Christ, Crucified, With You

Bill Atkinson was a natural-born athlete, having lettered in four sports at Monsignor Bonner High School – football, baseball, tennis, and basketball. Everyone thought he would emulate his older brother Al as a professional sportsman and have a thriving career in the sport of his choice. In fact, many said that of the two brothers, Bill was the more gifted athlete since he was more disciplined and that was saying something since Al was a professional football player who would go on to win the 1969 Super Bowl as a linebacker with the New York Jets. Upon his graduation from Monsignor Bonner High School in 1963, however, Bill abandoned any plans to become a successful athlete and joined the Order of Saint Augustine as a postulant instead. He was young, handsome, strong, athletic, an excellent student, blonde-haired and blue-eyed. He was also a devout Catholic who wanted to consecrate his life to Christ. On November 9, 1964, he moved to the Good Counsel Novitiate in New Hamburg, New York, a campus surrounded by mountains where his life would change radically and forever.

On February 22, 1965, at the age of nineteen, Bill convinced three of his fellow novices – Aloysius, Rod and Carlos – to join him in tobogganing down a snow-covered hill adjacent to the seminary. It had been snowing all night and the conditions were perfect for a sledding expedition. When Bill made the proposal, Aloysius and Rod immediately agreed, but Carlos was dubious from the get-go as he was new to the novitiate and had never used a toboggan. He told Bill that he wondered about the safety of using such a sled and had heard of tobogganing accidents where people died after falling off a cliff or colliding into an aspen.

“It’s perfectly safe,” Bill reassured him. “You don’t have to fear falling off a precipice as there are none on the route that we’ll be taking. As far as crashing into a tree, that is extremely unlikely. There are only a few splendid pines in the entire area and you’ll be able to use the ropes on your toboggan to steer your way clear of them. If you see a pine at your right as you’re on your descent, just pull at your rope to the left and you’ll easily avoid the tree although you may smell the fine, resinous odor of pine needles. I’ve gone down those hills a hundred times and have never even come close to running into a tree. You’ll see. It’s as safe as driving a bicycle on an open road. You don’t crash into a lamppost but merely drive around it. And don’t forget you’ll see a pine long before you approach it. You will not only be able to move far from it but you’ll be able to slow down the toboggan to a halt by using your two feet if you need to do so. Even kids use toboggans quite safely.”

“Well, I don’t know,” responded Carlos. “Can’t I go on the same sled with you? I trust in your maneuvering abilities much more than mine.”

“We can do that,” Bill replied. “I’ll sit at the front of the toboggan and you can sit behind me. And just to allay your fears, you should know we’ll both be wearing helmets. In the off chance of any accident, we’ll be protected.”

“I’ll be taking my medal of the Sacred Heart,” Carlos announced. “That should keep me safe.”

“Well, there you go,” said Bill. “I always cross myself before going down the slopes.”

“How long is the trail?” asked Carlos.

“Four hundred meters,” responded Bill.

The four novices trudged up the hill with their lightweight wooden toboggans, wearing heavy boots, helmets, goggles and turtleneck sweaters. At various points, Bill had to stop and wait for the three others since they were much slower than him in climbing the mountain toward its pinnacle.  Once they arrived at the top, Bill looked at the vast expanse of white and told Carlos, “See? You need not fear. The presence of God is all around us.”

The first time they went down the hill, Carlos nervously put his arms about Bill’s waist and cried out nervously when he saw the pines beneath them.

“Sit tight,” laughed Bill. “You’ll see. We won’t even get close to the pines.”

And so, it was. Bill steered the toboggan hard to the left and soon the trees were far behind them.

“Do you want to try it again?” Bill asked Carlos once they reached the bottom.

“That was exhilarating!” exclaimed the novice.

They spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon going up and down the hill multiple times without a hitch. Finally, they decided to make one last trip down the slopes before returning to the seminary for Mass, but this time something different happened. As they were careening downward, a ground blizzard suddenly developed. It was not that it was snowing once again. Rather, the heavy winds blew upon the snow that was already on the ground. Visibility was nil and Bill couldn’t see a handbreadth ahead of him. He tried to bring the toboggan to a stop by pushing down his feet hard into the snow, but he was gliding at forty miles an hour and did not have time to slow down the sled. And then, bang! The toboggan collided with an enormous pine and Bill was rendered senseless. Just before the accident, Bill heard a locution from Heaven: “Fear not! I shall be your strength!” The squall soon dissipated and Carlos, who had not suffered a scratch, found the unconscious Bill on the snow bleeding. After Carlos hurried to the seminary and informed everyone of what had happened, Bill was rushed to a hospital.

The doctors concluded that he had shattered his spinal column at the neck, rendering him a paralytic with no hope of healing.  In fact, when he reached Saint Francis Hospital in Poughkeepsie, the doctors expected that he would soon die given the severity of his injuries. After all, his neck was broken, presaging an almost certain death. On three occasions, his breathing stopped and his fellow seminarians were informed that he was already dead, but against all odds he managed to survive. Later he would attribute it all to the intercession of the Virgin Mary.

***

Bill Atkinson was in a comatose state for several weeks after the accident, with his mother Mary Connelly Atkinson continuously at his side like the Virgin Mary at the foot of Jesus on the Cross. When she realized he had been rendered a paralytic, she made a secret prayer to the Sacred Heart.

“Dear Lord,” she pleaded, “please restore my son to health. But if he cannot be healed, then perhaps it’s best for you to carry him in your arms right now, to simply let him fade away. After all, the doctors say he will never move his body again. What fate awaits my son if he can only move his drooping head?”

Mary Connelly Atkinson realized the extent of her son’s disability even before he recovered from his coma. He couldn’t even urinate as ordinary people do. He had a catheter inserted into his penis as he couldn’t pass water without it given that he had no control over his urethral sphincter. Overnight all his urine was collected in a large glass container next to his bed and the doctor advised his mother that in the unlikely event he ever got out of his coma he would have to use the catheter for the remainder of his days. He simply could not control his bladder and would suffer a urinary tract infection – or worse – unless his urine was eliminated through the catheter. The physician advised Bill’s mother that acute urinary retention, where the inability to urinate lasts more than two weeks, is considered a urologic emergency as it could result in kidney failure. Unless Bill used the catheter, he would be risking not only a great pain but even death. It would be one of the many indignities of life as a quadriplegic that his caregivers would have to check the catheter attached to his penis every day.

