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I

the foothills

of heaven

the story of a conversion

by marjorle hoagland



“You’re

just

one

of

those

who

got

knocked

off

a

horse.”

Gretta Palmer to Marjorie Hoagland



The Foothills of Heaven

The Story of a Conversion

by

Marjorie Hoagland

AVE MARIA PRESS

Noire Dame, Indiana



NIHIL OBSTAT

John L. Reedy, G.S.G.

Censor Deputatus

IMPRIMATUR

Most Rev. John F. Noll, D.D.

Archbishop-Bishop of Fort Wayne

February 10, 1954

All rights reserved. This pamphlet may not he reproduced by any
means in whole or in part without permission of the publishers.

Copyright, 1954, AYE MARIA PRESS



The Foothills of Heaven

FOREWORD

There are those who believe that miracles can and do

move mountains today, just as readily as they did 20 centuries

ago.

There are those who say they doubt it, or at least who

would claim they haven’t seen it happen lately.

There is a third group—aged in heart, though sometimes
young in years—who are against miracles. They do not wish
to accept objective evidence; instead, they refuse to see. They

distort historical facts with their own bitterness and frustra-

tion, and this distortion can never be fully realistic.
'

‘Hard-

boiled” is not a synonym for realism. It might be synonymous

with the phrase, “a mole’s-eye view.”

This story is for the first and second groups, the essentially

open-minded. The problems of today’s world are so tremen-

dous that only the open-minded have within themselves the

chance for a solution. I appeal to them for a hearing, there-

fore, as I tell the story of my progress into Catholicism, of
my realization of an enormous Truth that increasingly

changes the way I live, and move, and have my being. I was

a typical person reared within a Protestant culture, educated

at a secular university, working successfully in phases of

journalism for almost 20 years—and still I had the sensation
that I was perpetually climbing a steep, steep mountain, that

I almost was being pushed off the rim of the world. This was

so until 1951 when Catholicism in its richness and grandeur

and truth finally gave a meaning to my life. Because I am
typical and in no way extraordinary, perhaps my words will

help others who feel they can take what life brings, 'provided

it does come to something.

This, then, is a blow-by-blow account of what happened,

and how it happened—offered in all humility. . .
3



Chapter 1

THE PROTESTANT “SOCIAL REGISTER” CHURCH—

EN ROUTE HOME

The Protestant Episcopal Church in America, modeled on

the Church of England, has from its beginning been the church

of wealth, immense social prestige, and power in this country,

particularly in the East. Other more democratic organi-

zations such as the Methodists and the Baptists have much

larger memberships, and a cursory study of “facts and figures”

in relation to the Episcopal Church leads one to suspect that

it may be dying out like the dodo. The aristocratic members

apparently lack the vigor to reproduce themselves in sufficient

numbers. Protestants wander around rather freely among

the various church groups, however, and when members of

the more vigorous Protestant churches come East, make a

success and join the Union League Club, they have a sudden

tendency suddenly to become Episcopalians. This has a

much-needed “bolstering effect.”

I too came to New York, went on the staff of a great

advertising agency, and soon was duly received into the

Episcopal church. I cannot claim that it meant too much

spiritually at the time, but it certainly made me happy

otherwise.

There were so many charming surprises. Like the time

I visited a wealthy elderly member, who incidentally always

used the Social Register as her telephone book. (She had a

telephone book, but it lived its lowly life behind the bottles in

the wine closet.) She was to call a list of members about a

committee activity, and as I walked in she was sitting there,

glistening with too much jewelry and looking very frustrated.

I asked her if she had completed her church phone calls. All

but one, it seemed. And what was the matter with that one?

“My dear

,

she isn’t in the Social Register!”

4



Neither was I, but it didn’t seem the moment to say it.

For all of that, she was a woman who devoted half her

income and nine-tenths of her time to good works, and was

a valuable citizen. She just had certain limitations, such as

thinking anyone not an Episcopalian was definitely beyond

the pale—especially Catholics.
She had an exceedingly large income (all inherited, need-

less to say), and she was convinced that people who tried to

support themselves and their aged parents on thirty-five dol-

lars a week were very well off, “for that class.” She never

could see that they might have a right to belong to unions,

for instance, or try to get higher wages. One time I sat down

with her and ran through figures on estimated rent, food

costs, clothes, medical expenses, education, etc., and proved

—

so I thought—that they couldn’t possibly make out on such
wages. For a minute I thought I had her sold, but she wasn’t

able to digest the facts mentally and she finally stopped

thinking about it altogether. From that time on, however,

she took to introducing me to her friends as “Miss Hoagland,

a friend of mine—she’s a Communist or Socialist, I think!”
All said in a very happy voice. I explained a couple of times,

in restrained tones, that I was simply a conservative Southern

Democrat with humane tendencies

,

but this made no im-

pression. The next time she did it, I was ready. I announced

in a Bankhead voice that rattled her imported antique art

objects that I certainly was not and never had been and never

would be a Communist or Socialist, and if she ever said it

again I’d knock her teeth down her throat. She never did

it again.

It is amusing that the only time I ever wrote anything

for a publication that might be left-wing was at her personal

and urgent request.

“The Road to Damascus”

About this time in my ideological trek, having seen first-

5



hand that the waning Episcopal group held no world-solutions

firmly clasped in its chilly hand, I read a book called The Road

to Damascus

,

made up of Catholic convert stories by “greats”

like Clare Boothe Luce, the late Gretta Palmer and many

others. They were powerful and compelling stories. For the

first time actually, I began to think of the Catholic Church as

perhaps holding all the answers for which I had been search-

ing so long and so unavailingly. The thing that then held me

up for a long time was that I made no real effort to investi-

gate. I simply presumed that difficulties existed. While the

Catholic Church might be the mother of all Christendom, the

largest, and perhaps the greatest of churches, the bulk of

whose teachings were true, still I felt there must be other

beliefs there which I couldn’t possibly accept. And who knew

when the Pope might dash off a piece of Dogma, proclaiming

the moon was made of green cheese? Then I’d be in a mess!

