In Exchange of Life

Chapter One

Frantically, I packed, not knowing what to throw in the duffel bag-the one that was waiting patiently, looking back at me from the once tranquil bed. Not remembering what I had already packed, I caught a glimpse of my hands. They were shaking like the leaves of the palm tree outside my window. My face was flushed; my eyes moist from tears. I could feel my heart pounding inside my chest. It was a task just to walk with legs so wobbly, like I had borrowed them.

The worst call of my life had come at five o’clock that morning. Bad news is never easy to accept. Devastating news stuns and shocks the heart quiet for a split second. At first I was in disbelief, but knew full-well that it was true. It only takes the brain a second to contemplate the many avenues of doubt before understanding the brutal reality of truth.

My brother broke down as he tried his best to ease it to me. I knew he had bad news as soon as I answered the phone and heard him say, Joe…. His voice was soft and low, almost priest-like. It had the sound of total exhaustion. It was low, yet full of pain.

It’s amazing how, with one word, we are almost able to completely read someone’s thoughts, see their feelings like a motion picture—especially if they are loved ones.

I had never heard Jerry’s tone of voice like that before. After all, he was the husky, bigger brother-the one with the powerful, loud voice. I was the soft-spoken one, even before I entered the seminary ten years ago.

I was the Catholic priest who moved away, leaving everyone behind in Brooklyn. I had moved out to the small parish church of St. Augusta, on Daufuskie Island, South Carolina, seven years earlier.

Joe, I don’t know how to say it.

Jerry, what is it? I asked cautiously.

There’s been an accident.

It was then that he fell apart, sobbing.

Jerry, just take it slow, I said, calmly, in my most-soothing, fatherly voice. The voice I had used so many times before when tragedies had struck someone. Always the one to remain calm, I had no idea I would become unglued and broken down to my inner-most emotional core.

Joe, he continued, clearly sobbing. It’s Melissa. It’s not good. She… She’s… She’s gone!

What?

Joe, she overdosed. Our daughter, Melissa, is dead.

How? Jerry, how could. I stammered.

It was an accident, she… he said, searching for the words. She didn’t want to.

That was over two and a half months ago. My only niece, Melissa, had been dead for almost three months now. The thought of this beautiful, young girl still brings tears to my eyes. Gone at sixteen, only a little over one month after her Sweet Sixteen birthday party-the one I couldn’t get away from the rectory for, the one party I so regret missing.

And now I was packing that same khaki duffel bag. The one that witnessed so many uncontrolled tears that terrible Saturday morning almost eleven weeks earlier in April. As I slowly looked at that bag on the bed and then at the walls of the bedroom, I realized that the emotions from months earlier, the sorrow and desperation, had slowly converted themselves into full-fledged raging anger that was gnawing at me for at least six weeks. I was incensed with feelings of revenge. For the first time ever, I felt like a caged animal, ready to pounce, ready to kill and tear apart anything that got in my way.

At times I felt like that comic book character, The Incredible Hulk. He was the man who turned into an animal and lost all self-control after the transformation. Once, I was known as a mild-mannered, compassionate man of the cloth, someone who would stop at nothing to help another individual. I was someone who turned the other cheek every time, never judging anyone or what they did. That all changed on that April morning. My whole life changed. Everything I once believed in was now masked in a cloud of doubt. My seven years as a Catholic priest were suddenly unimportant. I questioned my commitment to God, the church and myself. I blamed God for taking Melissa away, even though I have consoled thousands of people over the years as to The Master Plan that God has for each of us. Suddenly, none of it made sense any longer to me. Not now. Not after Melissa’s death. All I wanted was revenge. I wanted whoever was responsible for Melissa’s death to pay. I hadn’t worked it all out, but I needed closure. And closure for me was making some kind of an impact. Melissa was dead. I kept reminding myself that her death must not be in vain.

The tears were all gone now, replaced with an unending burning desire for justice. My every waking moment was spent thinking, scheming, and working out the reasoning for my leaving the church. Everything I had worked for was now a big question mark in my mind. I was willing to throw it all out the window and replace it with my new James Bond/Dirty Harry mentality.

