Of Scapulars and Cassocks

Mom and I sat across the table from each other, talking about the schedule for the day. Dad was going to have a number of visits from various health-care professionals as he adjusted to being back home. I was in charge while Mom had a doctor’s appointment of her own.

“He needs to eat lunch about 45 minutes after getting his insulin,” she said, “make him a roast beef sandwich; and he gets 15 grapes.”

I smiled. Of course Mom had this down to the number of grapes. “Got it,” I said.

She took a bite of her English muffin. As she chewed, she looked at me, then at my neck. “I don’t know where my scapular is,” she said. I touched my scapular. She continued, “We all used to wear them, you know.”

Actually, I didn’t know.

I’d never seen her wear a scapular. If I’m being honest, I didn’t even know that she knew what one was. The Faith of her childhood had been lost during the New Springtime, the skeleton of which was rebranded and left for my generation to dismiss as unfit for modern times.

In the last six weeks, we almost lost Dad twice. And while Mom and my siblings worry about the logistics of earthly matters, I have been praying to the Blessed Mother that she will be there in the final moments, guiding my dad into the loving arms of Jesus.

It was only a few years ago that I learned that Dad was, in fact, Catholic. I spent most of my life believing he was Lutheran. The morning I found out otherwise, I had shown him a picture of my youngest son who had been fitted for a cassock and surplice as he prepared to begin serving the TLM.

Smiling at the picture of his grandson, he said, “Cool. That’s like what I used to wear.”

I blinked, not understanding. “What do you mean?” I replied.

“I used to be an altar server, before Grandma and Grandpa left the Catholic Church.”

I had so many questions, but those could wait; my heart was leaping for joy. I didn’t have to try and get him to convert, I just needed to get him to Confession!

A few years on, as I sat in his hospital room, I didn’t wait for elegant words to broach the subject, I charged ahead; the clock was ticking.

“Dad, if I called my friend Fr. White, would you be willing to talk to him?”

“No. I’m not very religious.”

I shifted in my seat. “Well,” I said, “It actually doesn’t matter how religious you are; you have an immortal soul, and it will go somewhere.” He looked at me, unblinking.

Tears filled my eyes, “Dad, I really want to go to Heaven, and I want you to be there.”

He replied weakly, “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but I don’t think I will be there. I don’t know that I’ve lived a very good life.”

This second infection he had been fighting made him foggy; our conversations were scattered. Sometimes he was clearheaded, other times he had difficulty remembering things that had just been said.

“Dad, do you remember the parable of the prodigal son?”

He didn’t remember, so I told him the story. In that moment, I felt, as never before, how desperately the Father wants us back. If only Dad could be so assured.

Mom and I sometimes talk about matters of faith, all the more frequently now that Dad has been so sick. While much ink has been spilled about the current state of Holy Mother Church, for me it is personal. The Church my parents came of age in managed to convince them that it was a nice choice among many; and it doesn’t really matter anyway because Heaven is where most people go when they die.

Those of my generation who are trying to live a faithful life like that of our grandparents, take solace in the bold faith of our children. They aren’t snowed by the nonsense. They reject the banal trappings of guitar masses and beige churches. They go to Confession often, thirst for truth, beauty, and goodness, and enter into holy marriages at a young age.

But what about my parents? How do you convince a generation who was abused into rejecting the tradition of the Faith that now, especially now, it really matters?

As I prayed the Rosary in Dad’s hospital room—a hospital room that 50 years ago would have held a crucifix—I thought of how my parents had been abandoned. The modern Church has ceded so much ground to the world that it has been difficult to convince my parents that the most important thing doesn’t lie in the next test result but in the state of your soul.

Overcome with dread that my parents may be lost in eternity, I have, like my grandparents before me, sought recourse through the traditions of the Church. The traditional prayers and devotions I have learned in the last four years not only fortify my daily life, but they also fuel my belief in the infinite mercy of Our Lord; and they assure me how badly He wants my parents back.

I already feel like the Blessed Mother has bought me extra time to plead for the souls of my parents. With great confidence, I beg for her intercession in their final moments. We must persevere in prayer for this generation. And, by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, we must be ready to say what we need to in order to help get them to Heaven. May God have mercy on their souls.

St. Anthony of Padua, pray for us.