanted to get into Mikey’s room to pee on his suitcase or on his clothes, or worse. But I never got the opportunity. I wanted to make another statement.

Finally that afternoon the limo arrived to take those DC characters back to the airport. When they said goodbye to me, I replied, “Good riddance.” They didn’t speak my language, but I think they got the message. When Mommy returned from the airport it was just the two of us again. I cuddled up to her and all was forgiven. What a good doggie I am!

***

Death of a Priest (Summer Re-run) by Charlene C. Duline

GOD LOVES YOU AND YOU ARE HIS



I am strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame…
- David Haas *




In January I journeyed to New Mexico to attend a Memorial Mass for a priest who died in prison. His name will be omitted here because of his family’s concerns about hate groups. Father was the first incarcerated priest to write to me when I reached out to ask how priests were being treated in prison. He never asked for sympathy. He was forthright about his imprisonment, other inmates, and he answered all of my questions. We wrote regularly to each other as friends until his death late last year.

Father died in November but we didn’t learn of his death until mid-December when a priest friend of his went to the prison to visit him. He walked out of the prison in shock and numb. He telephoned me as he sat in a nearby park and we cried together as we mourned the death of our friend.


I will come to you in the silence
I will lift you from all your fear


In January this priest arranged for a Memorial Mass to be held for Father in New Mexico. On January 28, 2009, four noble priests of the order of Melchizedek concelebrated a Mass for Father. Also present were three women there to honor a man and a priest who had been so vilified. Due to the past negligence of the diocese in New Mexico, we concluded that permission to have a Mass said for Father in a Catholic Church would have been refused, so the Mass was held at another location. Those present came from California, Texas, New Mexico and Indiana.

The readings for that day spoke of priests and seeds planted and nourished, as we remembered Father's joy in the small garden he planted and tended. On the altar were flowers and a framed watercolor painted by Father, a gifted artist. Our Mass cards featured an exquisite water color painting done by him. Some letters written to us by him were laid at the base of the "altar." Those letters spoke of his dark night of the soul, his love of his priesthood and his faith, his angst over his sins, his search for forgiveness, and his acceptance of his punishment. Pain hung heavy in that room. One celebrant asked if a man should be remembered for the worst thing he ever did and no thought be given to the good things he did. We remembered Father for his priestly ministry that he tried hard to live.


You will hear My voice
I claim you as My choice


As we prayed and sang, I felt like the early Christians must have felt when they met in secret in the catacombs. Twice I heard loud sounds from somewhere in the building and I wondered if our Mass was going to be disrupted by hateful factions. After Mass the seven of us went to the cemetery to visit Father’s grave where we placed flowers, prayed, and sang. Each of us knelt for a moment and touched his grave. We were not able to be with Father when he died, but we were with him that day, and he was certainly with each one of us.


I am hope for all who are hopeless
I am eyes for all who long to see


This priest’s suffering went beyond his prison sentence. His talented fingers were broken once when he refused to give an inmate some of his artwork. On a visit to a doctor, his ankles and legs were shackled so tightly that the doctor was unable to examine him and complained to the warden. He was never taken back to the doctor. Instead, every morning he was given an aspirin and some “lotion” for his legs. Nobody in the diocese cared enough to check on him, despite phone calls asking them to do so.


In the shadows of the night,
I will be your light


In his final days, a guard put him in solitary for a trumped-up charge. He was supposed to be there for two days, but he was “forgotten” and left there for two weeks. There were apologies, but at that point Father had lost his will to live.


Come and rest in Me


On November 13, Father wrote what would be his last letter to the priest who visited him monthly. In the letter he indicated that he had made funeral arrangements because, “I feared the New Mexico prison system will treat my dead body with the same disrespect with which they have treated my living body.” He died of a broken heart. He is buried in a plot donated by an order of nuns.


Do not be afraid, I am with you
I have called you each by name


There is no doubt in my mind that this wounded priest is in heaven with our Lord.

In Psalms 85 we are told that – “Love and truth will meet; justice and peace will kiss.” I pray that it will happen during our lifetime.



I will bring you home
I love you and you are Mine.

Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case

Fr. Gordon J. MacRae: A Curious Case
by Charlene C. Duline

Precious Lord, take my hand

Thus ends the Year of the Priest. It might also signal the end of the priesthood as we know it. The terrible tar brush of sexual abuse accusations dating from 50 years ago now touches every priest in the United States. Every diocesan priest now is aware that he is only one phone call away from having his priesthood destroyed. One phone call away from being a respected priest and spiritual adviser to his parishioners, to being looked upon as a pervert operating as a priest in order to molest children. Every diocesan priest knows that he is on his own; there is no support from his bishop.

A good example of this is the curious case of Fr. Gordon MacRae, a priest of the Diocese of Manchester in New Hampshire. When Fr. MacRae was accused, his bishop offered to help fund his legal expenses. It is the rare diocesan priest who has the money to pay for a legal defense. Fr. MacRae accepted his offer. That was the last he heard of the offer. Not one word of help or hope has been issued from his diocese since. His accusers were paid $700,000 and a good priest went to prison for, in effect, the rest of his life. The betrayals continued.

Lead me on, let me stand

Fr. MacRae never stood a chance. During his trial, the judge, Arthur Brennan, apparently had decided that the defendant was guilty and needed to be made an example for others. He instructed the jury to disregard the multitude of inconsistencies in the testimony of the accuser; refused to allow Fr. MacRae and his attorney access to the accuser’s juvenile and adult criminal records, and ignored signals given to the accuser from a witness in the courtroom. The prosecutor was running for a state office, and the conviction of Fr. MacRae was a very public notch on his belt. Between the judge and the prosecutor, it was a match made in hell.

The judge castigated Fr. MacRae for maintaining his innocence, and he also had extremely harsh words for Fr. MacRae’s canon lawyer who testified on Fr. MacRae’s behalf. Furious with Fr. MacRae for insisting that he was innocent, the judge sentenced Fr. MacRae to 33 ½ - 67 yrs for crimes that never happened. Later his accusers said they had been assured that Fr. MacRae would take the plea bargain offered to him, and he would be out of prison in one or two years. Their twisted minds could not fathom that someone with the religious convictions of Fr. MacRae would not succumb to such an offer. They might have been sorry that Fr. MacRae went to prison for the rest of his life, but apparently they were not sorry enough to return the money they obtained fraudulently. Be that as it may, Fr. MacRae knows that he will be delivered one way or another, for didn’t God deliver Daniel from the lions’ den, and David from Goliath, and Jonah from the belly of the whale? Fr. MacRae's faith is what keeps him strong, decisive, brilliant and priestly.

Through the storm, through the night…

When this good priest went to prison, he was greeted by the usual welcoming party reserved for those accused of molesting children: late at night three hooded men came into his cell armed with broomsticks, and beat and kicked him mercilessly. He woke up in the prison’s infirmary where he spent several days recovering from his injuries. From the infirmary he was sent to the “hole,” solitary confinement, for several months. What was he guilty of you ask? He was guilty of being a high profile prisoner, and that made his attackers almost kill him. It was all his fault that he was brutally beaten, and for that he went to solitary for months. Now 16 years later the results of those injuries are manifesting themselves. Fr. MacRae is in constant pain from two collapsed disks in the fourth and fifth vertebrae, highly likely to have been caused by the beating delivered that terrible night so long ago. He says it is unlikely that the prison officials will allow him to have an MRI to determine the extent of his back damage because of the expense. For now, Fr. MacRae is given an over-the-counter pain medication which does nothing to begin to mask the pain, he says. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to turn his head or to sit for hours on a plastic bucket typing letters or his blog.

I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m worn …

Medical treatment in prison is neither a given, nor is it a right. No matter how sick an inmate is, he has to line up for hours, and hope to see a nurse or someone who has read a first-aid manual. Then, and only then, if that first-aid manual graduate decides the inmate doesn’t need to see a doctor, he won’t see a doctor. Not long ago, one New Hampshire lawmaker proposed hiring veterinarians instead of medical doctors to look after prisoners’ medical needs. His attitude was that prisoners are only slightly above animals, so why shouldn’t they have a veterinarian to look after them, and it would be cheaper. Fortunately his fellow lawmakers did not agree with him.