There was the teaching about the Real Presence, for in-

stance. It is odd how much people object to the Real Presence

until they love it very much, almost as though they think it

something in the class of “too good to be true.” I also thought

there could not be a mass acceptance of Lourdes, Fatima, etc.,

unless there was shrewd manipulation of public opinion from

the top Church leadership. (This was a hold-over from my

university studies in public opinion, in the political science

department.) I couldn’t believe that these devotions, like the

Sacred Heart devotion, were universally accepted precisely

because they were true and had God’s infinite backing. I

thought they were skillfully “planted” superstitions circulat-

ing among the less erudite. I admitted that many Catholics,

including some outstanding converts, were brilliantly edu-

cated people, but again (and here my long Protestant train-

ing came into play) I thought these top intellectuals were

given “sub rosa” leeway to accept what they liked and silently

reject the rest ... so as not to disedify the masses. I was

never more wrong!

6



I investigated other groups and movements. Yet always

some vital factor, connected with the absoluteness of Christi-

anity, was missing.

Then it was 1951, and mid-summer. I was returning to

a position I had previously held on the publicity staff of a

large advertising agency. I was profoundly happy to be re-

turning to this company. Therefore, it v/as not unhappiness

that made me turn to Catholicism. I was never happier nor

more filled with a sense of general well-being, but my obliga-

tion and wish to find basic truth was as strong as ever. I in-

tended to pursue it.

The First Lead

I got my first lead when I was talking with a man at the
agency, a prince of a man, who asked casually, “By the way,

Marjorie, what church do you affiliate with?” It was just a

friendly question, like others he asked me.

I hesitated a moment, and then said, “Well, Henry, I am

rather in 'mid-passage’ at the moment. I had thought of

looking into Catholicism.”

He looked surprised but said nothing. It was much later

that I learned he himself was a Catholic.

Later, I began thinking about the question and my “mid-

passage” answer. After all, to find Christianity I would have

to search Christian sources, seek within a Christian frame-

work: there was no other possibility. And the only great

source I hadn’t investigated—in fact I hated to think of in-
vestigating it—was Catholicism. It was outside my cultural
framework; I had few Catholic friends; a change to it v/ould

carry certain social penalties. And yet, if it should be the

true Church, established by Christ Himself 2,000 years ago,

if it had the doctrine and tradition vital to the full Christian

life, if by any chance it was the only global Christian society,

if Jesus really was present in the Tabernacles of the whole

world ... if by chance the tangent-like Protestant organiza-

7



tion in its 400 years of existence (preceded by 1,600 years of

Catholic loyalty) had lost much that was important and some
that was essential, could I escape it? in honesty? I had been

told that it was filled with sheer superstitions, but did I knoiv

they were superstitions? I knew that among my friends a
Catholic might lack social acceptability, but was it social

acceptability or truth that should be one’s criteria? Were its

claims valid or not? Had I given it even a vague look-see?

In fact, why had I chosen to look practically everywhere else?
Could it be because its claims had an enormity, an authority,

that struck at a timidity in me which sought something less
big, less radical, less demanding?

I had to know! The time had come when I had to know . . .

This admission was my first step towards Home.

Chapter 2

SUDDEN SILENCE DESCENDS UPON ME

At this point, mid-summer and early fall of 1951, I began

looking for a place to take instructions. (I always asked, “Are

you sure this doesn’t commit me in any way?” I had a myth

well-established in my mind, that the “RC’s” were perpetually

reaching out and snatching the unwary, the senile and the

dying. If only I had known how opposite were the facts!)

At the very outset I thought of trying to enter the classes

conducted by Bishop (then Monsignor) Fulton Sheen, the

convert-maker extraordinary. Two things prevented it:

a) I heard that he no longer conducted classes personally,

but instead the “students” listened to wire recordings made

by him. I just couldn’t warm up to a wire recording. I tried,

but I couldn’t. Later, I heard that in actuality the famous

prelate came in at the end of each recording for a brief in-

person talk, and also that the classes were ably conducted

by well-known and adept converts.

8



b) In all sincerity, I did not wish to make a “production”

of my tentative approach to the Church
;
it wasn’t seemly. A

parish priest should have adequate factual information, and

facts—I told myself—were what I wanted.
And there was the unadmitted thought that as my job

was selling people ideas, I didn’t want anyone, expert or

otherwise, selling me.

It did occur at one point that I might contact Gretta

Palmer to ask her counsel. However, she was major league

in journalism, and I felt a hesitancy in approaching the spark-

ling Gretta on so personal a subject, especially since I didn’t

know how it would turn out. This slap-happy thought delayed

by a year my close contact with Gretta Palmer, and how I

regret it now that she is gone. For Gretta was someone you

could talk to. No matter what your problems or how com-

plicated the situation, you could be sure of a warm response,

intelligent help and a faith that was unfailing.

Sf. Stephen’s and Sister Helen

Finally a friend at the agency, a Catholic who had been

watching me with perplexity, took me to the church of the

parish in which I lived, St. Stephen’s on East 29th St. It was

a parish which had seen great days, but which is now in the

midst of a run-down area.

The Catholic Mass can seem very complicated to an adult

beginner; it is hard to teach an old dog new tricks. I was

especially embarrassed over the fact that I didn’t know when

to genuflect, or how, and particularly why. At the time I

was nervously sure everyone in the church was watching

me, but a doubt about that has come into my mind since.

Then Margaret and I, being unaccustomed to St. Stephen’s,

sat in the area reserved by common consent for the nuns who

teach at the nearby schools, and soon we were totally sur-

rounded by them.

