Illegitimate, But Loved Nonetheless

Prompt: Write a story about a victory that no one else will ever know about…but that has changed everything.

Illegitimate, But Loved Nonetheless

It was decades later when I learned that my DNA was not found in an ancestral registry. I thought it would be a good thing to know my genealogical heritage for the sake of my family to come. When I learned that the mail order DNA registry had no matches for me, I became deeply despondent. I confronted my parents about my birth. My one and only family had raised me since I was a young baby. They were insistent telling me they had no birth records or knew to whom I was born. I was an actual drop-off baby at their front doorstep.

One wintery day in the very early morning when my dad was off to work, he nearly tripped over a box with me inside. He was in shock when he saw me. But given the weather conditions he dared not to leave me outside. No letter, food or extra clothes were left for me. I was wrapped in a burlap potato sack.

My “discovery” parents were overjoyed but deeply concerned at the same time. They were troubled that I was not left at a hospital or fire station. With great excitement, however, they believed I was a long-awaited gift of a child much like Abraham’s Sarah in the Bible who did not have a child until she was 90. With urgency they took me to the hospital to be checked by an ER doctor. The doctor made an assumption that my mother had actually given birth to me despite the fact she did not look haggard from childbirth. Without any concerns he issued a birth certificate for me. My parents were totally compliant, so no suspicions were aroused.

As I grew older, I learned a few more details about my “uninvited “appearance. They reasoned that the birth mother wanted to remain anonymous and certainly wanted nothing to do with me. As far as my parents could recollect, they knew of no one in the immediate neighborhood who had been pregnant. Given the lack of essential baby items, this individual was likely a very young girl. In all likelihood, she was terrified of the prospect of caring for me.

The man and woman who eventually decided to keep me (my parents) had to manipulate and cajole our neighborhood into thinking I was actually birthed by my mom. They did not desire to have their son labeled as a love child, or more harshly a bastard. Times were hard enough in the 60’s and I did not need to be identified by an expletive.

Like other parents in our community, they treated me as truly one of their own. A good reason for that was they could not have other children. They had tried for several years without success until one day I figuratively dropped out of nowhere. Regardless of my true genetic history, I was their flesh and blood. Surprisingly, they guarded that secret even from the Catholic church. I was baptized into the faith without question by the priest. I attended parochial school which was part of the Church of Lost Souls. My kid and tween years through eighth grade were uneventful and I hate to say unspectacular. To keep me rooted in the faith, I was sent to the adjoining Catholic high school near the Church of Lost Souls. I turned out to be a model student. My favorite subjects were English Lit, psychology and theology, or also known as Catholic religious studies. A day did not go by when one of my teachers would comment saying that I should become a priest. My friends at school caught on to this and teased me about it as well. Some even took bets during my senior year whether I would enroll at the seminary. Thankfully, never once was my birth identity ever called into question. I would not be deterred by the uncertainty of my genealogy. I had accepted who I am and lived my life accordingly, which seemed to have the word “priest” written all over it. Eventually my devout Catholic upbringing spurred me on toward a higher calling of the faith.

My parents were overjoyed that I had decided to enter seminary for my theological degree and pursue a life of service to the cross of Christ. Sadly, my parents would never see the day I would graduate and accept my vows as a Catholic priest. They died suddenly in a horrible plane crash. There were no survivors. The remaining year at seminary passed quickly. Before I knew it, the seminary office received orders from various dioceses for placements of their newly ordained priests. My identity still was a mystery and would remain unknown until I reached the pearly gates of heaven. There was an impenetrable lock, per se, by the fact it was guarded by a birth record that was not the truth.

After ordination I was assigned to do missionary work in various parts of the world. First, I went to the Congo to help with the establishment of a school. I was there ten years. The community was deeply saddened by my departure and celebrated all the way up to the time my plane left the ground. To this day I still receive hundreds of letters from my former students, their parents, and the community I stayed wishing for my return.

My next assignment took me to the deep jungles of the Amazon to help villages establish agrarian practices of which I knew little about. At least I was able to instruct them in English and at the same time learn a little Spanish and Portuguese. I think I had a gift for languages and even farming because the people were faithful to the mission church I had established.

After eight years I received orders from several dioceses in the US asking for me to be a part of a revival program for inner-city churches across America. Many had fallen on hard times. Members had left the churches resulting in fewer offerings to sustain the schools and even the church buildings themselves. Crime, neglect and apathy had become the focus of life. God seemed to be nowhere. Where was He hiding, I wondered.

To my amazement I was assigned to the Church of Lost Souls in the area where I grew up and had attended parochial grade and high school. I now turned forty. When I arrived back in my home city, I had no idea what the actual assignment would be. The schools had been shut down and the long-time head priest of the church, Father Sprite, was in very ill health and likely to enter hospice care.

I was surprised when I heard he had over the years formed self-help groups for single women and single mothers with children. The Church of Lost Souls also became a haven for impoverished women, women in addiction, women in crisis, and especially sexually abused women. The women at the church had great things to say about Father Sprite and were saddened by his worsening health crisis. They hoped I would be able to follow in his footsteps. Some women in treatment confided in me that they felt such a connection to him. He understood their pain and misery. They said it was as if he experienced the horror of the sin itself. I wondered if only I could be as empathetic as Father Sprite. Time would tell.

It had been only two weeks into my new call at the Church of Lost Souls when Father Sprite took a turn for the very worst in his health. He asked me to do a Last Rites and final Confession for him while he was still of sound mind.

He was still at the church rectory in the room where he had been a priest for nearly forty-five years. As he lay in his bed, he began,

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been thirty-five years since my last confession.”

I was shocked. I responded, “Father, are you sure it has been that long since your last confession?”

He said remorsefully, “Yes. When I was twenty-five, just a few years here at Lost Souls, I met a woman. She was living off the street. I took her in and let her stay at the rectory. We had a mutual attraction, and I grew fond of her. But I let my wicked urges defile her. That sin had a consequence and she was with child. I told her she and the bastard child could not stay here as it would shame the church. She left and I never heard from her again. Nor did I know what ever became of the baby. Since that very day when I expelled her from my house, I have been living in a personal hell. I try to gain honor with my Lord God Almighty by helping the lost, needy, starving, abused women nearby the church as penance. But it is not enough. It will never be enough! How can my God forgive me?”

Tears were flowing down my cheeks. I gulped. My mouth was dry. I almost was at a loss for words.

I said, “Father, your son has come home to you. I am that child. Your son forgives you. Yet there is one Son greater than I that forgives you of that transgression and all your transgressions. In the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit as a called and ordained minister of God’s Word your sins are forgiven.”

Then I read these passages from Scripture: “But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8, NKJV)

If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness (1John 1:9, NKJV),

and “As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us.” (Psalm 103:12, NKJV)

Father Sprite then closed his eyes and gave up his spirit.

-END-

Author: Pete Gautchier

Acknowledgement: Reedsyprompts.com