Fr. MacRae, this priest, this holy man, this noble person, offered to withdraw his defense and remain silent in prison for the rest of his life if his bishop asked him to do so for the good of the Church. “Bishop McCormack later told me that he considered my overture.” The bishop CONSIDERED asking Fr. MacRae to sit quietly in prison for the rest of his life without attempting to save himself, even though the bishop said he knew Fr. MacRae was innocent? That is absolutely unfathomable to me. I’d like to shake both of them - the one for even considering that idiotic notion of staying in prison in order not to embarrass the Church, and the other one for considering such an asinine offer to save his hide. Dear God, forgive me, I just cannot believe You would allow such cruelty, such inconsiderateness, such stupidity to reign in the name of Your Church. What does go on in the minds of men?

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home …

The traditional day of ordination in my Archdiocese is the first Saturday in June. This year there were no men kneeling before the Archbishop for the powerful words ordaining them to the priesthood. Will this change next year? On one hand, we lament this dearth of seminarians. On the other hand, one has to wonder who in his right mind would want to join the number of priests being cast asunder.

Consider the numbers of good priests who proselytize by their very being, who are loved by their parishioners, who work tirelessly, and only during the dark, lonely nights let down their guard and tell our Lord of their struggles. Think how incredibly difficult is for our priests to represent our Church while fearing the wrath of the heathen, and even the wrath of some of their parishioners? One priest said to me, “I now shake hands with the altar servers (the children) and I hug the adults.” He thought that was safe, and so did I at the time. But now I realize that it’s not so safe - God forbid that his hug should accidentally touch a woman’s breast. If she’s a certain type of woman, she’ll be on her way to SNAP and our Archdiocese will be held up by some grubby attorney for millions of dollars. No, our dear priests are not safe anyplace, especially in Church.

Hear my cry, hear my call

I know that our Lord forgave sinners and preached love, compassion and forgiveness. So far, I have heard NONE of that directed to priests in prison. All the rhetoric is about the “victims.” Well, many years ago I was a victim, and nobody has ever apologized to me; nobody has ever thrown any money at me; nobody knows what I still suffer. So, who do I take to court? Is there a Diocese out there with money it can’t give away fast enough, and some attorney who makes his living by suing the Catholic Church, who could help me get some of that money? I could certainly use it for incarcerated priests - to purchase books, magazine and newspaper subscriptions, money for commissary items, money for telephone calls, for postage stamps, for toilet tissue, for shaving cream, shoes, craft projects, etc.

Hold my hand lest I fall …

As for Fr. MacRae, in prison he is saving souls and converting inmates solely by his own example. Those around him feel his spirituality even before they learn that he is a priest. The toughest of the tough hang out at his cell. One precious soul sits in a corner in the cell that Fr. MacRae shares with Pornchai, my Godson, and watches television. Skooter has a cell now that he shares with another inmate, but he prefers to sit on the floor in a corner in the cell of this holy man. Inmates stand in the cell and outside the cell asking for Fr. MacRae’s help with any and everything. His patience is unlimited. He turns no one away. He is amazing. As the song goes: “ … more than amazing, more than marvelous; more than miraculous could ever be …** that’s what Fr. MacRae is to those who live with him, to those who know and love him. His is indeed a curious case that gets “Curiouser and curiouser!”

Read it for yourself: www.TheseStoneWalls.com.

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home*







*Written by Thomas A. Dorsey
** Sandi Patty

THANK YOU, BRITTANY!

Thanks to a very special snake, a ball python named Brittany, I no longer throw across the room magazines with pictures of snakes, or feel repulsed at the sight of snakes. Indeed, I actually cuddled Brittany and other snakes at the zoo where I volunteered, and loved every minute of it. These amazing and adorable ambassadors of their species have undoubtedly helped to change attitudes of many who have met them. It was a special privilege to work with them. At the zoo, an adoring public can touch an exotic animal, learn what it eats in the wild versus its zoo diet, learn how it reacts when confronted with danger, its reproduction cycle, and other interesting facts. My greatest joy was introducing a critter to a child. Innocence meets innocence and a connection is made. Thus, children grow up knowing that animals are precious beings whose care and protection has been entrusted to mankind, and that animals are to be respected and loved, not hurt.

Being an volunteer animal handler was an invaluable learning experience. I handled animals I had never heard of, i.e., blue-tongued skinks, leopard geckos, bearded dragons, radiated tortoises and chinchillas, among others. I enjoyed working with all of the animals, but I was proudest of myself for overcoming my fear of snakes.

