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It was his last day. The guy was on his game. He still had to get through this, the last one. He did not have to dread it. This was part of his life. A celebration. Like all good things, it had to end. He chose the ending. He was going out like a champ. It was crowded in that little upper room. The people in the room were diverse. The old, the young, and those who claim to be somewhere in between. We all had one thing in common. One thing that bound us together. One unique thing we all shared.
We are/were cops or families of cops. There was no pretense. No affectations. We were comfortable in each others company. A brotherhood of blue.
The guy came out in the costume. He started the celebration. He read off the list of the sick and the dead. A list that grew longer every time. He made his little speech about this being his last time at bat. It was upbeat and joyful.
The celebration began. The Sign of the Cross. The guy in the costume began the Mass. His last Mass for a special group. A band of brothers and sisters; mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, sons and daughters.
This was no fancy church. It was in a simple second floor chapel. An upper room. A cenacle. On the second and fourth Sunday of every month this mass crew gathered in that upper room. We celebrated, worshipped and prayed together.
The guy was our priest. He was one of us. He knew what we knew. He felt what we felt. He had a special affinity for those who were shot through the grease- as we referred to people in big trouble.
Our mass was different. Some times the mass was rough around the edges, raucous or off color- like us. Other times it was serious. It always nourished the spirit. He helped us find faith.
At the end of this mass there was joy. It's hard to lose one of your own, but we celebrate retirement. The guy, the priest? He was our chaplain. He was one of us. He may not have worn the uniform, star, or gun. But, for thirty years he stood by our side. Walked in our shoes. Felt our pain.
He eased the terror that sometimes invaded our souls. He salved the pain caused by scenes only the devil could create. He stood with us in the emergency rooms and the morgue when one of our own was injured or killed.
He knew and understood the messiness of life. Especially our messy lives. He was never judgmental. He believed and preached that God was forgiving. If you asked.
He did things few knew about. Kind things. For those who died alone, the homeless, or people experiencing personal tragedy. He is one of the quiet heroes.
We always considered Father Tom Nangle, one of us. A brother cop. He was a great priest.
27 Jun, 2011
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Source: http://www.chicagonow.com/blogs/middle-class-guy/2011/06/one-last-time.html
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