Sister Herculane sported a small smile as she ushered me into her office. Smiling was not her normal facial expression, but as hers expanded it illuminated her face to a rosy pink glow. Unlike the other nuns, she was not a plump, blushing, bundle of robes and banging rosary beads. Sister Herculane was a tall, lean woman well into her thirties. She was a serious educator, disciplinarian, and religious.
Her office was short of décor except for a few statues, crucifixes and framed pictures of saints. It smelt of mild bleach and fresh ivory snow soap. The walls were concrete blocks lathered in heavy white paint and the floor was a checkerboard of black and white tiles. Her desk was a neat surface with a flip flop metal calendar, a few slices of mimeographed paper, pencils, and in the center the dreaded paddle we knew as the "board of education". The lighting was soft from sunshine streaking in through a single large window. Maintaining steady eye contact she announced, "Charles, we believe you have been blessed with a holy vocation." Before I could respond she continued, "Father Finnegan and I believe Almighty God has chosen you to become a priest."
At the time I was 11 or 12 years old and had not spent much time planning next week or my entire life for that matter. I remember in religion class hearing that God chose certain boys and girls to be fathers and sisters for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Sisters told us that once you were chosen that was it. Our religious instructors further directed we pray about vocations and listen for instructions from the Almighty. I did pray, but mostly my prayers were for forgiveness after confession or selfish prayers to ask God for stuff my parents could not afford to give me. I honestly couldn't recall getting any messages from God. However, when Sister Herculane suggested my vocation, I began to doubt and wonder if I had missed or ignored an important signal from the Lord. Sister continued, "Charles, this is a very important decision and you must take time, pray mightily, and examine your conscience to get divine guidance." I was slightly relieved there were no oaths or enlistment papers requiring my immediate signature.
Sister Herculane carried the fearsome nicknames of Hurricane and Hercules for good reason. She was a disciplinarian of the first order and could be very intimidating. Thank God she did not demand my immediate decision. I was an altar boy and knew Father Finnegan well. He was grumpy at the 6 AM mass, but after finishing up the early mass wine he became a more pleasant fellow. He was a lovable Irish priest dedicated to the Church, it's wine, and his parishioners, especially the ladies. I knew altar boy Latin, but dreaded learning the priests portion of Latin and all the intricate duties of priesthood.
Sister Herculane continued, "Father Michael from the diocese will be meeting you and organizing a summer camp for other possible seminarians from all over Virginia. We want you to seriously consider the week long trip. Give your parents this packet of information and bring the completed applications back to me." I was speechless as Sister Herculane rose and said, " Do you have any questions, and remember it is a high honor to receive a holy vocation." I had a million questions and doubts, but was overwhelmed, and could only meekly reply, "thank you sister."
Dad promptly filled out and signed the application. He was a steady Catholic and in awe of Sister Herculane. I didn't ask his advice. All he said was, "take a good look son it could be a great opportunity and we'll agree with whatever you choose." I think he relished the possibility that educational expenses at seminary would be borne by the diocese. He sacrificed mightily to afford the tuition for my sister and I and realized the benefit of future paid education for me . My mother who was a Baptist by birth, but knew all the Catholic holy days, teachings, and rituals better than anyone, easily agreed with his suggestion. She was a true closet Catholic of the first order and I think she believed all nuns, priests, doctors, and ministers were infallible.
Father Michael was a cheerful energetic man who had a folder full of mountain camp photos and drawings of the proposed seminary. "We'll have a swell time Charles, and you will get a chance to met some other guys thinking about seminary." His enthusiasm was genuine and electric. After our 30 minute meeting some of my earlier apprehensions melted away. I began to consider the summer camp as an adventure with a bunch of other boys my age.
I had never been on a train before and enjoyed the rail journey from the flat tidewater through the rolling landscape of Central Virginia to the edge of the Appalachians. It was an exciting and scenic journey. I was the only boy from my school sent to this special camp, and had instructions where to exit and whom to meet. At my destination I noticed other boys exiting the train and moving across the platform to a line of cars and station wagons. I followed. Loaded cheek to jowl in vehicles with our bags we bounced our way up hills into the mountains, and finally snaked our way down a winding dirt track to our camp site. The first order of business was a talk from Father Michael. Then, we all got pinned with name tags. I would guess a hundred or more boys were there and cars arrived until dark loaded with more fellows.