After thirty-seven days – Bill’s mother counted each and every single one of them – the young seminarian finally rose from his stupor and managed to address his mother.

“Where am I?” he asked groggily. “What are all these tubes?”

Bill’s mother did not want to cry in front of him, but she could not control her tears. Such was the agony in her heart.

“You’re at the hospital,” she replied after regaining her composure. “You had an accident on the toboggan and hurt yourself. You’ve been in a coma for the last five weeks.”

Bill tried to sit up on his bed and realized he couldn’t do so. He soon understood that it was quite impossible for him even to move to hug his mother.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked, flabbergasted. “I can’t seem to move my limbs. I can’t even feel them.”

Bill’s mother didn’t know what to say. There was no sense in lying to him. But she tried to muster a response which would not be brutal as she looked at him with pity.

“You’re going to be paralyzed for a while,” she dissembled, trying to soften the blow. “You’re going to have to undergo months of therapy before you can move.”

She knew that she was lying, knew that his neck was broken and his spinal column shattered, knew that he would never move again, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the monstrous truth. She contacted his physician to alert him that against all expectations Bill had risen from his coma and begged the doctor not to tell him that he had been rendered a quadriplegic.

Doctor Reynolds made short shrift of her request and told her it was his solemn duty as a physician to tell his patients the truth of their condition.

“Besides,” he told her, “it will not take too long for Bill to figure it out himself. With a broken neck, he won’t be able to move in any way and he’ll have to be tended to night and day. You already know he can’t even urinate without extraordinary aid as a result of his condition.”

“Can’t you check him out before you tell him he’s a paralytic? Maybe things aren’t as dire as you think, and he can recover from his paralysis.”

“I intend to subject him to a battery of tests before I tell him anything, but given the extent of his injuries, it would take a miracle to spare him from living the rest of his life as a quadriplegic on a bed.”

Then the doctor followed Bill’s mother to the room where her son was lying.

“Good morning, young man,” Doctor Reynolds said to Bill in a friendly voice as he approached him. “The good news is you’ve recovered from your coma and won’t die as a result of your accident. The bad news is that your accident might have long-lasting effects.”

“Tell me the truth, doctor,” Bill said in a calm voice. “Why can’t I move? Why does my head droop like this?”

“First, I want to check you out. I don’t want to say anything before I’ve had a chance to examine you. But I promise to tell you the truth as soon as I complete my analysis.”

The physician moved toward Bill on his bed and lifted up his arm which hung listlessly at his side.

“Can you make an effort to move it? Can you even move your fingers?”

“I can’t,” responded Bill.

“Let me know if you feel anything. I’m going to prick your arm with a needle.”

Bill felt nothing.

“Can you feel your neck?”

“I think I can but I can’t straighten it. I can’t make it stop drooping to the left. I can also move my shoulders a little, but at the most I can make them shrug.”

“What about your legs?” probed the physician.

“I can’t even feel them,” Bill admitted as his despair began to mount. He did not yet know that his neck was broken, but he certainly recognized his condition was extraordinary.

“Tell me the truth,” said Bill, speaking each syllable slowly and distinctly, “did I sever my spinal cord as I had my accident on the mountain?”

“You broke your neck,” responded Doctor Reynolds witheringly. “It was a freak accident, but you crashed headlong into a pine tree and unfortunately – well, you know – unfortunately you can’t move.”

“Am I a paraplegic?”

“The correct term is quadriplegic. Paraplegics are paralyzed from the waist down. You are paralyzed from the neck down.”

“Will I ever move again?”

“I’m afraid the answer is ‘no.’”

“Oh, my Lord and my God!” cried out Bill as he began to weep. He began to feel he was suddenly suffocating.

“The answer is ‘no,’’’ he repeated in his head as a chilling terror swept over him.

***

Some bishops encourage prospective seminarians to spend a period of “discernment” to determine whether they truly have a vocation to the priesthood, and some would-be priests spend years in the process. Not so Bill Atkinson! He first began to seriously consider becoming an Augustinian during the first semester of his senior year of high school and decided – irrevocably – to become a priest long before his graduation.

He sought to emulate the Augustinian priests who had not only taught him classes at Monsignor Bonner High School but had also taught him the joy of caring for those with disabilities on Sunday expeditions to hospices and clinics. There the promising young athlete found Jesus in various disguises – as kids with Down Syndrome, others with cerebral palsy, still others with amputated limbs, victims of osteosarcoma. He never asked himself why God allowed people who were innocent to suffer so but saw the gift of God’s grace in their manifold crosses. He saw their sundry disabilities not as punishments from God but as challenges to be met, not only by those who suffered but also by those who tended to them, manifesting the charity of the Christ and becoming saints in the process.

He soon grew to discover that God gives a person a heavy cross one day only to grant her the strength to bear it on the following one. He never met a person with a disability, no matter how serious or devastating, who would be better off committing suicide. There were always multiple gifts from God which made up for any limitations, things that all humans take for granted but which are daily miracles sent by the Lord – the sunshine, the hug of a friend, a comfortable bed, a Porterhouse steak, talents bestowed by God (for one the pen, for the other the drill). There was a young amputee who loved to jump rope despite a prosthetic leg, a kid with cerebral palsy who couldn’t write or read but delighted when her caregiver read poems to her, a paralytic who loved joining others in prayer. How he longed to be a minister bringing Christ to the disabled! But it was not to be. He was now among their number and would be of no use to them. He was convinced he was now of no use to anyone!

Indeed, it was the second “discernment” that was hard for Bill – when he had to determine whether or not to continue on his path to the priesthood despite his disability. The more he thought about it, the more preposterous the idea seemed, the more unanswerable questions he had. How could he bless the faithful with his useless hands? How could he consecrate the Eucharist? How could he even get to the church to celebrate the services? And it would be just as impossible for him to continue with his studies at the seminary with his immobile body and his inability to write. How could he take notes during class? How could he take the tests required in every subject? Who would wash and feed him? No, it was impossible for him to become a priest. It was his biggest dream – he still desired it with every fiber of his being, to lead the thirsty flock towards God – but he sadly concluded it was simply no longer in the cards for him. And he was tempted by the demon of despair. Perhaps, perhaps he thought especially in the solitude of the night, perhaps life is devoid of meaning after all. It would take years for him to acknowledge he had learned something from the disabled children he had spent time with as an adolescent.