Jerry had found peace already; I could tell from our conversation the week before. He said, Joe, Melissa is in a better place. I don’t understand God’s ways, why He takes some and not others but, I’m at peace. I know Melissa will be watching over us, waiting to greet each of us as we enter heaven. I wish you would change your mind, Joe. There’s nothing you can do to bring her back. You have so much to lose. Look at all you’ve worked for. You’re an excellent priest…

Jerry, I don’t want to talk about it. My mind is made up; I have to do something.

What? How? What are you going to do to change anything Joe? Why, you can’t even survive out of that rectory of yours for more than a week. And what about all the people who need you? You can’t just…

It’s all arranged. Next week is my last week here. My replacement is already on his way. They’ll be fine without me. And I may be back; I don’t know.

You don’t know? Joe, just listen to yourself. You’re not making any sense at all! You don’t know what you’re going to do. You don’t know if you’ll ever go back to the church. You sound like a schoolboy, all mixed up.

Jerry, I just need this break. It’s just a phase I’m going through. Maybe it’s a Catholic mid-life crisis. I don’t fully understand it myself. But, if you love me, you’ll try to understand.

The entire family loves you; you know that. And we’ll all support you through whatever you’re going through. It’s just that we don’t want to see you hurt in any way; that’s all, Joe.

After we established the fact that we all loved one another, Jerry told me to visit them on my trip and I promised that I would.

I thought about my big brother and about how people changed. While we were growing up, Jerry was always the tough one, beating up on me, yet, also protecting me. He was always fighting someone or something. He was five years older than I and was always larger. I remember him being six foot at age fifteen. Maybe life calmed him down. Life has that effect on many people. It has its way of wearing someone down, taking the fight out of them.

Jerry is a computer programmer for a Japanese bank in Manhattan. He’s been there for many years. He did well for his forty-seven years on this earth: a nice family, a beautiful wife, Susan, a large brick home in Brooklyn, and up until two months ago, a fabulous daughter. Jerry had it all. In fact, he had much more than we ever thought. My parents never thought Jerry would amount to anything. I was the one most likely to succeed in business. Oh, sure, the parents who are now retired and settled in Jacksonville, Florida, are always bragging about Father Joe. Father Joe this and Father Joe that but it was Jerry who really made a financial splash. His job kept him working twelve hours a day. The computer room at his bank was always behind. There’s a price we all must pay for success, some more than others.

Jerry’s beautiful brick house with the built-in pool, the maid who comes in twice a week, the elaborate vacations, and the thirty-six foot yacht. Yes, Jerry had it all. It was the complete opposite of my conservative lifestyle in the rectory. Up until now, none of it ever mattered to me. But, this was my wake-up call, my reality check, a once-in-a-lifetime self-evaluation, time to add it all up and look at the grand total. And now that I totaled it all up, I was not impressed at all. My expectations of life and myself just didn’t balance out. Life was passing me by. I looked at what I had to show for my forty-two years and, other than the graying hair at my temples, nothing new was happening.

Chapter Two

Outside, the wind was singing at fifty miles per hour. It was the outer-edge of some woman’s rage called Tropical Storm Lisa. The very same storm that had zeroed in on Miami, Florida several days earlier. The windows were banging, the trees all bending. We were all quite tired of these storms. The season for tropical storms had been too long this year. The wind played her tune as I reminisced. I thought about leaving my haven on Daufuskie Island. I thought about turning my back on the church, my parish, and my people. Still, I was confident in my decision in my mind and heart.

Here I was, forty-two, slightly gray, and a little soft in the middle—maybe twenty pounds overweight. Complacent. In a boring rut. Yet, no one could tell but me. It had been slowly brewing for some time. Life does that ‘speed-up’ sort of thing to us. One minute we’re waiting for what seems like forever just to get to age twenty-one. Then, all of a sudden, we’re forty-two, and we can’t remember how it happened so fast. Once it sinks in, we feel like our lives are almost over with nothing much to show for it.

I had been stagnant for years in this paradise island they call Daufuskie, which stands for first key, named and settled by the Cusabo Indians before 1664. It was seven years ago when I was re-assigned to the small parish church of St. Augusta. Father Reilly, the pastor of St. Augusta for fifty years, had passed on. At first, I thought it was heaven. What could be better? The weather was beautiful, the duties were few, and the island somewhat secluded. With its some four hundred residents, and being only five miles by seven miles, many find it a great escape. I did, in the beginning, but after the first year I felt useless.