Except for prayer times and mass every day it was a fun filled week. We did camping, hiking, fishing, campfires, tugs of war, swimming, games, wrestling, spooky fireside stories, and lots of good food. There were a few fights among some, ticks, mosquito bites, and a good number of cuts and scratches, but all in all an enjoyable week. One day a boy got bit by something and his arm quickly turned purple and puffed up. Father Michael stuffed the boy into his car and a few of us jumped in for the descent to a clinic. Father raced down the hill so fast and in those days before seat belts it was a scary ride. We were jostled up and down and from side to side as he careened down the mountain. Finally, one guy begged Father to slow down and he cheerfully responded, "boys, with God as our co pilot we have nothing to fear." Turns out the kid was allergic to some bee or bug and after a shot was OK. Father screeched back to camp spewing gravel at every switchback, but I felt we would be safe because, as he assured us, God was our co pilot. Camp lasted six days and a handful of us were invited to visit the new seminary site for a few days. We climbed aboard a school bus and headed for Goochland County.
The site of Saint John Vianney Seminary was on the James River. A beautiful old mansion and large piece of land had been donated to the Diocese for the school. Construction on the barracks and class buildings were still in progress when we arrived on a steamy summer afternoon. The seminary was to be a high school prep which would graduate boys to the college level seminaries up north. We shared bedrooms in the big house and our first order from Father Michael was to meet at the large outdoor pool. Along with a few others, I enjoyed the pool, fancy meals, a tour of the facility, and conversations with staff members and Father Michael about vocations and the priesthood.
After nearly two weeks of camp and visiting the beautiful old home, my junior seminarian experience was finished. I had met a lot of nice, smart young guys and priests. I seriously prayed about a vocation or "calling" and sought a message, but was never answered.
Back home as my big decision day approached something changed my thinking. I attended a few dances at the local community center and birthday parties the last weeks before the new school year, and suddenly realized that girls were quite intriguing. I perceived this as a very clear signal from nature and God that I was not destined to be a priest. For a twelve year old feeling some pressure from well meaning adults, this lead me to my final decision.
I said no to the whole seminary deal and Sister Herculane was disappointed. She had been an excellent sales lady for vocations and I felt bad that I had not fulfilled her expectations. I believe she took my decision personally. Father Finnegan and Father Michael were OK with my choice, and held out the future opportunity if I should ever change my mind. Fortunately, Mom and dad agreed with my choice too.
Looking back, it was probably my first major life decision. I fondly remember and will never forget the wonderful adults in my "coming of age" drama. They were good people trying to steer me into a religious life. However, it was my call and I made the right choice. I will always relish the experience of a summer when I turned a potential religious vocation into a vacation and met some great folks along the way.
As I travel my Final Lap I often recall Father Michael's words. " Boys, with God as our co pilot, we have nothing to fear."
Her office was short of décor except for a few statues, crucifixes and framed pictures of saints. It smelt of mild bleach and fresh ivory snow soap. The walls were concrete blocks lathered in heavy white paint and the floor was a checkerboard of black and white tiles. Her desk was a neat surface with a flip flop metal calendar, a few slices of mimeographed paper, pencils, and in the center the dreaded paddle we knew as the "board of education". The lighting was soft from sunshine streaking in through a single large window. Maintaining steady eye contact she announced, "Charles, we believe you have been blessed with a holy vocation." Before I could respond she continued, "Father Finnegan and I believe Almighty God has chosen you to become a priest."
At the time I was 11 or 12 years old and had not spent much time planning next week or my entire life for that matter. I remember in religion class hearing that God chose certain boys and girls to be fathers and sisters for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Sisters told us that once you were chosen that was it. Our religious instructors further directed we pray about vocations and listen for instructions from the Almighty. I did pray, but mostly my prayers were for forgiveness after confession or selfish prayers to ask God for stuff my parents could not afford to give me. I honestly couldn't recall getting any messages from God. However, when Sister Herculane suggested my vocation, I began to doubt and wonder if I had missed or ignored an important signal from the Lord. Sister continued, "Charles, this is a very important decision and you must take time, pray mightily, and examine your conscience to get divine guidance." I was slightly relieved there were no oaths or enlistment papers requiring my immediate signature.
Sister Herculane carried the fearsome nicknames of Hurricane and Hercules for good reason. She was a disciplinarian of the first order and could be very intimidating. Thank God she did not demand my immediate decision. I was an altar boy and knew Father Finnegan well. He was grumpy at the 6 AM mass, but after finishing up the early mass wine he became a more pleasant fellow. He was a lovable Irish priest dedicated to the Church, it's wine, and his parishioners, especially the ladies. I knew altar boy Latin, but dreaded learning the priests portion of Latin and all the intricate duties of priesthood.
