The Mystery at Sag Bridge

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

On the Sunday following the picnic, Mick dragged Grandpa Chauncey's old surrey out of the barn and drove us to Saint James for Mass. Mick has been so busy, I was surprised he took time, but was grateful for it, as I was getting heavier by the day, and never would have been able to walk so far. It made up a bit for his grumpy mood. I didn't want to miss Mass. Few women have trouble these days, but I'd rather play it safe and be right with God before I go into labor.

Walking up the hill was a struggle, but I leaned on Packey, and he went slow and patient with me. We went through the cemetery and past the ushers tolling the church bells and into the church.

Saint James is small but 'tis lovely. The men of the parish built it, and it was the first church in these parts, that replaced the old log cabin. The men who had property donated property, and those who had supplies donated supplies, and those with nothin' donated their labor. Only recently we put on the finishing touches, the lovely stained windows and the steeple. Light now streamed through the Eye of God window above the altar. The window was well named, a thing of great beauty and mystery like God.

Our priest is Father Fitzpatrick, a big strong man like my Packey, although from the looks of his great girth he hasn't been pushing back from his supper table soon enough. He came to Saint James ten years ago with grand ideas and started remodeling the church and building the rectory and parish hall right away. Some think he isn't right for our wee parish because he's forever planning something new and you can't never hold him back. In my opinion he has grand ideas but makes us work too much.

But I must admit he has done many good things. We didn't have the summer bazaar before he started it, and that surely is a grand event, when the entire parish gets together on Sundays for six whole weeks to display and sell our goods and all. People come from Lemont and all over, even from Chicago. 'Tis great fun and we make extra money, some for ourselves and some for the parish, and extra money is surely welcome these hard days.

Father Fitzpatrick didn't come from another Irish parish in Chicago or from any big city, like most of our priests. No, he was a chaplain in the Army, and he served in the War Between the States, and helped men on the battlefield. 'Tis said he was a hero and received a medal for all he did. He knows little about farm families, but he knows hardship and he knows kindness and comfort. Perhaps he's not so bad after all.

I do think he gives a grand homily, though some say he's opinionated. I don't mind if he's opinionated as I generally agree with his opinions. Today during the homily he asked the men to come tonight to discuss how the church is to be maintained. All that building we did will be put to waste if we don't take proper care of it, he said. He pointed out a stain on the ceiling where a leak in the roof was fixed. It looks shameful, it does. There's not enough money for repairs, and the rest of the property is showing neglect too. The men need to provide labor, and will make a list of the work each man can do, how to get materials, and many other details. Father asked for a show of hands, who will come tonight, and Packey raised his hand, along with about a dozen other men.

I wasn't all that keen about Packey going to the meeting. Although I was proud of his generosity, I hoped he wouldn't be away long, as my time to have this babe is near. I was being a tad selfish for his attention. I wished Father wouldn't ask so much of the men, but I tried not to be irritated.