Woman of God Read online

  “Uh-oh. So sorry, Brigid,” said Zach. “I woulda called, but I don’t have your number.”

  “That can be remedied, Yank. Got something to write on?”

  “Let me help,” he said.

  His help with paper towels was pretty hopeless, but Gilly became fascinated with Zach’s attempts and stopped screaming.

  “All done,” he said. “The floor can be washed, right?”

  I was glad to see Zach and, at the same time, a little freaked out that he’d just shown up in my house without warning. I moved the drop cloth, the bucket, and the brushes out of the way, put on the kettle, washed my hands in the big, old-fashioned sink, and after Zach did the same, I handed him a dish towel.

  I sent Gilly out to the vegetable garden with a basket for peas. The garden was safe, fenced in, and I could watch her from the kitchen windows.

  “So. How ya been?” I asked Zach.

  “Well, I broke a wrist playing pickup hoops. All better now.” He flexed to show me. “I’m taking Italian at the New School. And my girlfriend dumped me because, I don’t know. She said it’s not me. She likes someone else better. My best friend.”

  “Oh, man,” I said. “Will you live?”

  “In time. Every time a door closes, etc.”

  I poured tea, brought cookies to the table.

  Zach said, “So, the door that opened is actually a great door. Tall. Wide. With an awesome view.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve been offered a book deal. Actually, I mentioned your name, but I didn’t expect a publisher to jump over his desk and push a contract into my hands.”

  “Wait. My name?”

  “Brigid, I had this idea. The Jesus Mary Joseph movement really is a phenomenon. By my last count, there are nearly a hundred JMJ churches now, is that right?”

  “One hundred and two. I think. We’re not always told.”

  “I stand corrected. One hundred and two in what? Three years? It’s tremendous. It’s controversial. It’s dramatic, and with new records being set every day for the number of bad things happening simultaneously in the world, people are looking for ways to feel connected to God. You and James are providing answers. That’s what makes this a story that must be told.”

  “Zach, you’re not a Catholic. You’re not religious at all.”

  “You’re right. But this wouldn’t be about me. I don’t have to be Catholic to believe in all the good you and James are doing,” he said. “You’re on the right side of history. And think about this. If I write a book about the JMJ movement, it would offset the cardinal’s smear campaign. That would be good for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Before Zach walked in, I’d been thinking about the fire investigation, which had gone nowhere, but the fire was such a personal attack, it remained lodged in my mind. There was no evidence against Lawrence House, and he was still walking free. I saw him at the grocery store, the gas station, the pizzeria, the thrift shop. He wasn’t on my tail, but he was always around. Sometimes he was accompanied by other men, all of whom looked at me as if I were dirty. There could be another attack. A worse one.

  I didn’t want to go far from home.

  After the fire, I’d taken a leave from the clinic and was splitting my time between managing the church restoration, consulting with priests who’d come to learn about JMJ, and spending mommy time with Gilly. James had been traveling during the reconstruction, attending services in other JMJ churches, which, as Zach had noted, were sprouting up all over the country.

  I really didn’t want Zach to write about us. Our work was about making the Church accessible to everyone. And yet, we were in the public domain. Could I even stop Zach from writing this book?

  I stared past Zach to the garden, where Gilly was chatting with the scarecrow. My eyes welled up.

  Zach said, “Brigid. Brigid, don’t worry. I won’t do this book unless you and James are behind it.”

  “I’ll talk to James,” I said.

  “Good,” said Zach. “No pressure.”

  Zach was a powerful personality, and his New York Times byline lent authority to all his work. Zach was our friend, right?

  He hugged me and kissed my cheek, and I waved good-bye to him from the doorway. A few days later, after a lot of thought and prayer, I forwarded my journals to him with a caution.

  “This is just a loan.”

  “I’ll take very good care of this,” Zach said.

  I hoped he would.