Quite late, a young nun came in and sat by us. She had

9



been to another service in a nearby church. I had my
umbrella and other belongings on the seat beside me, and

wasn't aware of her presence until I looked up and saw to

my horror that she was virtually pushed off the end of the
pew. I grabbed my stuff, at which she suddenly turned and
said in a low, resonant voice, “That’s all right, dear . . . they

don’t bother me.” I was staggered; she was a nun, and she

had spoken, and very like a human, too. And then I noticed

the special wonder of her finely-chiseled face and a certain

radiance. As a tough ex-reporter, I can take radiance or leave

it alone, but at least I recognize it. On her it looked good.

Later Margaret—grabbing the moment before I could
stop her— asked the young nun if I might call upon her to
get the actual procedural set-up for taking instructions at

St. Stephen’s. She said yes, and that was that.

A few days later, I went to the convent one night about
seven o’clock and asked at the door to speak to the nun we

had spoken to. The Sister on duty, who looked surprised but

helpfully inclined, disappeared upstairs, and I heard a low-

voiced conference going on. Then she came down and asked

me to be seated in the “parlor.” Suddenly I heard the scamper

of feet coming down the stairs
;
there was a perceptible pause,

then the steps continued in a sedate fashion. Sister Helen

walked in, holding out her hands, “Ah, at last we’ve enticed

you here!” I heard the Bob Hope show on the radio upstairs

and for the first time noticed the charming, austere parlor.

“Why, this seems a normal enough place!” I didn’t do a

very good job of hiding my amazement.

I still don’t know what I had expected, maybe clanking

chains in the basement and Witch of Endor screams from the

attic. Sister Helen looked discouraged a moment, and then

said quietly that she had always heard Protestants had fairly

wild ideas of convents but she’d never believed it of them

—

until now. She informed me that she couldn’t give me in-

structions herself, as she was not authorized to teach doctrine

10



as some nuns were, but she told me precisely how to get to

the rectory and how to ask for the priest on duty. Before I

left, she took me to the lovely chapel and had me kneel at

a prie-dieu, while she knelt, I observed, humbly on the floor

just back of me. As I left, her hand touched my shoulder an

instant as she told me she and her school children had been

praying for me all week.

“I’ll wait right here until I see you ring the bell of the

rectory,” she said comfortingly. Never say a nun doesn’t

know human beings! I had a wild desire to run away as 1

went toward the rectory—but I just couldn’t, not with that
nun standing there praying for me (and at it a week

already!).

Instructions

I suppose I had one of the fastest instructions on record.

There were two others in the class with me. They both were

getting married to Catholics, and they were willing to accept

anything from the Trinity to the Nine First Fridays without

a murmur. (The priest did not know of their marriage plans;

I heard of them the first night, over coffee.)

Meanwhile, in the midst of instructions, I had decided to

make one attempt to see whether high church Episcopalian-

ism (Anglicanism) might not be Catholic enough to satisfy

God and mystifying enough not to offend anybody, especially

my friends. I made a trip to St. Mary the Virgin in New

York, where Episcopal nuns live, and talked about my un-

certainty to a lovely, distinguished and very real person.

Sister Mary Josephine. She was well along in years. She

understood the dilemma; many people from St. Mary the

Virgin had gone “Roman Catholic.” (She verbally underlined

the Roman part.) She maintained that the Anglican com-

munion had true Catholic status and indicated that the whole

controversy was a bit silly on both sides. We talked on.
Finally she got a key, got down on her knees to open a tiny

11



shelf under the enormous bookshelves ranging the room and

took out three books, two of which she gave to me.

“Read them, and then come back and well discuss them.”

I read them. They convinced me irrevocably that the

Church of England and its American child, the Anglican wing

of the Episcopal church, could not possibly be valid. I don’t

see how anyone could read these books and escape this judg-

ment.

This ended my hope of finding an acceptable bridge, a
middle-ground. And to this day, I wonder why the Episcopal

nun gave me the books. In fact, I light a special candle for

her under the beautiful Sacred Heart shrine at St. Francis of

Assisi about once a quarter. I wonder what she would do if

she were younger.

Father Golden

The parish priest giving instructions, Father Matthew

Golden, began by taking a catechism book and opening it in

the middle, which seemed like a generous beginning on his

part. “Now, you are all adults. You say you wish to become

Catholics, or at least to have instructions in the Faith so that

you can decide. There are just a few major things we have

to discuss.”

We were all charmed with Father Golden, and liked him
greatly as a person. We enjoyed chatting with him; he was

youthful, intelligent and sincere. But I don’t know how he

ever got through the lessons. The pre-marriage candidates

made only the most trivial observations—at least, to him

—

and I sat in silent dignity most of the time.

You see, I had reached a point of at least one decision:

I believed that the Catholic Church was the true Church. I

knew that its theology was tremendous in scope, its traditions

enormous, its history long and imposing. I knew that for

2,000 years it had operated as a world church. I knew that

at monasteries and convents circling the globe vast projects

12



for human betterment had been undertaken—and accom-
plished. And I know I didn't even know how to ask an

intelligent question.

Besides this, I was ham-strung by a Protestant concept

that I didn't even recognize as such. Protestants are ac-

customed to wide “theological" divergence among outstand-

ing clergymen; after all, there are about a dozen principal

sects and 240 smaller ones. It isn't considered good taste

to bring up “controversial" issues.

Wanting to become a Catholic now, upon the basis that

intellectually I did recognize at least that it was the true

Church and the mother of Christendom, I was determined to

do nothing to “throw the priest off" unless he required me

to swear the moon was made of green cheese. I knew—and
this was vital to me—that I could spend a lifetime studying
later and not exhaust the mine. There were scholars with

whom to study. But to get in, I thought I had to avoid

antagonizing this particular priest so there would be no doubt

in his mind as to my acceptability. The trick was to keep

real quiet and get accepted, and then to learn.

Father Golden had no v/ay of knowing that when I was

absolved, conditionally baptized, and received at Christmas-

time, 1951, I was about as truly Catholic as a Moslem.