I remember the day I picked up our daily newspaper and read that the zoo needed volunteer animal handlers. Fantastic, I thought! That was me! I promptly showed up at the zoo and told the volunteer director that I loooooved ALL animals except snakes! I stopped short of telling her my REAL feeling: that all snakes should be rounded up and set on fire! And my ears were closed to the arguments that snakes had a place in the environment. They certainly had no place in my environment! When she said I would have to work with snakes as well as the other program animals, she might as well have said I would have to work with the devil himself.
I shook my head and sadly said, “I can never touch a snake.”
She smiled and replied, “Oh, yes you can, and you will come to love them.”
I thought the woman had lost her mind! Love and snakes was an oxymoron! It seemed that my animal handling was over before it began. The woman extolled the virtues of snakes. My mind closed down. Nothing good could ever be said about snakes. She asked me to give it a try. I joined the training class and tried not to think of the session when we would meet the reptiles.

Our first training session taught us about the cuddly animals we would work with. We met the cute, furry critters: ferrets, chinchillas, rabbits and guinea pigs. It was a heavenly experience. Our training continued with parrots, nun pigeons, and the like. And then came the night we were to come face to face with – shudder - reptiles.
I talked to St. Francis at length. I have always prayed that I could be like St. Francis and walk among wild animals without fear, to be able to talk to them and to have them listen to me. In fact, I tried to talk to birds, butterflies and a few stray cats, but they were far too busy to stop to listen to me. I wondered how on earth St. Francis ever got wolves and adders still long enough to listen to him. Now, I was closer to realizing my dream of being like St. Francis, and the only thing that could stop it was a snake. I asked my family and friends to pray that I would not throw the snake one way and run the other way. I knew that definitely would be the end of my animal handling career. By the time that evening arrived, I was crazed with fear! I thought mean and evil thoughts about snakes. Why, oh why, would anyone want to see one, to touch one, or to listen to anything about a snake? I had no answers.

Several people were absent from our class that evening and there were snickers that they were afraid of snakes. I swallowed hard, and concentrated on not trembling. The first animal was a leopard gecko, a type of lizard with leopard coloring. He was tiny, beautiful, and fit right in my hand. The bearded dragon was awesome and gentle. I was in love. The next critter was a blue-tongued skink from Australia. He was awesome. He cuddled right up to me. When I put him away, our trainer said, “Charlene, you have just handled a snake with feet.”
I replied, “Yes, but those feet make all the difference in the world!"

And then the trainer brought out a cloth bag knotted at the top. She carefully rolled the top down, reached in and pulled out a snake. I gulped, shut my eyes briefly, took a deep breath and said a little prayer. This was it. This is where the animal handlers are separated from the would-be-animal handlers. The snake was a ball python named Brittany. She was about four feet long. There was no getting around it, she was a snake. I have never been more afraid of anything else in my life! She was passed from hand to hand so that everyone could get a feel – pardon the pun - for her. I announced that I would be the last to hold her. Much later I realized that being the last person to handle Brittany could have been a mistake. She might have tired of being handed around. I barely noticed the reactions of the other volunteers; I was concentrating on the snake. And then she was placed in my outstretched hands. She had worked herself into a huge bow with her face in the middle. She was very still. She looked at me as if she knew that I was terrified.
Barely breathing, I said, “Hi, Brittany. Ooh, you are being so good. You’re not moving.”
And something passed between us that let me know I had nothing to fear from her. She had the sweetest, dearest little face. Snakes I had seen in magazines and on television had evil faces, and looked positively wicked. But not Brittany. Her face exuded gentleness and goodness. I knew without knowing how that she would not harm me. Brittany and I bonded! People guffaw when I say this, but it’s so true. And then she began moving and I handed her to the instructor. After our training ended, I went in several times and worked with the instructor and Brittany. I learned that snakes feel their surroundings with their tongue. I learned to let Brittany do that to me. I stood very still and as she flicked her tongue over my arms and hands and I became quite comfortable with her.