  Chapter 102

  IT WAS a gorgeous morning in May, and there was an overflow crowd at this, the first Mass in the restored JMJ church. We’d installed new double doors on the southern side that opened out to the large deck and the hay field beyond. I stood alone in the sacristy, listening to James speak to the congregation. I was wearing a simple, loose-fitting white dress with a hem to midcalf, a crucifix on a long, gold chain, and a white linen scarf that covered my head.

  I heard James say, “No priest has ever been more moved to celebrate Mass than I. Brigid, please come out.”

  I had a nervous stomach, and I felt light-headed, too, but I refused to faint; nothing could ruin this remarkable day.

  Last night Bishop Reedy had ordained me by candlelight here in our precious church. I was a priest now, and today, I would give my first Mass.

  I assured myself that I could do this, and I prayed to God, saying, “I’ll do my best, Lord. Thank You for my glorious life and for giving me this opportunity to do Your will.”

  I walked out to the altar and looked around at the packed pews, the standing-room-only throng that had spilled out into the sunshine. Every pair of eyes was on me, every face was expectant.

  James was sitting in the first seat in the front right-hand pew, my usual spot, with Gilly beside him. They were holding hands.

  I began the liturgy, speaking to everyone inside the church and to those standing within sight, to those just outside the walls, to all who had heard the bells or thought they had.

  I knew every element of the Mass, and I hardly stumbled over the Latin words. I spoke in English, too. I forgot myself and became one with the congregation. I thrilled to the dialogue between us and was uplifted by the voices of our choir, coming from the strong, new loft.

  I had not committed my homily to memory. There just hadn’t been time, but I stood at the altar and told the assemblage, “I am so glad to be here. I feel so much love for all of you, and of course I’ve been worried that I might make some mistakes this morning. And then I reminded myself that there was no wrong here, with all of us together in the house and in the presence of God.”

  I spoke of the Resurrection and of the rebirth of this church. I said that sometimes change brought grief and sadness, and I saw the tears in James’s eyes.

  I said, “I’ve found that the greatest growth comes in times of change. And through this church, we are changing the way we think about God’s love. He’s here for all of us. All of us.”

  As the choir sang “Agnus Dei,” I anticipated the Communion I was soon to receive from my dear James. I’d never felt as close to God and, at the same time, to another human being as I did then.

  I offered Communion to the hundreds of people who had gathered in our church that day. Some of them were friends, and others were people who had come to Millbrook just for this celebration and to see a Catholic woman priest.

  I said and repeated to each supplicant, “The body of Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  “The blood of Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  I gave the Prayer after Communion, speaking to the blessings of the Lord, and then I dismissed the congregation—who, against all reason but to my great, blushing delight, broke into applause.

  I opened my mind to God, and I felt that special channel between us with an overlapping vision of the kind I had experienced before. I was both inside this old and beloved church, and I was with Him in an open field of pure light.

  I thought, Thank you, God, for this beautiful, blesse
d day.

  The light formed a sphere like the one that had enclosed me in Jerusalem. Now it surrounded me and James and Gilly and the entire congregation.

  I had spoken to the congregation in a general way about changes that we might never see coming. I knew that what was happening now was profound. The blessings of this day, my first Mass, the hundreds of expectant faces, the love of God and my love for Him, the light encompassing every one of us—I knew that I had to keep these memories alive for as long as I lived.

  Whatever came next.

  Chapter 103

  THAT NIGHT, James and I watched Cardinal Cooney on the eleven o’clock news condemning my “ordination.” After he took shots at me, James, and our dear friend Bishop Reedy, he warned “true Catholics” not to be led astray.

  The cardinal got so much airtime, we could switch from station to station and see him going after the “destructive” JMJ movement on every one of them. His latest spin was to call JMJ “Aubreyism,” an affront to the Vatican.

