say to you what Our Lord said to Nicodemus in John 3:3.” He smiled conspiratorially. “I don’t have to quote it for you, do I?”
No, Timothy shook his head, and recited the passage: “
Nisi guis natus fuerit desuper, non potest videre regnum Dei.
‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’ Yes, Father, I do feel reborn.”
Tim believed with unswerving faith that next year when Tommy Ronan went off to seminary, he would be chosen to lead the procession as bearer of the Cross.
But Providence had more immediate plans.
On a wintry day, while playing hockey on roller skates in the street, Tommy Ronan slipped and broke his ankle, leaving Father Hanrahan the task of choosing someone else to carry the Crucifix.
There was the matter of seniority, of course. Many of the older boys had been in service for five years or more. And yet the handbook emphasizes that the youth who bears the heavy Cross must be distinguished by his height and strength. On these grounds, the mighty Crucifix was passed to Tim.
Both priest and server saw in it the hand of God.
10
Deborah
F or years Deborah had lived in dread of this day.
The subject was first broached one evening after dinner. Danny, as usual, was upstairs doing homework. Mama and Papa sat alone with Deborah, waiting for the tea to cool.
“My child,” Rav Luria began, “it’s time—”
“I don’t want to get married!” Deborah burst out.
“Ever?”
her mother asked.
“Sure, some time, Mama. But not yet. Not now. There are still so many things I want to do.”
“Could you maybe give me a for instance?” the Rav asked.
“Well, I’d like to go to college.”
“ ‘College?’ ” her father echoed with amazement. “For what purpose should you want to go to college? Did your mother go? Did either of your sisters?”
“Times have changed,” Deborah answered with quiet determination.
The Rav pondered for a moment, then reached over and patted his daughter’s hand affectionately. “You’re very special, Deborah. You of all my daughters … are the brightest and most pious.”
Deborah lowered her head, hoping to mask some of the delight this compliment had given her.
“So,” the Rav continued, “we won’t restrict our search for a good husband just to Brooklyn—or New York City even. I assure you, there are many worthy candidates in Philadelphia, Boston, or Chicago.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well,”—her father smiled—“I have already taken the liberty of making inquiries.”
He leaned over, kissed his daughter on the cheek, then patting Rachel’s shoulder whispered, “I’m working on a difficult ruling. Don’t wait up.”
When he had left the room, Rachel took her daughter’s hand in hers. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. He’ll never force you.”
Deborah merely nodded, thinking, He didn’t “force” Rena either. Father had a way of creating a tidal wave, drop by drop.
“Mama, is it written in stone that a girl has to get married when she’s so young? I mean, God didn’t mention this to Moses on Mount Sinai, did He?”
“Darling,”—Rachel smiled indulgently—“it’s our tradition to get married early. Besides, nobody’s rushing. I’m sure I could convince your father to let you wait a year or maybe even two.”
“I’d still be only eighteen,” she answered plaintively. “I can’t imagine myself at that age having to cut off my hair and put on a wig.”
Deborah looked at her mother and her
sheitel
of synthetic hair and wished that she could disappear. Rachel’s smile reassured her.
“Want to know a little secret?” she began. “It isn’t the end of the world. I hear lots of fancy socialites wear wigs.”
“Not to make them unattractive,” her daughter countered.
Rachel sighed with exasperation. “Listen, Deborah, hold your horses for a minute. Why not wait and see what kind of prospects your father comes up with? Maybe he’ll find someone with the strength
No, Timothy shook his head, and recited the passage: “
Nisi guis natus fuerit desuper, non potest videre regnum Dei.
‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’ Yes, Father, I do feel reborn.”
Tim believed with unswerving faith that next year when Tommy Ronan went off to seminary, he would be chosen to lead the procession as bearer of the Cross.
But Providence had more immediate plans.
On a wintry day, while playing hockey on roller skates in the street, Tommy Ronan slipped and broke his ankle, leaving Father Hanrahan the task of choosing someone else to carry the Crucifix.
There was the matter of seniority, of course. Many of the older boys had been in service for five years or more. And yet the handbook emphasizes that the youth who bears the heavy Cross must be distinguished by his height and strength. On these grounds, the mighty Crucifix was passed to Tim.
Both priest and server saw in it the hand of God.
10
Deborah
F or years Deborah had lived in dread of this day.
The subject was first broached one evening after dinner. Danny, as usual, was upstairs doing homework. Mama and Papa sat alone with Deborah, waiting for the tea to cool.
“My child,” Rav Luria began, “it’s time—”
“I don’t want to get married!” Deborah burst out.
“Ever?”
her mother asked.
“Sure, some time, Mama. But not yet. Not now. There are still so many things I want to do.”
“Could you maybe give me a for instance?” the Rav asked.
“Well, I’d like to go to college.”
“ ‘College?’ ” her father echoed with amazement. “For what purpose should you want to go to college? Did your mother go? Did either of your sisters?”
“Times have changed,” Deborah answered with quiet determination.
The Rav pondered for a moment, then reached over and patted his daughter’s hand affectionately. “You’re very special, Deborah. You of all my daughters … are the brightest and most pious.”
Deborah lowered her head, hoping to mask some of the delight this compliment had given her.
“So,” the Rav continued, “we won’t restrict our search for a good husband just to Brooklyn—or New York City even. I assure you, there are many worthy candidates in Philadelphia, Boston, or Chicago.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well,”—her father smiled—“I have already taken the liberty of making inquiries.”
He leaned over, kissed his daughter on the cheek, then patting Rachel’s shoulder whispered, “I’m working on a difficult ruling. Don’t wait up.”
When he had left the room, Rachel took her daughter’s hand in hers. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. He’ll never force you.”
Deborah merely nodded, thinking, He didn’t “force” Rena either. Father had a way of creating a tidal wave, drop by drop.
“Mama, is it written in stone that a girl has to get married when she’s so young? I mean, God didn’t mention this to Moses on Mount Sinai, did He?”
“Darling,”—Rachel smiled indulgently—“it’s our tradition to get married early. Besides, nobody’s rushing. I’m sure I could convince your father to let you wait a year or maybe even two.”
“I’d still be only eighteen,” she answered plaintively. “I can’t imagine myself at that age having to cut off my hair and put on a wig.”
Deborah looked at her mother and her
sheitel
of synthetic hair and wished that she could disappear. Rachel’s smile reassured her.
“Want to know a little secret?” she began. “It isn’t the end of the world. I hear lots of fancy socialites wear wigs.”
“Not to make them unattractive,” her daughter countered.
Rachel sighed with exasperation. “Listen, Deborah, hold your horses for a minute. Why not wait and see what kind of prospects your father comes up with? Maybe he’ll find someone with the strength
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