So much to give

by Betty O’Brien

This is the third in a series of excerpts from an unpublished manuscript, So Much to Give, written by the late Betty O’Brien. Betty was a member of CUSA when it was still very new in the United States.

Every preparation for our trip abroad stood out like the anniversaries we were to celebrate in 1956. (The year),1956, meant my brother was a priest ten years, my mother was in America fifty years, and she and Daddy were married forty years. Jokingly, I often told friends that these happy occasions were our reasons for going overseas. Several wanted to know if I had an anniversary too. I would always reply, “Why, no; my life is just beginning!”

Since early childhood, my heart had often walked the hills of Kerry when Mom told about her early days there. But the dream of visiting her homeland had not become a plan until several little miracles made it possible that the four of us could go together. My father’s fear of asking for a leave of absence faded as soon as he did so. The boss not only promised to keep his position open; he also showed joy that we were to have such a vacation. To me, it could not have been otherwise. Dad had obtained his present work while making a novena to Saint Joseph during unemployment in 1948. And because the green light to travel to Ireland really came from the way the piggy bank seemed to fill itself after we decided to make this adventure ours, our tickets were bought without any worry.

Our sailing date was July seventh. Then, with Mom, Dad, and Father Jack beside the wheelchair which I borrowed for our journey, I sat close to the rail of the S.S. America. The four of us stayed there until we could no longer see the faces of the friends who had come to bid us farewell. Their well-wishes lingered among the flowers and telegrams in our staterooms.

Each day at sea began with Father Jack’s Mass. Once, his server was a sister who had known us both since we were small. She had been the Mother Superior of the Visitation Order where my aunt spent many years as a nun. Sister Mary Agnes was travelling to a convention of her Order in France. That day on the ocean, while she embraced me for the first time in her life, I knew the cloister grille was far away. But when Father Jack and she blended their voices in prayer we were aware of God’s presence.

Lourdes was part of our itinerary too. Some of the passengers could not be convinced that a grateful heart was taking me there. Seeing me in a wheelchair on the deck, these strangers did not know I had only brought one to save my strength where walking would be difficult. Because Mother fed me in the dining room, they didn’t realize that I could feed myself. The latter was something I only do at home; something I had been unable to do, even there, before I was thirty. Now, at thirty-eight, I remembered how many wonderful things had happened since.

I no longer needed the wheelchair which I had used on the street between my late teens and the end of my twenties. My real physical progress took place after the wheel of my “chariot” broke on the way to a parish mission. I was so

determined to attend each service at Saint Columba’s that I walked the four blocks twice a day beside Mother. Soon, I did what I had not been able to do since I was thirteen; I went to Mass each Sunday. By degrees, I attended Mass two and three mornings a week. Slowly, like Mother, I was a daily communicant.

My regular appearances at church taught me not to classify people in two categories; those who pity me, and those who do not. Friendly parishioners helped me to see Christ in everybody. It was not easy to ignore the attitude of others until they knew me for myself. These were the things I hoped I could express my appreciation for in Lourdes. Most of all, at Our Lady’s Shrine, I wanted to thank her Son for coming to me so often in Holy Communion. With Him in me, I had learned to live the prayer, “Lord, grant that I may not seek so much to be understood, as to understand.”

On the boat, a young girl made me feel certain that I was blessed indeed to have a family like mine. Judy’s parents were divorced, and each had remarried. With her grandmother as a companion, she was going to England. There she would visit her mother and the new husband. From the moment I met Judy, I was sure that she believed someone handicapped could never be happy. But during an amateur contest in the ship’s lounge, I really understood why this teenager pitied me. While she played the piano, every movement of her body seemed to say, “Music makes me forget everything.” To Judy, the physical ability to go out of herself meant the same as Mom, Dad and Father Jack did to me. At the moment I realized this, I wondered, “What would I be without Mama?”

I have a friend and life’s okay; She is beside me night and day. Since I was born, she seems to be A pair of hands and feet for me. My mother’s actions are like wings; They help me out in many things. She urges me to try alone. She says,”Success must be your own.” She tells me not to hesitate; I look at her when I need faith. If God takes Mother from my side, I’ve learned from her that He’ll provide.

In order to feel sure that somebody would always help me when Mama could not, I had only to recall the past. The time she was in the hospital for a month, Aunt Anna came from Texas to take care of me. Then, and in 1950, while she had another operation, I did not have to leave my own home. During her second absence, Dad took his vacation. The two weeks with my father as housekeeper proved I was a good dictator. Under my direction, he ran the washing machine, cooked the meals, and even baked cake.

At sea, I remembered a will that included me. It was one which would bring me a monthly income after my Aunt Delia’s death. Her husband had drawn up the legal statement a few days before his death in 1954. With the knowledge of this legacy, I had another reason for saying, “God has taken

care of me, and He always will.” These words nearly slipped off my tongue, on the ocean, the day I learned of a prayer for me. Since I came on the boat, Mrs. Jones had been reciting the rosary that I would die before my mother. The night I became seasick I was not thinking, “I will never live to be an heiress.” But I thought of Mrs. Jones because I heard Mama praying, “O Lord, I hope You’re not answering that old lady’s prayer.”

During a storm, we were strapped to the tables in the ship’s dining room. If ledges had not been placed under the cloths, the dishes would have fallen to the floor. When going from place to place, we had to hold on to ropes that were put up for safety. Shortly after midnight, everything in our stateroom took a walk. A bottle of cologne flew into my bunk from the bureau; it hit my head. Getting out of bed, I crept around. On my knees, I gathered all the movable objects in front of me. While locking them in the closet, I shouted, “Mama, stay up in your bunk. It isn’t wise to use the ladder now.”

Suddenly, she reached out and took a big bowl of flowers into her bed; she was afraid they would fly into mine. One swerve of the boat made her scream, “Betty, my mattress is all wet; the vase just overturned.” A second later I heard her say, “I’m getting dressed!” Instead, I moved over; we spent the rest of the night in my bunk. The next morning, Father Jack listened to our experience. He asked Mama why she had wanted to get dressed. In her matter-of-fact way, she replied, “If the S.S. America went down, I wished to look respectable in a lifeboat.”