For our final exam each volunteer had to go into a different room and handle and talk about the animal in that room. I did fine with most of them. The chinchilla got away from me when I was putting him back in his carrying case. The instructor and I ran around the office trying to catch him. I was thankful that we were not out in a park! The last room I walked into contained a pillowcase tied at the top. I knew a snake was in there. I prayed tht it was Brittany, but I couldn’t be sure. I looked at the bag and I looked at the tester. If Brittany was in the bag I knew I would be fine, but if another snake was in there, I didn’t know what I would do. I began shaking. I was not ready to handle another snake – I only felt safe with Brittany. I knew the snakes were not vicious and they were not poisonous. None of that mattered. I did not want to come face to face with some strange snake. I had only been introduced to Brittany and I only wanted to see Brittany. I was terrified. I began visibly shaking. I was scared and disappointed in myself, and then the tears began to flow. I knew my dearest dream of working with animals was ended because I could not open that bag. I timidly asked if Brittany was in the bag. The tester said he could not tell me. I was paralyzed. There was no way I was going to open that bag. I stood staring at the bag, and he waited. Finally he asked me to tell him about Brittany and I did. I knew all about ball pythons and why they were called that, what they ate in the wild and what they ate at the zoo and on and on. I could barely talk. I was so upset and I could not take my eyes off the bag. I wanted to get out of that room before whatever was in the bag got out of the bag. I finished and fled. I returned to the instructor’s office feeling very dejected and disappointed in myself. There was just no way I oculd open that bag and no way could I handle any snake other than Brittany. I learned that Brittany had been in the bag. The instructor comforted me by saying that I was too hard on myself and she insisted that I would be a wonderful volunteer who would come to love snakes. She was partly right; I was a good volunteer, and while I enjoyed working with all of the snakes, the ball pythons were always my favorites.

And then I met our other program snakes: corn snakes, milk snakes, the majestic king snake and later, the most awesome snake ever, Bob, a huge ball python who was a gentle giant. Bob was extremely heavy and when I took him out to do a program, I could only hold him for so long. He was an awesome snake, and he was so laid back. I enjoyed taking Bob out to meet people. Not too many wanted to meet him, but he seemed to look forward to meeting them.

We were taught to watch for signs of stress in all of our animals. If too many people surrounded an animal, or if too many people tried to touch it at once, it could become stressed, and it might bite its handler. None of the volunteers was ever bitten. The reptiles, like our other program animals, did not seem to mind being touched and rubbed by children and adults alike. Most people think snakes are cold and slimy. In fact, they feel like a basketball and they are not slimy at all, as many people learned. It was such a joy to present to an admiring public the wonderful, fascinating, wild creatures who share our world. I felt blessed and privileged that these animal ambassadors trusted me to be gentle with them, and to introduce them to the public.

The Bible tells us that when peace and justice prevail, the wolf will be the guest of the lamb, instead of the lamb being the dinner of the wolf; the leopard will nap with the goat, and the baby calf and the baby lion will graze together. The cow and the bear will be neighbors. A baby will play happily beside the cobra's den. And no harm will come to any of them. What a glorious day. I will caress the mane of a majestic lion; tickle the tummy of a black bear; walk on ice with a polar bear and her cub, knowing that they will take care of me. I'll rub the tusk of a rhino, admire the ivory teeth of a hippo, and talk to an anaconda snake about his life in the rain forest. I'll caress the chin of a majestic elephant, and cuddle her baby; kneel down to chat with a gigantic tortoise, and each of us will understand the other's language.

Imagine the joy of St. Francis who had the amazing ability to speak to animals about God, and they listened! He spoke to the birds, and wolves, and other wild things. They never harmed him. What a gift God gave to St. Frances. Oh, that I could come close to having a small part of that same gift. And in some ways, my request has been granted.

When the first African elephant conceived through artificial insemination was born in the Indy zoo, I was among the volunteers privileged to meet her when she was about three months old. She was adorable. She and her mother were in their exercise yard. Amali greeted each of us. She kept coming over to the fence to me and I put my fingers through to rub her little trunk. She was like all babies, curious, extremely sociable, and mama Kubwa was content to see her baby having a great time with humans who obviously adored her. Animals feel love.

When we received our three white rhinos from South Africa, volunteers were allowed to meet them early on. My first question was, “Can we pet them?” “Yes,” was the reply! I was in heaven. I could pet a rhino. Well, they had had a mud bath the day before and the mud was caked on them. It was like petting a Mack truck! I doubt that they even felt the petting. It was weird to pet an animal whose skin you could not feel. I only felt that thick coating of mud. I didn’t feel that I was petting an animal, but it was still a treat to be up close and personal with rhinos.

My hat is off to all the awesome creatures that allowed me to introduce them to their public, but especially to Brittany for taking away my terrible fear and loathing of snakes, for which I will always be grateful. Thank you, Brittany!