I had become nervously intent upon being received; I

think that secretly I feared God would double cross me and

strike me dead before The Day, to my eternal detriment no

doubt! I thought that if I could just get in, the answers to

my quest would not be far away—as indeed they weren’t.
It did not occur to me that the priest in his kindly way

thought my constant wish to rush things along was the

famous zeal of the convert.

The Cenacle of St. Regis

Meanwhile, I called at the convent regularly to talk things

over with Sister Helen. She asked me many questions, pene-

13



trating questions. Undoubtedly she judged much more from

my answers than I realized. For one day she appeared and
in her grave and kindly way handed me a slip of paper, upon
which she had written some magic words. They were: Cenacle

of St. Regis, 628 West 140th St.

It was a noted Catholic retreat house for women, she said,

the first Catholic retreat house for women established on the
North American continent, in fact. The nuns there were

brilliantly equipped, specialists in counseling and authorized

to teach adults (as well as youngsters).

4

'They will help you,” she said. “I want you to go there

before you are received.”

As a matter of fact I had heard of the Cenacle, its wonder-

ful nuns and its picturesque buildings and its garden, which

a New York Times editorial described as "virtually the only

spot left in Manhattan with true Old World charm.” I had

heard of its magnificent library, its great, massive furniture,

beautiful tapestries and paintings, all gifts of patrons of

earlier days. I had even heard, from a college-educated girl

not accustomed to throw praise away, that however special-

ized you were you could discuss anything with those nuns and

find them several steps ahead of you mentally. And that

they were shock-proof. That had a good sound to it.

So one Sunday I made the most important phone call of

my life. For that call eventually led me home. I phoned the

Cenacle, AU 6-3800, and got the Retreat Secretary, Mother
Ellen, on the phone. I told her I was shortly to be received

into the Church, that I had a few questions about confession,

and other matters. Would it be possible for me to come out

during the day? "Surely,” she replied in that extra-low

voice of hers that you hear so much better than countless

louder, strident voices. I explained hastily that I did not

have a letter of introduction, that I worked at an ad agency

but she couldn’t call there on a Sunday to ask about me, and

that I was caught without credentials, as it were. "That

14



makes no difference at all; will about 5:30 be all right?

Benediction will be over then.”

I arrived a few minutes ahead of time and was shown

into the library. I had a chance to observe the Cenacle nuns,

so direct and real and charming, so natural and yet so truly

nun-like. (That's the highest praise I can give, even today.)

They wore the loveliest habits in the world, dark pleated

skirts, mauve-colored capes and white fluted caps that showed

the sudden childlike loveliness of their faces, whether they

were youthful nuns just professed or as old as Sister

Ignatius, who was past , 80 but still a tiny cannon-ball of

energy, French accent and high spirit. They were perfect!

I couldn’t see how they came to be in New York in ’51;

they belonged in Wonderland.

Mother Ellen

Mother Ellen completed her talk with a retreatant, and

then came towards me with the graciousness and charm so

characteristic of her. Later I was to realize that she is one

of the world’s really beautiful women—and there aren’t too
many, actually. There are a lot of “made-up” women, and

expensively dressed women, but that’s not the same thing.

The beauty expert Antoinette Donnelly once commented upon

this in her column in The New York Daily News . She con-

trasted two women she saw walking in front of St. Patrick’s

Cathedral on Fifth Avenue in New York. One was wealthy

and famous in the international set (Dorothy Thompson once

called it “the international white trash”), who spends a for-

tune annually to appear beautiful. Yet everyone knows that

she is, at best, a made-up vacuum. The other was a nun, head

slightly bowed, walking with the quietude characterizing nuns

in public, completely without make-up of any kind, but shin-

ing with an inner radiance that somehow, in New York’s

workaday and hard-boiled world, caused heads to turn.

That first day at the Cenacle, I wasn’t even aware of

15



Mother Ellen’s physical beauty. I didn’t realize it because

her spiritual surety and intellectual keenness came through

first. Some of us have to make our minds triumph over

ordinary looks. Mother Ellen made her mind and spirit

triumph over beauty, an incomparably harder thing.

We went into the only vacant room, the Sacred Heart
parlor, for our conference. Mother Ellen stressed that since

I was under instructions' from a priest, she could give me

only counsel which later I must check with Father Golden.

She said the Cenacle was authorized to give instructions, in

cooperation with priests, but not to anyone already receiving

instructions.

That settled, she sat back to listen.

She later said I talked for ten minutes in measured sen-

tences, without once looking at her. I don’t doubt it. I was

in a terrific sweat about my coming “general confession”

because this had to cover a considerable span of years, and

I wanted to know precisely what had to be mentioned and

how it should be told. Red to the roots of my hair, I told

her the problems I had in regard to it. I had to ask somebody,

and I’d rather ask a woman first. Somehow I gathered the

impression from her that I hadn’t invented any sins; I’d

merely repeated some that priests and nuns had heard before.

They could and should be reported simply and factually, and

she was kind enough to suggest specifically how to do this.

I also wanted to know whether the “confession boxes”

were soundproofed, and whether she knew where I could find

a deaf priest to make the confession to.

At this point Mother Ellen rose hurriedly and said it was

time for dinner and she’d take me down to the refectory,

which is called Nazareth, where she had reserved a place

for me.

Dinner was charming. At least the dining room was

perfectly appointed, and the food was good. It was served

by nuns and when they tried to serve me, I kept springing

16



to my feet. There was no conversation at meals, but a nun

read to us over a loud-speaker and did it very well, too. I

never could figure out how to get the salt without asking for

it, so I had one of my saltless meals.

Later Mother and I talked again, and I asked whether I

might call again at a time convenient to her. She said yes,

and I departed.