Then Father Keffer, Augustinian Master of the Professed, appeared at Bill’s room in Saint Francis’ Hospital and quickly cut to the chase, with no preambles.

“Have you given any thought,” he asked bluntly, “as to what you’ll be doing with your life now that you’re permanently a paralytic?”

“I’ve given it plenty of thought,” responded Bill deferentially, “but given the extent of my disability there aren’t any opportunities out there. I can’t even hold a fork or a knife and my body’s shattered.”

“Have you thought of making your way to Saint Mary’s Hall in Pennsylvania to continue your education for the priesthood?”

“The seminary? What could I possibly do at the seminary? I’d be a burden to all the others as there’s nothing I can do by myself. And my hands are paralyzed. How do you expect me to respond to a philosophy exam?”

“Yes, I understand your limitations,” replied Father Keffer, “but you have all you need to be a priest and you have it in spades. Don’t underestimate yourself. Your mind and your soul haven’t been affected by your condition, and you have a wisdom which needs to be shared with others. You have a physical challenge which may be impossible to overcome, but the spiritual challenge is right up your alley.”

“That’s easy to say when you don’t have my condition,” replied Bill despondently. “What do you know about being crippled beyond repair?”

“Don’t forget I got to know you a little bit when we were both at the Good Counsel Novitiate in New Hamburg,” replied the priest with gentle patience. “You work hard, you study hard and you pray hard. More importantly, no one surpasses you in the love of God or in the empathy toward your neighbor.”

“I can do nothing for my neighbor now,” Bill responded bitterly. “Don’t you see I am severed from all human interaction?”

“Plenty of people have disabilities and are not mastered by them. Your condition is a challenge, but challenges are meant to be conquered. Franklin Roosevelt was paralyzed from the waist down and managed to serve four terms as President, Jorge Luis Borges is blind and writes wonderful stories, Beethoven the composer was deaf. Helen Keller was both deaf and blind and received a university degree before becoming an advocate for the disabled and an author of fourteen books. The blind poet Homer wrote magnificent works of literature. Do you think they would have accomplished anything if they just gave up? And don’t nip your dreams in the bud just because of a lack of humility.”

“A lack of humility?” Bill echoed helplessly. “I don’t mind telling you that I don’t have an ounce of pride left in me.”

“Yes, you are headstrong, proud, resentful and impatient. And you’re feeling sorry for yourself! Don’t you see pessimism is a sign of pride and trust in God is the highest form of humility? I’m sure you chafe at the thought that you’re dependent on others. What most irks you, perhaps more than the physical infirmity itself, is the idea that you’re no longer useful. You must have the humility to accept that for the rest of your years you’ll have to seek help to do anything. But I’m sure the Augustinian priests and your brother novices will help you have a good life at the seminary.”

“A good life is impossible for me,” said Bill impetuously. “I am completely inert and can’t even feed myself. As far as being dependent on others, I hate being pampered, that is all.”

“For now, just sit tight. You’ll have to spend the next six months at the hospital. Use that time to consider the fact that your cross is a blessing. Perhaps you’ll be a better man and a better pastor because you have been called to suffer along with Christ crucified. At a minimum, you’ll be able to better understand the misery of your flock, the plight of others, feeling true compassion for them in their ignorance and weakness. And – don’t delude yourself – that is an inestimable bounty no matter how much torment you endure.”

Father Keffer arrived at Saint Francis’ Hospital one bright Sunday morning bringing with him a wonderful present. It was a brand-new wheelchair with a cushioned seat and rubber wheels which would allow Bill to leave his bed and even be taken outside to enjoy the sunlight. The old priest didn’t understand why nobody had thought about a wheelchair in the past, and Doctor Reynolds sheepishly advised him it was because quadriplegics lack balance and Bill would possibly fall off the wheelchair.

“Well, strap him to it,” Father Keffer responded as if he were talking to an idiot. “We’re going to name the wheelchair ‘Immaculata,’ reflecting the fact that it is a gift of the Virgin Mary. Come, help me lift Bill onto the chair so that he can enjoy the liberty of the streets after so many months in bedridden captivity and isolation.”

Bill had lost more than a hundred pounds during the time of his convalescence so it wasn’t too difficult to place him on the wheelchair and strap him to it. He thought the name “Immaculata” was appropriate as he saw his wheelchair as being lovable and female. Soon Bill was on the elevator which would take him outside, pushed by a young seminarian Father Keffer had brought with him. Bill was overjoyed as he saw the crowds milling about on the wide boulevards and felt the warm breeze upon his face. He saw earnest businessmen on the way to their offices, mothers with children in tow, lovers walking hand in hand. Suddenly he felt an inexpressible joy. He thanked Father Keffer profusely, weeping in delight, since he had assumed he would be incarcerated at the hospital forever. Thereafter, Augustinian seminarians showed up at the hospital regularly to take him on long “walks” about the city, each one taking a turn in moving Immaculata forward. There was finally something in Bill’s life that could make him forget – for a time at least – that he was a hopeless paralytic. There was finally something he could look forward to excitedly amid the monotonous dreariness of his days and the chains of his paralysis.

“And you haven’t seen anything,” announced the grizzled priest. “Next week we’ll be taking you to a beach on the Hudson River. I’ll rent a van accessible to wheelchairs and we’ll go to the Kingston Point Beach, only thirty minutes from Poughkeepsie.”

“That’s a marvelous idea,” Bill exclaimed.

“It’s still a wonderful life!” the priest replied. “Have you seen the movie?”

***

Father Keffer, accompanied by a seminarian named Robert, arrived at the hospital at eight o’clock in the morning on a Saturday to take Bill to the Kinston Point Beach. The priest came with a van equipped with a ramp to make it wheelchair accessible and Bill was able to board it without difficulty. He had been up since five, pondering his condition. Although he never reneged of his God, sometimes he found it difficult to understand human suffering, especially his own, in light of the unfathomable reach of God’s mercy. He had the same questions every seriously disabled person has at one point or another in her life. How could God allow him to become little more than a vegetable if His mercy was infinite? How could Bill believe he was still a recipient of God’s mercy given his great cross? What exactly was the nature of the mercy of God?  Try as he might, Bill couldn’t understand. In his bottomless distress, he prayed for illumination, but it simply didn’t come.

