Catholic Transcript Online

The fellow on the train was talking on his cell phone so loudly that the rest of us could hear, and it was a pretty unsettling conversation at 6:50 in the morning – a conversation we’ve all had at one time or another about our children or family members or close friends. It was a story about alienation and substance abuse and the inability to forgive, and it had all the elements of a first-rate tragedy.

His son was addicted to prescription drugs, and there was nothing he could do. He had tried intervention, appeals, fatherly advice, bailing him out of jail and sending him to rehab; and, for this aging father, the price had been a high one, financially and emotionally. And yet, all his efforts produced no results.

My friend Donna and I were on a crowded train coming back from a meeting in Manhattan, the kind of meeting where your head starts to spin because there’s so much talking and so little gets done.

When I count my flaws, right there at the top of the list is my all-time favorite: I’m always eager to judge other people from appearances. I’ve been this way at least since the ’60s when I used the word "hypocrite" an estimated 739 times a day, always agonizing over the speck in my neighbor’s eye while ignoring the 2-by-4 in my own. Some things never change.

The office building suddenly started to sway in midtown Manhattan, and everyone on the 26th floor feared something terrible was about to happen so they rushed out and ran down the corridor toward the elevator – until a man yelled, "Don’t get on the elevator! We have to take the stairs." Then, like a choreographed ensemble, they all changed direction simultaneously and headed back toward the stairwell.

The youngest member of the group pushed open the door and held it for the others to file through, but the last person, a man in his late 70s, was having trouble keeping up with the others.

Thirty-five years ago, when I was young and carefree – probably too carefree for my own good – and had a full head of hair – I met a man who became a lifelong friend. And then, it seems, I blinked and the years had passed by.

My friend just celebrated 50 years as a priest, which is a remarkable achievement when you consider we live in a culture where permanence and commitment, in marriage or religious vocations, is often an anachronistic virtue.

It was early in the morning and I was downloading the day’s papers on my iPad, waiting for my connecting train into the city, when I smelled something so familiar and so frightening that it brought me back 50 years and revived my childhood fears.

It was the nauseating smell of stale booze on someone’s breath, and it reminded me of those many nights when my father came home from work drunk, his breath reeking of whiskey. Melrose, Jack Daniels, Canadian Club or J&B – it could have been top-shelf whiskey or cheap whiskey. It didn’t matter, the effect was the same.

My mother always said the greatest crosses come from your family, and I would usually nod hesitantly, wondering whether she was referring to me. "It’s not possible," I concluded.

It had been a miserable day that evolved into a miserable week and, for all I knew, it would be a miserable month. I was praying desperately that the year wouldn’t end miserably.