The “Oath of Abfuration”

A few nights later, about 9 p.m. after my final instruction
from Father Golden, I was on the phone to her again, in

utter desperation. He had sprung the “oath of abjuration”

on us at the last minute, something about agreeing to hate

and despise other sects, and repenting of past heresies. My

aunt was a Methodist; I couldn’t possibly despise the Metho-

dists. And I’d never consciously been a heretic; I had just

progressed slowly into truth. How else would I get there?

Mother Ellen suggested that I come to the Cenacle im-

mediately after work the next day, a Friday (and I was to

be received into the Church Saturday afternoon). She prom-

ised to look into the matter meanwhile and obtain a copy of

the abjuration oath and we could give it some study together.

I left the office early Friday (after all, few people of my

age are expecting to get baptized the next day!) and arrived

in time for Benediction at 5 p.m. Benediction is no where

lovelier than at the St. Regis Cenacle, and it was the first of

the classic Church services I really understood. Afterwards,

I found that Mother Ellen had indeed found a copy of the

oath, but either it was a modified version and a lot of modi-

fication seemed to me to be called for or else in her presence

my mental emotional DT’s had been quieted.

She explained something of the history of the oath, which

was used only for adults, and initiated in the “early days”

of Christianity when the very lives of fellow-Christians would

depend upon the sincerity of the person being received. It

17



was strong; it was meant to be strong. She also pointed out

that she certainly had had no opportunity to realize the very

deep affection existing between my aunt and myself, and that
the reference to “sects” might be a barrier. In any case, it

was not the people we agreed to hate or even the groups as

such—only whatever was heretical in their beliefs, and ad-
herence to the true Church demanded that this straight line

be laid down.

She neatly disposed of my saying that I could scarcely
reject former heresies on my own part because I never con-
sciously had been one, by saying that if I’d never been con-

sciously heretical this part of the oath had no application

to me, did it? In other words, I shouldn’t mind the phrase,

since I’d been so aloof from conscious error.

For the past two years, I’ve been wondering exactly how

she meant that!

The Day

Saturday dawned ... I had told my aunt who reared me,

that I wished to become a Catholic, and she had said simply

but firmly, “You do exactly what you feel to be right about

religion. I’d never want to interfere with that. If you want

to be a Catholic you do exactly that and never be apologetic

about it to anyone; be a Catholic proudly
”

She was 82 years old then and had been raised in a

completely Protestant atmosphere. But she had two things:

a flexibility of mind that few people acquire at any age, and

a great love for me. She had become blind from cataracts,

but from that time on she listened to all the Catholic news

she could hear on the radio. She developed a tremendous,

an overwhelming admiration for Cardinal Spellman and could

quote almost verbatim everything the newscasters said about

him or that he said in radio addresses. Every week when

I got The Catholic News, our diocesan newspaper, her first

question was, “Where is Cardinal Spellman and what is he

doing now? America needs more men like him!”

18



However, while she knew I was becoming a Catholic, she

did not know about the preparation required, nor about the

process of reception. Protestants have their memberships

transferred rather freely “by letter.” She presumed I’d get

into the Catholic Church that way, and I just didn’t have the

nerve to tell her I was going off to be baptized.

Three p. m. approached like a funeral hour—slowly but in-
evitably.

At the last moment, I dragged in an editor from a metro-

politan newspaper to be my sponsor. My initial thought had

been to have Mother Ellen, but even I realized that as the

Cenacle nuns are semi-cloistered this was out of the question.

But I couldn’t see why Sister Helen, who would be present

anyway, couldn’t act in the required capacity. I was all for

entering an appeal directly to His Eminence the Cardinal,

but poor Father Golden, sweat literally dripping down his

brow, said pleadingly, “Now Marjorie, please don’t do any-

thing like that. I know that in your job you are accustomed

to direct action, but in the Church these things go through

channels. I knew you wanted Sister Helen and it was im-

portant to you, so I went as far as I could. The answer was

'No.’ This is a real challenge to your faith but I’m sure

you’ll prove your fine metal . . .”

I was furious, but I was hog-tied. It semed such a slight

and reasonable request, and I had made several concessions

myself, and I still think, at this writing, that an appeal to

His Eminence might have been effective. He is a very great

man, who never lets details interfere with major objectives.

Besides, he once was short-stop on a baseball team and he

collects stamps, and people who do these things usually

prove extremely nice in other ways too.

My sponsor, Isabella Beach, arrived in good time. She

brought me a corsage, an antique pin of rare beauty, and

a Sacred Heart badge. I appreciated the first two; I couldn’t

figure out what on earth that picture of Christ was doing

19



with blood dripping off it. (Again, I was to learn!)

As the oldest of the three being received (I couldn’t

deceive myself that it was on any other basis) I was the first

to be sent into the Church for the general confession.

'‘If I’m not back in an hour, send a Seeing Eye dog,”

I requested.

Confession

I got into the Church all right—I was steered there by
Isabella who then beat a hasty and discreet retreat—but
there my luck ended. I couldn’t find “the damned boxes.”

Just as I started to trek across the Church, Sister Helen

(kneeling quietly in a front pew) saw me out of the corner

of her eye, motioned despairingly, and finally said quite

audibly, “In there. . I hadn’t practised with the box

before; born Catholics just never would see anything com-

plicated about the matter. I got the curtain open well enough,

but then came my Waterloo. The place for me to kneel

seemed “slant-wise” and it was dark in there, so I promptly

fell down and said “DAMN!” in a voice ringing from one

end of the Church to the other. There were suspicious sounds

from the priest, who had been brought in from outside the

parish to hear our confessions—Father Golden had seemed
to think it wise after I began talking about soundproofed

boxes and deaf priests. Then a voice said, “Now, just be calm

and we’ll work this out all right. What is it you say first?”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I accuse myself

of the following sins. .

I was back outside in ten minutes at most; I know,

because when I got back with the others Father Golden told

me so. He had been sitting there anxiously glancing at his

watch since my parting comment.