  In the weeks after my ordination, Cardinal Cooney defrocked Bishop Reedy and formed alliances with the archdioceses in other cities. He stirred up the Church’s donor base with a fund-raising campaign, and I thought that it was only a matter of time before the pope weighed in with his own condemnation.

  The cardinal was clearly unnerved by what we were doing, and his reaction scared me.

  He said it again and again: The Church had been very clear about the role of women. Jesus chose twelve men to be his apostles. Stand back, womankind. Don’t even think of stepping up to the altar. Don’t even think about it.

  James and I were mentioned in all of the cardinal’s diatribes. Sometimes, the inflammatory image in the corner of the screen was of me, Aubrey’s wife. Aubreyism’s fake woman priest.

  But as the weeks became months, it seemed that the cardinal’s smear campaign had backfired. As appealing and omnipresent as he was personally, more renegade “Catholic” churches had come into being. Existing churches were transformed into JMJ churches. New churches were opened in people’s homes, and by Gilly’s fourth birthday, the movement had spread to South America and Europe.

  The press continued to be fascinated by us, and Gilly had her own fans. A sparkly redhead, Gilly Aubrey was verbal and quite funny. And she could really ham it up when a camera was pointed at her.

  Which was not good.

  I remember a pushy reporter in a cute sundress and heels chasing Gilly up the walkway to the church, demanding,“Gilly, come and talk to me.”

  I got between my child and the reporter, and when I had the reporter’s complete attention, I signaled to the others in the media van, and the three or four paparazzi I could see across the street, and waved them into the church.

  When they had all assembled, I said, “Everyone, I understand why you’re here, but Gilly is just a little girl. We need an agreement, all of you and me. I will be available right here every weekday at ten to answer your questions, but my daughter is off-limits. Seem fair?”

  I gave the reporters my email address and invited them to church on Sunday. I started my weekday press meetings the next day, Monday, and they were actually good for all concerned. The reporters became normal people when we could talk one-on-one. And I got to know them: Jason Beans from the Globe, Arthur Glass from the World Press, Antonia Shoumatoff from the Millbrook Independent, and well-known reporters from cable and network news.

  The aggressive attacks stopped. Susie Kennedy, the reporter who had chased Gilly up the path, was from USA Today. She started bringing brownies to the morning meetings. Often we all talked about world events having nothing to do with our church or religion at all.

  Once in a while, Zach showed up. He was still with the New York Times, and he had questions, too. After the others left, we would sit together on the steps of the rectory and talk.

  Sometimes I learned more about JMJ’s progress from Zach than even James and I knew.

  “And you, Zach? How are you?”

  “Growing back my beard,” he said in Italian, giving me a broad grin. “My editor likes my pages, and now I’ve got a dog.”

  “A dog?”

  “Chihuahua named Jeter. He travels well.”

  We talked baseball for a while, and that was when I forgot that Zach was a reporter. He was just Yank. I told him that I was working on all cylinders and James was, too. That James looked tired, but he was doing what he loved.

  “I get that,” Zach said. “Me too.”

  Gilly came over and told Zach that she had had a dream about him. “You were Zach and the Beanstalk,” she said.

  When it was time to go, Zach hugged me, kissed my cheek, as always, and waved good-bye.

  I asked myself once again if Zach’s book was really going to be good for JMJ or if it would be just another punching bag for the cardinal.

  I didn’t know it then, but Zach Graham was the least of my worries. I was about to be blindsided by someone much closer to home.

  Chapter 104

  WHEN I took my seat opposite celebrity broadcaster Morgan McCartor on the 60 Minutes set, I didn’t have the slightest premonition that my secret life was about to be cracked wide open.

  James was home sick with the flu, but the pre-taping of the show couldn’t wait. McCartor was unconcerned about the programming change and introduced me to her TV audience of twenty-five million viewers. She sketched out the highlights of my life in glowing terms, from my work at Kind Hands, my near-death injuries on the battlefield, and the tragic loss of Karl and Tre, to my dramatic marriage to James Aubrey, my ordination, and the turmoil our movement had brought to Catholicism worldwide.