When the three men arrived at Kingston, they did not go directly to the beach, for Father Keffer had planned out the day for maximum satisfaction. They began the day at Sojourner Truth State Park, then visited the Maritime Museum, later went on a cruise along the Hudson River. Then, after a freshwater lobster lunch, they went to Kingston Point Park itself, a place of solitude and beauty with marvelous views of the magnificent Hudson River, until they finally arrived at Kingston Point Beach, where they saw the pelicans plunging through the air to reach the water and catch fish. There were also the lush palm trees along the shore which made Bill think of a tropical paradise. Surprisingly, there had been no obstacles to prevent Bill from enjoying the day. The boat for the river cruise had a plank that made the ship accessible to wheelchairs, and the doors to the Maritime Museum were wide enough for wheelchairs to pass through them.

As Bill began to use the freedom – such as it was – made possible by his trusty Immaculata, he would soon discover that the world acted as if the disabled were nonexistent. No one bothered to make simple and relatively inexpensive adjustments to their business establishments in order to make them available to the physically challenged. It was impossible, for example, for Bill to visit cinemas or watch his beloved Phillies play in baseball stadiums. Many restaurants were out of reach as well, and even churches were sometimes inaccessible to those on wheelchairs. Most public restrooms could not be used by the disabled merely because the owners had not made the minor expense of installing grab bars.

Soon Father Keffer and the seminarian changed into their swimming trunks and were wading in the river, leaving Bill under a parasol close to the water. For him, the day had been overwhelming, wonderful and disconcerting. After so many days strapped to a bed in a six-foot by six-foot hospital room, it was a sheer delight to see the beauty of nature and recognize the wonder of God’s creation. But at the same time, he felt an inscrutable sadness upon realizing so many things were impossible for him now: bathing in the river, running along the beach, cracking lobster shells with little hammers… . He desperately wanted to enjoy life with the rest – there was a group of youngsters joyfully splashing in the river –  but he was unable to break free from his bondage. He couldn’t tear off his clothes to plunge into the water. It was as if he carried his prison cell with him even though he’d left the hospital. He was no longer a player but merely a spectator in the game of life.

He returned to the ruminations of the previous night and began to think about the extent of God’s mercy or the lack thereof. Yes, he had been given a gift – a glorious day at the beach – but so much more had been taken from him. He couldn’t help but envy all the tourists gaily traipsing along the beach, all those posing for photographs, all those enjoying the day in freedom. What did God’s mercy mean, then, if he was barred from the myriad pleasures of ordinary life? He had the instinct to rebel, the desire to continue his running argument with God concerning his stark reality. Why are sinners rewarded and righteous people punished? Why did he have to be handicapped forever? He knew that God’s mercy is unfathomable but did it have to be incomprehensible as well?

Soon he saw something which piqued his interest. At his right, there was a black boy, eight or nine years old, who had made a hole in the ground and was furiously filling it with water. The boy would run to the river, use a plastic bucket to collect the water, and then pour it into the hole. Then he would return to the shore and once again fill the bucket with water which he again poured into the ground. This he did repeatedly, but try as he might, the hole was never filled with water. At some point, Bill’s curiosity was so great that he asked the boy what he was doing.

“I’m trying to move the entire river into this hole.”

Bill laughed at the response.

“That’s simply impossible,” he said.

“No more impossible,” quipped the child, “than trying to use your limited intelligence to plumb the depths of God’s mercy for you.”

Then the boy simply disappeared.

Bill was perplexed beyond measure, bewildered in his very core. How could the ebony-skinned youngster know that he had been pondering the issue of God’s mercy for months? How could the boy know he hadn’t arrived at a satisfactory answer? Bill immediately thought about something he had learned at seminary. He was an Augustinian after all.

There was an old story about how Saint Augustine had been pondering the mystery of the Trinity – how could three distinct persons be one God? – when he had seen a boy trying to fill the entire ocean into a pit in the ground. When Saint Augustine told him his desire was impossible, the boy had told him that it was no less impossible for a human mind to fathom the mystery of the Trinity. There is a question as to whether Saint Augustine actually experienced the event or whether it was more in the nature of a parable. And some naysayers point out that Aristotle reported the same experience except that in Aristotle’s telling the person trying to fill the ocean into a small trench was not a boy but the philosopher Heraclitus.

At all events, the boy’s brief statement turned everything upside down for Bill. The disabled seminarian accepted that he could not understand the mysteries of God and that he could be the object of God’s mercy despite his disability. In God’s inscrutable power, even the worst tragedies could ultimately redound to the greater good. So, Bill said a silent prayer while he was sitting alone at the beach. “Help me, Lord, with my unbelief.”

Bill had just discovered he was a quadriplegic by the grace of God.  Hel had awaited a miracle for a long time but not this one. He had often prayed for a cure but never for the acceptance of his condition. He hadn’t figured out humility was the gift he needed, not to avoid the pain but to learn how to live with pain. In a word, it was still possible for the paralytic seminarian to be happy and not hopeless. He realized that the struggle had just started, that the biggest challenges were ahead of him rather than behind him.

***

Soon thereafter, after a stroll on Immaculata, Bill told Father Keffer that he had thought about the issue long and hard and was seriously considering returning to the seminary and eventually becoming a priest. Bill said that he had a deep yearning for the priesthood and wouldn’t have that yearning unless it was the will of God. The Good Lord wouldn’t have put that desire in his heart unless He wanted Bill to act upon it. The priest heartily congratulated him and replied that he agreed.

“Your disability will not be an obstacle to your vocation,” pronounced Father Keffer. “It will make you a better priest.”

“Still, there are certain logistical issues which we need to discuss. The biggest problem as I see it is my inability to write. How can I get the required degree in theology without taking any exams? How can I handle the course work at Saint Mary’s Hall if I can’t even take notes?”