Later I was conditionally baptized and received. Hitherto,

in my newspaper days, I’d never had much sympathy with

the characters who claimed in court, “Well, everything went

20



blank,” but from now on I can give first-hand testimony

that it can happen. Isabella kept patting me anxiously on

the back, and finally literally grasped me firmly by the arm

because she thought I was going to fall on my face.

Afterwards, I went by the convent to speak a few moments

with Sister Helen, and then I went to a hotel phone to call

Mother Ellen. She said in awed tones, “You know, theo-

logically speaking, you are just like a little new-born angel.”

I did not feel like a little angel. But I was in. That was

the big thing, but it would have been meaningless in its

effects on my daily life had it not been for the two years

of follow-up teaching I received at the Cenacle.

Chapter 3

A STEP OUT OF THE SHADOWS

Among the nine-tenths of important Catholic doctrine I

temporarily by-passed—very silently, of course—prior to my
reception into the Church was that pertaining to Our Lady.

I believe I had heard references in a few Protestant

sermons, dark references to “the cult of Mary.” The preachers

warned us that intelligent people keep away from it. No one

needed to warn me. Purely biological motherhood wasn't

anything I could warm to anyway; I conceived of it as a

partially spiritual thing at times, as for instance the wonder-

ful love my aunt had extended to me every day of my life.
Now, I must ask you to be very patient, very open-minded

here. There are those to whom the word “mother” is the

most wonderful word in the whole world, a word of honor

and of joy. There are others to whom the word conveys none

of this warmth and joy. It is not the technical definition of

the word that differs; that stands, of course. It is the

emotional reaction to the word that varies.

Ask the children of divorced parents how they feel about

the term. I think the answers might surprise you.

21



Let me put it this way. There are those who have to

have their prejudices against the motherhood concept broken

down before they can welcome a universal mother, Our Lady.

And I was one of those.

“Our Blessed Mother”

Shortly before being received into the Church, I tentatively

said to Sister Helen one Sunday morning as we walked toward

her convent after Mass, “There seems to be a lot of belief

about the ah, Virgin Mary.” I wasn’t hostile exactly;

I just wanted her to know there wasn’t any use expecting

me to go that far.

She looked at me in surprise and said swiftly and firmly,

“Our Blessed Mother

”

She added nothing else; just the

title, like an affirmation in itself. The next time I broke

reserve enough to say something about not seeing the im-

portance of all this emotional belief about “the Virgin Mary,

or Our Lady, as you say.” Again she said, “Our Blessed

Mother,” adding this time only one sentence, “It comes by

the gift of faith.” She looked very directly and gravely into

my eyes as she said it.

When next I was at the Cenacle, I told Mother Ellen what

Sister Helen had said, and the odd way she emphasized the

phrase “Our Blessed Mother.” Mother Ellen knew more of

my family background. But she did explain to me about Our

Lady and how she led people to her Divine Son.

Frankly, I didn’t believe a word of it.

It is strange how long we seek the truth and try by our

own individual searching, done in our own chosen way, to

find God. Then when the Faith in all its grandeur looms

over us, we fight despairingly against not merely major truths

but even the details. Do we perhaps prefer our truth, found

in our way, to God’s vast truth conferred and conveyed in

His way?

Looking back on it, I would say I listened to Mother Ellen

22



politely. She claims I listened with no more belligerence than

usual.

Then something happened that I cannot explain.

Gretta Palmer explained it laughingly one day by saying

to me, “You’re just one of those who got knocked off a horse.”

Or like Saul going his way—and then there was Damascus
and he became Paul.

Once more, then, I can only explain what happened as to

facts. I had had the explanations about Our Lady; they

conveyed nothing, I thought, and I did not believe them. I

could not believe that human beings, all human beings, in-

cluding me, had a great universal mother to help us. I didn’t

even bother to want such a thing; it was fantastic. But the

nuns of the Cenacle, and Sister Helen of the Sisters of Char-

ity, and others as well, prayed for me. They realized by now

that a tremendous emotional barricade existed, but you know,

barricades don’t impress nuns too much.

Nothing more was said to me on the subject.

The Way If Was

Then one day as I was walking along a New York street,

all those prayers seemed to take sudden effect. I found my-

self thinking of Our Lady, no longer as “the Virgin Mary,”

but as “Mother.” And the term carried with it a sense of

warmth and love which was completely new to me.

That’s the way it was; I make no pretense of being able

to explain it. My first faith, totally conferred, came just

like that.

After that I passionately loved Our Lady. I did not

sensibly love the Trinity—in fact I felt the Trinity owed me
a crashing apology and I expected someday to get it—but
I did love Our Lady, Mother of God.

Realizing that on this one point my compass was at long

last due north, Mother Ellen rejoiced, rejoiced and waited and

prayed and taught.

23



My first Holy Communion was at Christmas Midnight
Mass at the Cenacle. At least, everyone kept saying it was

my first Holy Communion, but since I’d had what I considered

Communion for years in Protestant churches I couldn’t see

what was so different. Why all this love for 4‘the Blessed
Sacrament”? I didn’t get it. I was ready to settle for my

love for Our Lady, but lately she seemed faintly reproachful

when I prayed to her. Not less loving, just a little wistful.

It bothered me enormously. It made my heart ache. It

haunted me.

When Mother Ellen invited me to spend New Year’s Day,

1952 at the lovely Cenacle, I was extremely happy to accept.

It was a wonderful day. And when she agreed to give me

weekly lessons in doctrine, I was delighted.

And I was taking still another step Home.

Chapter 4

FROM THE SUMMA TO A GRADE-SCHOOL CATECHISM

Mother Ellen, who had an optimistic nature and an ex-

ceptionally fine education to boot, began our lessons at a

high level. She went right to the Summa of St. Thomas

Aquinas, The Public Life of Our Lord by Archbishop Goodier,

and the Spiritual Exercises

,

the great manual of St. Ignatius

Loyola. There was an imposing list of other books, too.