  I almost couldn’t take so much attention and fought the urge to squirm in my seat.

  McCartor, on the other hand, was in her element.

  She was beautiful and smart and was so familiar to me from her interviews of presidents and killers and rock stars, I almost thought of her as a friend. She tossed me some softball questions, and I got relatively comfortable, and then she hit me with her best shot when she said, “Brigid, take a look at this clip, will you?”

  I watched as my darling Gilly’s face filled the big screen. She was wearing a cherry-print jumpsuit with mismatched socks and shoes, her new favorite look this summer. An off-camera voice was saying to her, “Gilly, when you say your mom talks to God, you mean she prays, isn’t that right?”

  And Gilly, my dear daughter said, “Sure, she prays. But sometimes when she talks to God, He talks back to her. She told me so.”

  My face heated up. Gilly. What made you say that?

  McCartor was saying, “Brigid, tell us what your daughter means. Do you converse with God?”

  I had to decide right then, with cameras rolling, whether to tell the truth and risk whatever fallout ensued, or to deny my connection to God.

  Morgan McCartor was saying my name.

  “Brigid? Is it true that you not only speak to God, but He speaks to you?”

  I was thinking fast, editing my own thoughts. How could I explain my personal experiences with God without sounding insane?

  I gave it a try, relaxing my shoulders, speaking to my “friend” Morgan as if we were sitting together over coffee at a kitchen table.

  I said, “Sometimes, on rare occasions and never on demand, my mind is filled with what I feel strongly is the word and presence of God. It’s a momentous experience, and while it’s happening, it’s as if I’m both in the actual, physical present and, at the same time, in a metaphysical realm. I see moving images unlike anything I have ever seen or could ever imagine. I hear a resonance, almost like a voice, responding to a question in my mind. I have to interpret these visions and find the answers to my questions within them.”

  McCartor was right there, ready to ask, “What kind of questions, Brigid? What kind of answers? What can you share about this amazing phenomenon with us?”

  “I can say that the first time I experienced this—this overpowering connection—was the day that I was shot
. My heart stopped, and it took several minutes to bring me back. Technically—and by that I mean literally—I died. I’ve been neurologically cleared by the best doctors. I don’t have brain damage, and I’m not crazy. So, what do I think? That through my death, a channel opened in my mind to the presence of God.”

  I conveyed a full stop after “God,” and the TV interviewer got it.

  “That’s all you’re giving us?”

  I laughed. “Seems like an awful lot to me.”

  McCartor said, “Thank you, Brigid, for this most extraordinary interview.”

  She turned directly to the camera and told the audience what to expect in next week’s show, and then hot lights went out, stagehands applauded wildly. McCartor leapt out of her chair and embraced me.

  “You’re an amazing person, Brigid. It’s hard to believe what you’ve told us, but I do believe you. I’ve never had an interview like this. You’re inspiring to so many people. You’re the real thing. And, take it from me, I know the real thing.”

  Chapter 105

  LAWRENCE HOUSE was on a bar stool at Cal’s Roadhouse, watching 60 Minutes on the TV over the bar, when Morgan McCartor signed off. Sunday-night drinkers crowded the far end of the bar, a group of rowdies crowded the dartboard, and a couple of kids were fooling around in a booth in the back.

  Typical night in a one-saloon town.

  House said to the bartender, “Bill. Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Our lady priest was on TV again.”

  “Oh, her. Can I get you another one?” Bill asked House.

  “No, I’m done.”

  A fanfare came over the TV, announcing a breaking news story. House grabbed the remote and turned up the volume as the on-screen reporter intercepted Cardinal Cooney leaving the Boston Archdiocese and heading to his car.

  The reporter asked, “Your Eminence. Do you have a comment for us on the Sixty Minutes interview with Brigid Aubrey?”