“I’ve been thinking about it,” responded Father Keffer, “and I think your instructors at the seminary will permit you to make use of take-home exams. You could have one week, two weeks, perhaps even a month to respond to the tests. I’ve already spoken to the powers that be at the seminary, and they’ve told me they have no objection to the plan.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Bill quizzically. “Giving me more time to respond will mean nothing as I find it impossible to write. You could give me a year and I’d be unable to produce a word.”

“I’ve thought about that too,” responded Father Keffer. “Have you ever considered that you can write using your mouth?”

“You’re mad,” replied Bill dismissively. “You’re insulting my intelligence with pie in the sky solutions.”

“The idea is not as zany as you might think,” responded the priest. “I’ve done some research regarding quadriplegia and have discovered there are hundreds of persons with the condition who write with their mouths, indeed a great many even paint.”

“They paint with their mouths? How is that even possible?”

“There’s even an organization of quadriplegics who paint with their mouths. It’s called the Association of Foot and Mouth Painting Artists. It was established about a decade ago by a Swedish paralytic who had taught himself to draw pictures by holding a brush clasped between his teeth.”

“And you’re telling me he actually completed paintings using only his teeth? I’m sure all he produced were meaningless brushstrokes upon a canvas.”

”No, his paintings were indistinguishable from those of painters who aren’t disabled. Some quadriplegics have even made money from their artwork. There’s even a woman who produces paintings you’d think were created by Frida Kahlo. You would never think her works were produced by a paralytic with a brush in her mouth.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Bill replied. “What? You just put a pencil in my mouth and expect me to write?”

“I’ve been in touch with the woman who runs the United States chapter of the organization of foot and mouth painting artists. She’s located in New York City and I’ve already met her and discussed your condition with her. The woman – her name is Agnes Shackelford – has told me she needs to meet with you to assess your condition. Are you up for it?”

“Let me tell you, Father. I think trying to write anything substantial with a pen between my teeth is a fool’s errand. I’m sure that I’d produce nothing more than meaningless scribbles. And even was I to write a few words, writing the answers to an exam would require hours upon hours of work. I’d be struggling to write one letter at a time.”

“You lose nothing by trying,” replied Father Keffer. “You can also learn to type with a pencil in your mouth. Don’t give up before the battle has even begun. Remember that nothing is impossible with God. If He wants you to live out your vocation, He’ll provide you with the means to do so. And if you learn to write, you’ll feel a sudden liberation.”

“Have you considered that even if I were to learn to write with my mouth as others do with their hands, I’d need someone constantly at my side to turn the pages as I write?  No, the whole effort is futile, pointless. Who would volunteer for such a duty?”

“All you see are the obstacles without searching for solutions,” replied the priest. “I’ve discussed the question with the head of the Augustinians at Saint Mary’s Hall and we’ve concluded you’d need a ‘shadow.’ Your brother seminarians would take turns tending to you day and night, never leaving you alone even for a minute. They’d push your wheelchair so you could get to your classes, they’ll feed, wash and dress you, and – yes! – they’d help you as you write your responses to exams.”

“You really think it’s possible, don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” the pries answered. “God helps those who help themselves. New York City is only eighty-five miles away. I can have Miss Shackelford here within a fortnight.”

“Send her to me,” Bill responded with the glimmer of a smile.

Miss Shackelford arrived at Saint Francis’ Hospital on a Monday morning at the same time as Father Keffer and two seminarians. Bill laughed ironically when he realized it would take a full team to help him write a single word with a pencil between his teeth. The two seminarians moved Bill so he could sit upright above three pillows and held the notebook where he would write close to his face. Miss Shackelford put a long thick pencil in his mouth and made sure he held it between his molars rather than his front teeth. Father Keffer gave him the Eucharist before the experiment began. Bill remained strapped to his bed.

“Let’s see if you can write your name,” said Miss Shackelford. She was a middle-aged woman with her blonde hair in a bun who spoke with a marked seriousness, but there was kindness there as well. Bill was only able to hold his head upright during the intervention because a segment of bone from his hip had been fused into his neck.

Bill was unable to write anything on his first attempt. He was unable to put enough pressure on the pencil and as a result the pencil didn’t leave any mark on the paper,

“Let’s try with a marker,” Miss Shackelford directed Bill. “It’s a lot shorter than the pencil and it’ll be easier for you to make an imprint on the paper. Try to sign your name.”

Bill pushed the marker sharply against the paper, trying to sign “Bill Atkinson,” but what he wrote was completely illegible, just a few awkward loops and vertical lines.

Bill let the marker fall from his mouth.

“It’s useless,” he said dejectedly. ”Mouths weren’t meant to write.”

Miss Shackelford responded sternly.

“Did you learn to write with your hands in a day? You wouldn’t be the first quadriplegic to be unable to write on the first day of therapy. In fact, the opposite is true. I can’t think of any paralytic who was able to sign his name on the first day. Not even the most accomplished paraplegic artists were able to produce anything in their initial attempt.”

Miss Shackelford put the marker back in Bill’s mouth.

” Now try simply to draw a cross, a vertical line above a horizontal line.”

Bill managed to do so. He was flushed with pride as he looked at Father Keffer seeking approval.

“Well, that’s good,” observed Miss Shackelford. “I want you to practice all day, just writing crosses. I’ll soon send you a simple device so that it won’t be necessary for your helpers to hold up the paper for you. It’s similar to a simple dinner tray which your helpers can put about your midriff, except that it will have a perpendicular slate attached to it so that you can write on a notebook placed against the board. The device is like a sort of easel which many aspiring quadriplegic painters have used.”

“You want me to spend the whole day drawing crosses,” exclaimed Bill wearily. “I can’t think of a more boring endeavor.”

“If you tire of drawing crosses, just try drawing circles.”

“That would be just as tedious,” said Bill in a rather surly voice.

“Do you want to learn to write or don’t you?” asked Miss Shackelford with intensity. “I can’t help you unless you’re committed to this slow and often painful process.”

“I definitely want to learn to write despite my useless hands,” Bill muttered sheepishly. “I’ll spend the rest of the day drawing crosses. It’s not an exaggeration for me to say my whole life depends upon it as well as the fate of my priesthood.”

“And tomorrow you’ll do the same thing. And you shall do it the day after that. Keep drawing crosses tirelessly, ceaselessly until you can write your first letter. And then the process will begin anew. You’ll write the same letter again and again until you’re proficient at it. And then you’ll do it with your second letter. And then on and on until we have you writing ‘War and Peace’ in the space of a month.”