It took me exactly six cagey weeks, working in slow

journalistic fashion, to beat her down to the point where she

saw that the catechism prepared for children in the lower

grades was more appropriate for me.

It reminds me of a story Gretta Palmer told me, about

a man who was a famous editor and fully 50 years old before

he began taking instructions. He began studying doctrine

with a group of outstanding Order priests, and they felt

obligated to see that he fully grasped the vast implications

24



of Church Dogma, doctrine and tradition before he was re-

ceived. He had weekly lessons for three years. The Summa,

Goodier, etc. The actual fact was that he did not have a theo-

logical mind; he had a quick, romantic mind, highly-creative,

able to write facts so that they read as easily as fiction. The

priests quite naturally felt that unless he really understood

the doctrine he would not be Catholic in the full, rich sense of

the term. Finally a friend of the editor, who had gotten into

the Catholic Church by the simple good fortune of being born

into it, became impatient. He couldn't understand why Mr.

was having so much trouble and spoke to the Arch-

bishop about it. The Archbishop sent for the editor and asked

him what had he been studying and what was the trouble.

The editor reeled oft a list of books, ending despairingly,
4

'And if you tell me any more to read, Your Eminence, I'm

going to lie right down on the floor and cry.”

The Archbishop engaged in a couple of minutes of prayer-

ful thought, sent for his secretary and dictated a letter.

It read thus: "Please baptize this man immediately.

(Signed) , Archbishop of .”

I am not in the major leagues with that editor, but the

story consoles me no end.

Lessons at the Cenacle

Usually I went to the Cenacle on Saturdays arriving about

10:30 a.m., and Mother Ellen graciously assigned me a re-

treatant’s room for the day. All the lovely touches that make

a retreat house so enormously restful and pleasant were there.

The kind and gracious welcome at the door. The airy room

overlooking the famous and beautifully-kept Cenacle garden,

or a room next to the Chapel where Our Lord abides. Fre-

quently there were a few flowers, the Catholic papers neatly

folded on the desk, a book or two. Everything was so perfectly

appointed that it was weeks before I realized, with amaze-

ment, that the house was not staffed with servants, but that

25



all the work was done by nuns. (After that, I took to empty-

ing my own ash trays!)
Mother always came to get me at lunch time, and luncheon

was a special pleasure as I got into the spirit of the place and

saw the joy and help it was to retreatants of all ages who

came in swarms. Immediately afterwards we had a short

talk during which she suggested a little after-lunch reading

and set the time for our lesson, usually 3 o’clock. This gave

me time for a brief stop-over in the Chapel, something Mother

Ellen strongly advised.

I came to love the Chapel, but then I wasn’t sure why.

“Chapel spires and church bells” always had touched me

very much, even when I was, or seemed to be, a long way

off from Our Blessed Lord. I used to drive by a Sacred Heart

statue not far from Mt. Kisco, New York. At that time I

didn’t know it was a Sacred Heart statue and would not have

understood the words if I did, but I turned towards it yearn-

ingly and called it “The Christ of the outstretched arms.”

When we got down to the lessons, Mother Ellen gave a

brief over-all plan or outline verbally, and then launched into

the Summa. After each lesson, she gave me a typed set of

notes prepared for me to review at home. She went into

“spiration” and one thing and another, and with every wish

to learn I parroted appropriate answers from time to time.

A very puzzled, almost baffled, look was coming into her face,

however; and once or twice, in mid-winter, she was actually

sweating when she finished.

She quickly realized she wasn’t actually “reaching” me,

but she couldn’t imagine why not. I was inhibited by the

knowledge that I often had tried to find The Way and failed.

This time I knew I was on or near the right road at last,

and I thought if I tried harder I could figure out what she

was talking about.

You see, I did not realize yet that the true Church was

Christ’s Mystical Body in the world, the best and surest and

26



quickest means to God. I am afraid that like many people of

cosmopolitan education and thinking, and Protestant back-

ground, I had the idea: “Now at last I’m in the right Church;

let’s hop right along with business as usual.” God does not

reach out to bring converts into the fold to have them con-

tinue as headstrong and as unenlightened as before; He in-

tends that their wills shall be conformed to His. He does not

conform His will to theirs; that should be very obvious. Any

fool would know it—but I didn’t.
I was fearfully afraid that Mother Ellen would decide I

had an I.Q. too low to grasp the lessons, and I whipped my-

self into renewed mental effort. But that wasn’t the thing.

Came the day when with unusual candor I told her, “You

know, Mother, I hear what you say all right, but the words

don’t seem to convey anything.”

“Theology and Sanity”

Mother Ellen knew that spiritual change would have to

walk hand-in-hand with new knowledge for me. The trick

was to bring it about. She gave me Frank Sheed’s Theology

and Sanity to read.

At long last we’d found a book that really “sent” me,

that opened pent-up things, that showed avenues I could

understand, that seemed addressed especially and with rare

understanding to me individually.

I think I scarcely could have been called “Christian”

before I read that book. When I finished it, I had come a long

way. A long way towards becoming truly Catholic. And it
gave Mother Ellen the clues she needed to help me in a

permanent way, a way beginning here and ending in eternity.

(This past summer, I met Mr. Sheed and told him about

it. He said that for years through the Catholic Evidence

Guild he had conducted street meetings of apostolic character,

and he had to know people and how to reach them very

quickly to do that.)

27



As I read the book, I marked many parts I liked, and

others I put a huge question mark beside.

Mother Ellen noted these parts with particular care, and

told me to read on to the end of the book and then we’d

discuss the “question marked” parts. Naturally, by that time,

with Mother Ellen’s careful and by now much more simple

teaching continuing, many of the questions had disappeared.

About this time, Mother was giving a factual discussion

of penance. I listened carefully, and finally expressed some-

thing very deep-seated in my emotions.
“Look, why should I do penance, or in other words make

reparation to God? As a matter of fact, I think the Almighty

owes me an apology, and I expect to get it someday.”