Sister Herculane continued, "Father Michael from the diocese will be meeting you and organizing a summer camp for other possible seminarians from all over Virginia. We want you to seriously consider the week long trip. Give your parents this packet of information and bring the completed applications back to me." I was speechless as Sister Herculane rose and said, " Do you have any questions, and remember it is a high honor to receive a holy vocation." I had a million questions and doubts, but was overwhelmed, and could only meekly reply, "thank you sister."
Dad promptly filled out and signed the application. He was a steady Catholic and in awe of Sister Herculane. I didn't ask his advice. All he said was, "take a good look son it could be a great opportunity and we'll agree with whatever you choose." I think he relished the possibility that educational expenses at seminary would be borne by the diocese. He sacrificed mightily to afford the tuition for my sister and I and realized the benefit of future paid education for me . My mother who was a Baptist by birth, but knew all the Catholic holy days, teachings, and rituals better than anyone, easily agreed with his suggestion. She was a true closet Catholic of the first order and I think she believed all nuns, priests, doctors, and ministers were infallible.
Father Michael was a cheerful energetic man who had a folder full of mountain camp photos and drawings of the proposed seminary. "We'll have a swell time Charles, and you will get a chance to met some other guys thinking about seminary." His enthusiasm was genuine and electric. After our 30 minute meeting some of my earlier apprehensions melted away. I began to consider the summer camp as an adventure with a bunch of other boys my age.
I had never been on a train before and enjoyed the rail journey from the flat tidewater through the rolling landscape of Central Virginia to the edge of the Appalachians. It was an exciting and scenic journey. I was the only boy from my school sent to this special camp, and had instructions where to exit and whom to meet. At my destination I noticed other boys exiting the train and moving across the platform to a line of cars and station wagons. I followed. Loaded cheek to jowl in vehicles with our bags we bounced our way up hills into the mountains, and finally snaked our way down a winding dirt track to our camp site. The first order of business was a talk from Father Michael. Then, we all got pinned with name tags. I would guess a hundred or more boys were there and cars arrived until dark loaded with more fellows.
Except for prayer times and mass every day it was a fun filled week. We did camping, hiking, fishing, campfires, tugs of war, swimming, games, wrestling, spooky fireside stories, and lots of good food. There were a few fights among some, ticks, mosquito bites, and a good number of cuts and scratches, but all in all an enjoyable week. One day a boy got bit by something and his arm quickly turned purple and puffed up. Father Michael stuffed the boy into his car and a few of us jumped in for the descent to a clinic. Father raced down the hill so fast and in those days before seat belts it was a scary ride. We were jostled up and down and from side to side as he careened down the mountain. Finally, one guy begged Father to slow down and he cheerfully responded, "boys, with God as our co pilot we have nothing to fear." Turns out the kid was allergic to some bee or bug and after a shot was OK. Father screeched back to camp spewing gravel at every switchback, but I felt we would be safe because, as he assured us, God was our co pilot. Camp lasted six days and a handful of us were invited to visit the new seminary site for a few days. We climbed aboard a school bus and headed for Goochland County.
The site of Saint John Vianney Seminary was on the James River. A beautiful old mansion and large piece of land had been donated to the Diocese for the school. Construction on the barracks and class buildings were still in progress when we arrived on a steamy summer afternoon. The seminary was to be a high school prep which would graduate boys to the college level seminaries up north. We shared bedrooms in the big house and our first order from Father Michael was to meet at the large outdoor pool. Along with a few others, I enjoyed the pool, fancy meals, a tour of the facility, and conversations with staff members and Father Michael about vocations and the priesthood.
After nearly two weeks of camp and visiting the beautiful old home, my junior seminarian experience was finished. I had met a lot of nice, smart young guys and priests. I seriously prayed about a vocation or "calling" and sought a message, but was never answered.
Back home as my big decision day approached something changed my thinking. I attended a few dances at the local community center and birthday parties the last weeks before the new school year, and suddenly realized that girls were quite intriguing. I perceived this as a very clear signal from nature and God that I was not destined to be a priest. For a twelve year old feeling some pressure from well meaning adults, this lead me to my final decision.
I said no to the whole seminary deal and Sister Herculane was disappointed. She had been an excellent sales lady for vocations and I felt bad that I had not fulfilled her expectations. I believe she took my decision personally. Father Finnegan and Father Michael were OK with my choice, and held out the future opportunity if I should ever change my mind. Fortunately, Mom and dad agreed with my choice too.
Looking back, it was probably my first major life decision. I fondly remember and will never forget the wonderful adults in my "coming of age" drama. They were good people trying to steer me into a religious life. However, it was my call and I made the right choice. I will always relish the experience of a summer when I turned a potential religious vocation into a vacation and met some great folks along the way.
As I travel my Final Lap I often recall Father Michael's words. " Boys, with God as our co pilot, we have nothing to fear."
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