My commitment to the community kept me here, kept me convinced that I was needed badly. While, in reality, I kept fooling myself. My commitment to God started early on. We all say we believe in God, but my belief was somewhat stronger. It started at age eight when I believe a miracle happened in my life. It’s a little blurry, all these years later, but I remember being at the beach with my mother. At eight, I still couldn’t swim. I kicked a lot but couldn’t stay afloat. I remember having a little tube and somehow going out into the deeper water. In those days I was not intimidated by the ocean—those were the pre-JAWS years. The tube got away from me, and I went deeper until, as I recall, I was on my tippy-toes just to keep from taking in water. Try as I might, I couldn’t get myself into shallow water. Something was pulling me farther out. It was then that I knew I was in big trouble. I had a couple of mouthfuls of water and was unable to move at all. Even though my legs were walking, I wasn’t going anywhere. It was then that I felt someone, a man, come out of nowhere and pull me to shore. Nothing was said. My mother, to this day, never knew I was in real trouble. But, I knew I had experienced a miracle that day. I walked away, knowing that God had saved my life. Perhaps that man was an angel. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared. My fear of the ocean still exists today. I never went into any water that was over my head again.

After learning about under-currents years later and how strong they can be, I realized that I was given a second chance. I was given a second life that day. I could have very easily perished at eight years of age. I should have died, but didn’t. To this day I know I was saved for a reason, and that is part of my despair now. Ever since becoming a priest, trying to help all the people I came in contact with, I was still left with an unfulfilled feeling. It was almost as if I’d been cheating at life; like my life was too easy. I never believed in my heart that I was accomplishing anything. As the seven years on the little island of Daufuskie quickly passed, I felt my life passing me by, with little to show. I owed life much more. The miracle of my second life obligated me, at least in my own mind, to do something special, to be something more than an average Father Joe. And for years, it has been a growing gnawing obsession that I didn’t know how to remedy. That was before Melissa’s death at the hands of poison from hell. Drugs are nothing more than the devil in disguise.

It was about three and a half months earlier. I read a story in the newspaper about a three-year-old boy that was killed instantly while in his third floor apartment. A bullet from a street drug fight found its way into the boy’s apartment and into his brain.

I was sick to my stomach, reading the story, which was buried on page ten of the paper. It was before Melissa’s death but it was yet another one of the many reasons why I needed to go to New York on my mission.

God didn’t take Melissa; the inspiration, misguided inspiration of drug use took Melissa’s life. I’ve always believed that God can, and does, take babies, children and adults. But, he allows us to each live our life on earth, good or bad, all on our own. I believe that God doesn’t take the life of a slashing victim or someone thrown in front of an oncoming subway train. We have control of our destiny. God allows us each to be all we can be. He’s just keeping score.

As I listened to the howling wind bringing me back to reality, I realized I had to do what was in my heart. Life is cruel in a way. If you pass on your burning desire, the carousel turns quicker, spinning the years by you, as it reminds you of that magical opportunity lost forever.

I waited for the only bus allowed on the island which would take me to the infrequent ferry that ran only twice in the morning, taking all passengers to the main island of Hilton Head, some fifty minutes away. It was the only way on or off this isolated island that I called home for the past seven years, the home I’d now say goodbye to, perhaps forever. Or at least until I figured out what to do with my life.

Maybe I’d be like my good friend James. Maybe I, too, would be in an exchange of life. James and I met ten years ago in seminary school, St. Michael’s in Boston. We quickly became best friends. James went on to a parish in Boston, I to a small church in Virginia, until being reassigned to St. Augusta. James left the Catholic Church approximately five years ago; he was very disillusioned with the ways of the church. He started his own ministry, a small church in a suburb of Boston, married a nice woman, and had two children. He tells me every chance he gets that he now feels fulfilled and that he’s serving God better than ever. An exchange of life? Maybe. James arranged to come with me to New York to see what kind of a change we could make in the Drug Trafficking industry. He feels the same way I do about what drugs are doing to our children in America.

