Christmas Eve 1978

In order for you to understand this next part there is something you need to understand.


I can and do see ghosts.

Family lore will tell you that I had acted strangely (meaning looking and at times laughing at things that were not there) since birth. It must be true because I do not remember a defining moment of seeing my first ghost. I do however, remember the first time I knew that something was amiss.

We were attending our first Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve as a family. With four kids in tow, the oldest, myself, being eight years old and the youngest being three, this was a godlike feat. Having just buried both of my father’s parents there was so much for our family to pray for. Praying at Midnight Mass was apparently the equivalent of betting on the Super Bowl. Along with the pomp and circumstance, the payout was expected to be big. Being eight, I believed that the little lord Jesus had the power to grant my wish on His two thousand and something-ith birthday. There were candles after all. We lit two. One candle was lit for my Meme and the other for Pepe. As the candles were lit, we children were told to pray.

I prayed for my grandparents to come back. I didn’t know how this could happen. Still, I believed that if my belief was strong enough that in good faith, God would answer my prayer. Somehow, I would see my grandparents on Christmas Eve. Filled with faith, joy and fervor, I knew it was true.

That Midnight Mass was enchanting. In the darkness of night the candles flickered and pulsed with my heartbeat. The pipe organ vibrated the ground beneath my knees. I stood up when the priest walked by our pew and the choir began to sing. I sang too for singing was considered praying twice. I felt the ringing in my lungs as I harmonized with the choir. My soul was uplifted in one voice, one sacred beautiful voice. When the priest arrived at the altar we all stopped singing at once. With the sound of our jubilation ringing in the air, the priest began his greeting. Silently, I knew my miracle was near.

Then there was this smell, a faint wisp of smoke in the air that made me choke. My mother leaned in and told me it was incense. Having attended my grandmother’s funeral the week before, the smell overwhelmed me. I began to wheeze.

Noticing our family’s shifting in the pew, Al, the usher, came to see what was the matter. It was decided that I would go and sit out the incense in the rectory. Being December in Massachusetts, it was far too cold and dangerous for a little girl to stand outside and catch her breath. Being Massachusetts in the 1970’s, Al told me that I was to run back to my parents if I were to hear or see anyone. The rectory is no place for little girls.

I was ushered through two swinging doors and a carved wooden door that needed to be unlocked. Al again reminded me to run and quietly closed the door. In the rectory I could hear the Mass as if it were through a radio. Catching my breath, I looked around for orientation. There was a speaker on the wall catching all sound from the microphone on the altar. So that was the noise. No need to run yet.


The rectory sitting room was the most beautiful living room I had ever seen. There were two beautiful chairs, a gold plated painting and a fireplace that was unlit. I saw smoke drift over my shoulder and turned to see a man, a priest sitting in a chair. We looked at each other for a moment. I felt no fear. I felt the same feeling that I tend to get when glancing at my own reflection in the mirror. It was familial. We definitely knew each other but I could not remember how. We smiled in quiet remembrance. His name was Thomas. We shook hands and his hand felt safe like my Dad's.

He knew that I was a great writer. I assumed my teachers at Our Lady of Hope school had told him. I asked him some questions about the room and being a priest. He answered serenely with a wry smile enjoying his cigarette. His legs were crossed and his foot bounced as thoughts would enter his mind like a dog wagging its tail. Then he asked me if I would write his story when I grew up. I was gob smacked. This was a very special assignment for a girl in the third grade. I said yes, of course. Thomas looked toward the kitchen, we heard a noise of other men coming in. He told me it was time to go back and sit with my parents. Thomas assured me he would be watching. A rectory was no place for little girls.

I ran back into the church running smack into Al throwing him off balance. Not stopping to talk, I sat back down next to my mother. She asked why I was running and I told her that I heard some men and Thomas the priest had told me to hurry back. She asked me which priest on the altar was Thomas. I looked and he was not there. I got a little swat for lying. There were only 3 priests in our parish and they were all in attendance for Midnight Mass.