Miss Shackelford didn’t warn Bill that the routine would be physically exhausting but neither did she tell him of the delights which would come from writing once again...

***

At first, Bill thought of his writing sessions as an unwelcome chore, with little chance of success, a demented notion hatched in the Panglossian mind of Father Keffer. After all, it had taken Bill two months to write a simple word, “snow,” one laborious letter at a time. How many months would it take him to write a single paragraph? But at least it gave him something to do rather than brooding on his bed about the injustice of it all. And, more importantly, for the first time since his accident he had a purpose in his life. He woke up every morning with a mission – to practice writing with his mouth – and spent the whole day doing so. With time, too, he accomplished some successes – he mastered every letter of the alphabet – and with each small success, he became more devoted to the project. Soon enough, as he slowly progressed, Bill began to look forward to the writing exercises and no amount of time was sufficient for him to practice his awkwardly written words: dog, cat, sled, altar, toboggan, mercy, heaven, priest, Immaculata, and a hundred others. Deep fatigue had eventually been transformed into unflagging excitement. Bill knew that a man with an instinct to fly cannot be satisfied by merely crawling. Miss Shackelford had recommended that he practice pencil-writing six hours each day; Bill decided that he would practice twelve. Then he began to write full sentences from the Catholic liturgy written in Latin – “introibo ad altare Dei, ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam”¹ was the first one – and there was no limit to his satisfaction. By the time he had to leave the hospital, he was able to write some brief missives to his mother and to friends from the seminary he hadn’t seen in years. The writing was unsteady but not illegible, sometimes rushed but never careless. Although he was still unable to write an essay with the pencil between his teeth in a single sitting, he knew it was no longer a stark impossibility. He was still worried that he would be unable to fulfill his duties as a student of the seminary but knew the exams wouldn’t happen till the end of the following year and believed that with practice and the grace of God he would be able to write whatever his heart desired. And yet, deep inside, there was still the nagging fear of failure.

Father Keffer arrived at Saint Francis’ Hospital early on a Friday morning in order to pick up Bill and take him to Saint Mary’s Hall. The priest advised him that although the seminary would take certain steps to accommodate his disability, he was expected to participate in classes and the life of the seminary like any other novice. While he would be allowed to take exams home and given extra time to respond given his physical condition, he would not be allowed to respond to exams orally as Father Keffer had requested, arguing that it would be no different from defending a dissertation. Bill didn’t know that when the priest had heard of the refusal to his request, he had chafed in anger but the prior at the seminary had told him that if Bill’s goal was to be a priest, there were certain skills he had to master, chief among them the ability to write. The prior reminded Father Keffer that canon law said those who wanted to become priests must have the necessary physical and psychological abilities to fulfill the functions of the priesthood. As a quadriplegic, Bill was going to have a difficult time establishing that he was fit to be a priest, and the local bishop had already vociferously protested when he was told there would be a quadriplegic seminarian. Ultimately, the bishop’s indignation had been placated by the assurance that while Bill would be allowed to study as a seminarian, he would not be consecrated as a priest without the specific approval of the Pope. When Bill heard of the resolution to the issue, he was immediately crestfallen and was deeply disappointed. If anyone was physically unfit to serve as a priest, it was certainly the quadriplegic. Who could be more challenged in his priesthood than a man paralyzed from the neck down? After so much suffering and doubt, Bill had finally accepted that perhaps his deep-seated aspiration to become a priest would become a reality. Now he would have to wait until the end of his seminary studies, maybe a decade, to find out if he was given a special dispensation from the Pope or if his dreams of an ordination would be forever thwarted.  Once again, Bill was angry with his God although his intense desire to serve Him had not diminished one iota.

“Why, oh why, my Lord,” he cried, “are you making it so difficult for me to fulfill the vocation You have planted in my soul, the deep abiding faith You have rooted in my heart?”

As soon as Bill began his studies at Saint Mary’s Hall, his life completely changed. Where he had once been used to lying all day in bed, now he was involved in constant activity. He was always up by six in the morning to attend Mass, then spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in classes. Around three in the afternoon, he engaged in Lectio Divina – the reading of Sacred Scriptures led by priests – and by five he was dutifully in the library reading his class assignments for the day. Of course, he could have done none of this without his “shadow,” the seminarian assigned to guide him throughout the day. His fellow seminarians took turns in attending to him, night and day, usually for a period of two weeks, after which one seminarian would be replaced by another. It is no exaggeration to say Bill could have accomplished nothing without his “shadows.” By way of example, his class on the writings of Saint Augustine took place on the third story of a building without an elevator. Bill’s “shadow” would literally carry the quadriplegic on his back as he walked up the steps leading to the classroom. In like manner, Bill’s “shadow” would sit next to the paralytic, always on his wheelchair, during his classes and would take copious notes which he handed to Bill once the class had ended. Soon, however, Bill discovered that he could write much more efficiently with a typewriter than in longhand with a pencil and started to take down the notes himself by pressing on the letters on the keyboard with a long stylus in his mouth. And Bill eagerly participated in the classes, often telling his “shadow” to raise his arm when the paralytic wanted to make a point. When the professor used the Socratic method, Bill did not hesitate to parry with him. Little by little, through constant practice, things became easier for Bill though he always needed the help of others. Bill eventually wrote a poem acknowledging that he “couldn’t have done it alone,” that what he accomplished was “always with others right at [his] side.”  He had finally acquired the humility to accept the help of his fellow seminarians without feeling bitter or resentful.

And he felt blessed, knowing the “shadows” had been sent to him by God. Other quadriplegics didn’t have an army of Augustinian seminarians at their beck and call. Without them, his dreams of becoming a priest would have been even more unlikely than they already were. So, he applied himself, like the sportsman he had once been, spending every spare moment in his studies, knowing that to obtain the Pope’s approval he would not only have to prove that he was a functioning paraplegic but a singular paraplegic.