Chapter Three

My watch showed nine-thirty in the morning. I had until eleven thirty to catch the ferry which was only five minutes away. None of the four hundred island residents or the five hundred weekly tourists were allowed to use cars on Daufuskie, the vehicle-free island. Only golf carts were allowed; each had to be licensed and insured. Even the workers at the one and only resort hotel on the island had to commute daily via the ferry from the main island.

Just then, I thought about my closest friend for the last seven years in South Carolina, Mert Falton, the millionaire. Mert and I had played chess bi-weekly for the past seven years. Most of the time Mert came to the island. As he used to say, What else do I have to do with my time? I’m retired! We shared stories, mostly Mert’s intriguing tales of rising from poverty up the ladder to success. We talked politics and philosophy, spending many a good evening together, and sharing many laughs.

It was the day before, with Mert, I had tears in my eyes. Are you sure you must do this, Joe? he asked. This is an important time in your life!

Mert, my friend, thank you for our special friendship for all these years. I don’t think I could have made it here mentally without your inspiration and support. Every time I needed anything you were always there—whether it was financially for the church or for me personally. I will always value our friendship and memories together. But, please trust me; this is something I have to do. I must make an attempt to improve things. There’s another Melissa somewhere out there who hasn’t tried drugs yet, but she will be exposed to them one day. We’ve got to make an attempt to dry up the avenues of entry into our young children’s hands. Do you see where I’m coming from?

I understand you more than you’ll ever know, Joe. I only wish I were thirty years younger so I could join you.

We said our good-byes, hugging each other tightly while Mert reminded me, Never say ‘goodbye’, say ‘till we meet again!’

Mert had become a dear friend, a father figure, and a confidant over the past years. I valued his experience; I found tremendous strength through his eyes of seventy-five years. Mert had seen it all in his lifetime. He had gone from struggling in a ghetto of Chicago to owning a chain of twenty-five electronic stores, all without a college education. When we played chess, one of his passions, he’d say, Chess is exactly like life; you have to analyze your every move, and no matter how careful you are, you’ll still make some major, wrong decisions.

I think Mert let me win on those rare occasions that I beat him at chess. I knew I wasn’t a very good player, but I think it made him feel good to see my face after I had won. I never let on about my suspicion. Mert will be sorely missed.

My bags were packed; my airline ticket out of Savannah, Georgia, was confirmed and in order. The island was exceptionally quiet for a Saturday morning, especially the last day of May, my last day at the rectory. I’d soon be on my way. Not once had I doubted my decision to take the two month leave from the church, not until I looked at the airline ticket. The one-way ticket into LaGuardia. Then I wondered if I was doing the right thing in leaving. Sure, I was only officially taking a two month leave. The church was expecting me back. But, I was confused and had been for some time now, so how was I to know how I’d feel after two short months?

My final decision for the leave of absence came about just over two weeks ago. I had requested a meeting with Bishop O’Malley, South Carolina’s Arch Diocese leader. The Bishop told me how valuable my services were and promised that if I would only stick it out, I’d find my concerns would go away.

I need to do this for myself, I began. I have felt that society needs to see someone steps up to the killers that pass themselves off as citizens.

But, Father, you aren’t the person qualified to fight this monumental, global disease of mankind.

Oh, but I am. I must, and I will give my life if I can make some small impact. After all, what was my niece, Melissa’s life worth? I gave my life to God. His children are our children. I must save children for Melissa, for God and for myself.

My mind was made up. As I looked directly into the Bishop’s old, blue eyes, I saw myself in twenty-five years, an old, used up and frustrated priest, just playing the role acting as people would expect. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I needed more.

Maybe James’ decision to leave the church five years ago to become a minister in his own church and get married had been working on my mind for some time. I often wondered what he felt to make the transition from celibacy to marriage. I often think of a quote I read somewhere years ago that said, When it’s all over, all said and done, what impact will my life have had on this world? It both inspires and troubles me at the same time, pushing me on to be more than I thought I could be.

In any event, I’d felt empty inside for some time. Like I should be doing much more for society, instead of acting like Gilligan, the star of Gilligan’s Island. Just like the quote says, "what impact will