***

Soon Bill became known for his uncommon wisdom, not only among the seminarians but also among the broader community. It wasn’t just that he carried his heavy cross valiantly and even with a sense of humor – he joked that chastity would never be a problem for him given his condition – nor that he made incisive comments in his classes on the works of Saint Augustine or on Catholic theology. It was the judicious counsel he gave to all those who sought him out, always ready to give his advice with a smile and prepared to make an effort to get to the nub of the problem without being judgmental except in the rare cases where being somewhat critical was what was needed. His was a combination of sternness and compassion which no priest could emulate. Many sought his help rather than going to Confession as they felt Bill could guide their souls much better than the majority of clerics.

At first, it was mostly the seminarians who came to him seeking his counsel regarding their vocations. He listened to one and all, patiently trying to help them discern whether or not they were meant for the priesthood. In certain cases, he emphatically advised the seminarian to persist for he sensed the man was manifestly suited for the Church. On others, he gently told the seminarian that perhaps a marriage sanctified by God was the better course for him. Once, a seminarian confessed to having certain homosexual inclinations, and the quadriplegic did not chastise him for it but told him what he told all the rest, that he needed to discern whether he could lead a celibate life before he decided one way or another. Eventually, those seeking his advice were not just the seminarians but others in the community, professors no less than secretaries and more than one priest. Little by little, Bill was earning the reputation of a saint in a place full of those aspiring to be saintly. It got to the point where even those unrelated to Saint Mary’s Hall arrived at the seminary expecting to benefit from the quadriplegic’s wisdom.

The first man who approached him despite having no relationship to the seminary was a man who had struck his wife. Bill didn’t mince his words when telling the man that he was guilty of a great sin but didn’t just tell him to pray three Hail Mary’s and go on his way as some priests were wont to do. Instead, he tried to get to the source of the abiding anger which had led the man to engage in the crime of spousal abuse in the first place. Sure enough, the man admitted that he was regularly subjected to humiliation while at work. Not being able to lash out at his boss, he directed his repressed anger against his wife instead.

“Remember that wrath is a cardinal sin,” said Bill, “especially when directed at a woman whom you’ve joined in the sacrament of marriage. Instead of striking her, you should treat her with the utmost tenderness. Don’t forget that from the billions on the planet, God has chosen one particular woman only for you. When you feel the anger mounting against your wife, get on your knees that very instant and pray for deliverance from the Holy Virgin Mary. She will not disappoint you. And don’t forget love is not only an emotion but also a choice. Make the decision to cherish and protect her for she is a gift given to you by God. Try to foster the virtue of patience within your soul. As far as the humiliation to which you’re subjected at work, try to see it as a cross meant to increase your humility and don’t worry overmuch about it. You’re a worthy person simply because you’re made in the image and likeness of God.”

Another penitent who approached Bill was a secretary at the seminary who confessed infidelity to her husband. Once again, Bill tried to figure out the catalyst for her sin. Bill had figured out that men and women commit adultery not only because of lust – though lust does play a role in many cases – but mostly because of an abiding insecurity. So, he gently probed the woman until she admitted she had strayed because her husband no longer approached her with desire and her lover had made her feel like a desirable woman once again.

“Do you still love your husband?” Bill inquired.

“More than you can imagine,” the secretary admitted.

“Do you want to save your marriage?”

“I would want to save it so long as I can find love in it. I didn’t marry Thomas to be another piece of furniture.”

“Well, this is not a problem you can solve alone. Would your husband be willing to come and speak with me so I can see where things lie? ”

“I don’t think he even realizes there’s a problem. All he does is worry about making money.”

“That might be the source of the problem,” suggested Bill. “Sometimes the only thing that’s needed is for the married partners to explain their feelings, their frustrations to each other. There are many cases where one of the partners in the marriage has no idea how the other feels and thinks all is going swimmingly. I think your husband is unhappy with his life and thinks he can fill the void through the accumulation of money. I’ll remind him that he can only find joy in God and the persons God has given him the solemn duty to protect.”

“I’ll talk to him,” replied the woman. “He’s a Catholic too, so he might be receptive to talking with you. But I’m nervous about it. What if bringing everything out in the open just makes matters worse?”

“Pray about it. Pray about it without cease. Sometimes God answers in unexpected ways. Try to pray together with your husband. I don’t like to talk about it, but I desperately wanted to go to the grotto at Lourdes to seek a cure for my condition. I wasn’t able to travel to France given my paralysis but God wasn’t deaf to my call or silent to my pleas.  I’m still a quadriplegic, but the Good Lord responded by giving me more than I had ever prayed for. That includes an outlandish miracle which unexpectedly changed the course of my entire life. God is accessible to everyone. No one is excluded!”

“You’re a saint,” said the woman. “Your advice could save my marriage, especially if you speak with Thomas as you propose.”

“Not a saint. I’m just a man crazy in love with God. ‘Pazzo d’amore’ as was said by Saint Catherine of Sienna.”

Soon the priests at the seminary, even the most obdurate among them, the most resistant to the idea of a quadriplegic priest, were muttering among themselves.

“This paralytic man has the makings of a great Confessor.”

***

After a year of taking classes, Bill had to run the gauntlet as he finally received his three exams: one on the works of Saint Augustine, one on the history of philosophy, and the other on Catholic theology. He had been given two weeks to complete the project and spent every waking moment writing his response with the pen clasped between his teeth.  At first, it was slow going and his “shadow” offered to type out his answers if Bill would simply dictate them to him. But Bill wanted none of it. He wanted to prove, not only to his superiors but also to himself, that he had the capacity to become a priest. If he couldn’t handle his coursework at Saint Mary’s Hall, neither would he be able to be a pastor to his flock. So, he redoubled his efforts to submit his answers within the time that had been allotted to him and was overjoyed when he typed the last page of his response. In the end, not only were his responses satisfactory but he also received the highest mark in the course on Saint Augustine. The professor noted that Bill’s discussion of the saint’s analysis of the question of infinite regression was the best one in the class. No one had provided a better explanation of Saint Augustine’s theory of a prime mover unmoved.

Several years followed, during which Bill became increasingly adept at the practice of writing with his mouth. He became so proficient at doing so that he could type an essay at the same speed as an able-bodied man was able to type one using his fingers. Seven years after his accident, Bill received his doctorate in theology summa cum laude. Had he been an ordinary man, Bill would have immediately been admitted to the priesthood. But Bill was a quadriplegic and was assured of nothing. Despite his stellar marks, despite his obvious skills as a confessor, despite his impeccable history, he knew that his chances of receiving permission to become a priest from Pope Paul VI were slim to none. Never in the history of the Church had a quadriplegic man been admitted to the priesthood. The bishop of Pennsylvania had decided not to intervene one way or another and Bill subscribed to Saint Edith Stein’s dictum: take everything exactly as it is, put it in God’s hands and leave it there. So, after submitting all the required documentation to the Pope, Bill waited without undue anxiety, knowing that if God wanted him to become a priest, he would be ordained despite the odds against him.

After the complete dossier had been sent to Rome, Bill decided to write a missive to the Holy Father.

“Thanks to the mercy of God Almighty, what would have been an intolerable cross – the complete paralysis of my body – was transformed into a blessing as I realized I was sharing in the Passion of Christ Crucified. I believe my ordination would send a powerful message to all those Christians who are disabled in one way or another – the blind, the deaf, the mentally deficient, all those who are called to suffer in their own special way – and assure them that they, too, are valued members of the Church. I believe that my example would lead all those who are tempted to despair by the trials of life, all those fettered to the cross, to learn that there is still a sense and a purpose for their pain, that their suffering has been given meaning by the death and Resurrection of our Lord. They would learn the glorious lesson that Christ Crucified is always with us.”

The seminarians from Bill’s graduating class were incensed at the idea that they should become priests while Bill, the holiest among them, might possibly be denied ordination merely because he had a physical disability. So, they began collecting letters to be sent to the Holy See seeking that Pope Paul VI issue the dispensation required for Bill to take his solemn vows. Soon, all the younger seminarians joined in the task of mailing missives to Rome. But it was not only the seminarians who sent their heartfelt messages to the Pope.

After other members of the community learned that Bill’s ordination was in doubt, they too sent their pleas to the Vatican. And soon all those who had benefited from Bill’s wisdom and advice throughout the years decided to join in after they were contacted by one of Bill’s “shadows” at the seminary. After all, Bill had not spent the prior seven years dedicated only to his studies. He had also used his time in constant engagement with those in need of spiritual consolation. He had become the spiritual director of more than fifty people. And ever since he had learned to write he had engaged in a copious correspondence with many outside the state of Pennsylvania who were also in need of pastoral care and had heard of his singular reputation as a sage. Soon, letters were sent to the Pope from such distant states as Texas and California, even places as far-flung as the Virgin Islands.

Each of the letters told a different story about how Bill had radically altered the course of the life of its author. Many former atheists spoke about how they had converted to the Catholic faith due to Bill’s ministrations. Others told of how Bill had saved their marriages or taught them how to accept their disabilities not as a punishment but as a manifestation of God’s grace. Many claimed that Bill had rescued them from depression or the throes of mental illness. Still others wrote about how they had experienced miraculous cures after Bill had prayed for them, proclaiming that the quadriplegic seminarian was a living saint.

Soon Pope Paul VI sent a message to Bill through the papal nuncio in Washington, D.C., confessing he was intrigued by all the missives. The Pontiff had long promoted the idea that disability should not hinder one's spiritual life or access to the Church. He had also supported proposals to improve accessibility in Church facilities by the disabled. Still, he felt the ordination of a quadriplegic priest might be a bridge too far. The papal nuncio advised Bill that the Holy Father would like to meet the quadriplegic man in person. Was there any way he could visit the Pontiff in Rome for a private meeting? Bill was dumbfounded by the idea. He had never traveled on a plane or left the United States. Could he even board a plane with its many steps? But if the Good Lord was issuing this last challenge to him, he was not one to resist as he had always been submissive to God’s will. He told the papal nuncio that he’d be in Rome within a week and didn’t worry much about the logistics. He trusted that God would figure everything out for him! And sure enough, five days later Bill was at the Vatican with Father Keffer and two seminarians who had helped him get on and off the plane by carrying him.

When Bill approached the Pope, accompanied by Father Keffer, the Holy Father was dressed in his white cassock as always, with the pallium about his shoulders, a white zucchetto on his head, the elbow-long cape known as the mozzetta over his arms and a crucifix hanging from his neck. As soon as Bill appeared, Pope Paul VI blessed him on the forehead and put the fisherman’s ring close to his mouth so that the quadriplegic seminarian could kiss it as was the custom. The Pope immediately apologized that the meeting was not taking place in the room usually reserved for papal audiences, explaining that the room was simply not wheelchair-accessible.

Bill was radiant, delighted to meet the Pope in person. That alone would have made the journey worthwhile. Although his body had withered away slowly over the years – his athletic build had entirely disappeared – he still had a handsome and youthful face which could not conceal the inexpressible joy Bill experienced upon being received by the Pope.

“You seem to be a happy man,” the Pontiff observed. “I love a happy priest.”

“Yes, I’m overjoyed,” responded Bill. “I never thought I’d have the honor of speaking with you.”

“Well, you seem to be quite the celebrity. I’ve received more than a hundred letters pleading with me to allow you to become a priest.”

“That is my greatest desire, your Excellency. Everything I’ve done in the last seven years was done to convince you – as well as myself – that I have the wherewithal to become a pastor in the Church.”

“Many of the letters claim that you’re a saint. You know, we don’t yet have a patron saint for the disabled.”

“I have no such lofty aspirations,” Bill replied. “And the folks who wrote those letters were exaggerating since they know how fervently I desire to become a priest.”

“How could you possibly function as a pastor given your condition?”

“I can do so with a little help from my friends. I was able to obtain my doctorate in theology only because my fellow Augustinians supported me at every step along the way. And despite the fact that I’m a quadriplegic, there is nothing required of a priest which I can’t do. I have learned to type with my mouth, aided by friends who place the paper in the typewriter, so I would have no problem writing homilies. I can consecrate the Eucharist if a friend lifts up the host in front of me during the elevation. And I can certainly administer the Sacrament of Confession to my flock. In a strange way, being paralyzed from the neck down has helped me understand the challenges met by penitents, both physical and spiritual.”

“God has given you an abiding cross,” replied the Pope, speaking each syllable slowly and distinctly, “and God only does so with great saints. So go on your way. You have my permission to become a priest.”

Bill was jubilant. The Good Lord had delivered the miracle that he had prayed for. He wouldn’t trade places with anyone.