After a stunned moment, Mother’s clear laugh rang out,

not the strident cover-up laughter of the worldling, but the

true laughter of nuns when they rejoice that at last they are

able to help someone. It was an unusual viewpoint, not one

she’d run into from most born Catholics, but apart from that

she recognized it as progress. Now she could get at the

complications in my mind and maybe emotions.

Along the By-Paths

I went into detail about the evolutionary theory of human

development: the fish stage coming from an early “blob of

nothing much,” and then the period when with infinite pain

sea animals slowly over thousands or millions of years became

land animals, and then we came to an ape stage, and

finally became what we now call human beings. How, I

demanded righteously, could God look us in the face after

we’d undergone all that? And besides that (and here I was

more to the point personally), human beings are left in great

confusion and pain, with nothing but confusion and pain

possible with the set-up of life being what it is; no surety of

hold on those we love; death a threat at all times and our

inevitable end. It was on this latter point of sterile pain

28



that Mother took vehement exception to my remarks. Human

life has a point, and if we follow God's will for us we face a

glorious eternity when God will wipe away all tears, and

when we will see that those who live in Christ do not know

death except as a passing thing, a transition to something

higher and better. A life given point by God is gloriously

worthwhile and always rich in fulfillment. Even the pain that

comes from our own errors and sins can be offered to Him in

reparation and so is not sterile, not lost. “I do not weep to

see the pain of the world as such, but to see the pain wasted

by so many,” quoted Mother Ellen.

It is possible, you see, for people such as myself to search

for God in by-path after by-path, but not be prepared to

recognize His authority when at last one locates it. It isn’t

too easy, even for those who think they seek honestly, to bow

low when first they hear, “THUS saith the Lord. .

It is not easy for the modern mind, especially a secular one,

to accept authority, even God’s. Perhaps I should not say

“even” but “particularly.”

The true Church is the route to God
;
this is the Divine plan.

But it is hard to grasp this fact, and it is harder to go straight

through those great avenues of doctrine, tradition and de-

votions to the Source of all life.

There is the further point, to which I shall not again refer,

that children of divorce and rejected children often are especi-

ally rebellious against authority. They transfer their temporal

confusions, bitterness and anger to God Himself.

But about this time, Mother Ellen said unexpectedly, “I

am sure that God especially loves you.” It was a new thought,

a surprising thought . . . and I did not forget it.

Mother had me continue with Theology and Sanity, and
then one day she said we’d go through the catechism for a

week or for several weeks. It put things plainly, she said, and

might clear up some points.

29



We stayed on the catechism in its classic outlines, but with

detailed explanations and side reading she suggested, for about

two months. Then I was promoted to the Surnina again . . .

but by then, many things had happened.

Chapter 5

OUR LORD COMES TO TOWN

Mother Ellen once said that Our Lady often leads us to

her Divine Son.

Now, I realize these positive things about Christ:

a) He is the world’s greatest spiritual hope.

b) He is a teacher-leader of far more than human pro-

portions.

c) He is a symbol to mankind, and yet more than a symbol,

for in Himself He is the realization of the symbol. This 1

believed firmly. And the concept never left my mind.

d) He is the heart of the mystery of the universe. A
famous bio-chemist I once interviewed said that to me (not

for publication, but as her private belief), and I agreed with

her in theory, at least.

And yet, He had never “come clear” to me as a Person,

One to whom I could give an all-embracing devotion. A few
times, in a transitory way, He had seemed very near so that

I almost could reach out and touch Him; that happened once

when I was kneeling in the back of Calvary Episcopal Church.

But then He quickly eluded me; the moment was gone—the
Person was gone. And I was empty as ever.

Therefore, I was at this point. I was in the Church; I

had come to know and love Our Lady; the Church doctrines

were becoming clearer to me as God’s revelations. I was not

striving for anything more.

30



“Forty Hours Devotion”

Then one Sunday at St. Stephen's Church where I was a

parishioner, it was announced that the “Forty Hours De-

votion” would be held. It meant little to me until the day

arrived.

A huge canopy supported on four poles was brought to
the front of the Church. The procession began, and I looked

up to see Our Lord being carried aloft in the monstrance.

The symbolism of the procession suddenly struck me. This

was the Son of God coming down among His people. As in

the early days of His public life, He was moving about among

weak and sinful people who asked His help. And as the

procession with its choir boys, servers, incense and candles

passed by me, I realized that the Holy Eucharist was radiat-

ing grace and strength to the people in that Church, just as

Our Lord had done for the people who lined the roads of

Galilee and asked His help.

This was the first real understanding I had of the meaning

of the Blessed Sacrament. As my love and understanding

of the Mother of God came suddenly, so did my devotion to

the Sacrament of Her Son's presence.

I have loved Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament with a real,

vital love ever since that time. I am aware of His presence

in every tabernacle. Just going by a Church in a taxi is a

joy, for I know I can send special messages of love to Him as

I say a brief prayer in His honor.

That is how the Eucharist took on a personal meaning

for me. And, like so many things that have happened to me,

it was not through anything that I did; it was entirely a

grace conferred by God.

By my own searching I seemed unable to find God, but

if we want Him, He knows how to find us.

After this my lessons in the Summa went much better.

31



Chapter 6

I FIND ST. MARGARET-MARY AND THE SACRED HEART

One day in a New York Church I saw a statue of Christ

“with the heart on the outside.” It was a fine, cleanly-done

piece of art work, commanding in conception, but definitely

not Dali. I stared at it a moment and then asked a Catholic

friend with me why that statue had the heart on the outside

instead of inside. She looked startled for a moment, and then

said it was a “Sacred Heart” statue, used in the great Sacred

Heart devotion now world-wide in scope and having millions

of adherents. It was one of the central devotions of the

Church. I filed this away mentally at the time, as something

I’d investigate when I had more time.

Later, in the midst of one of my Cenacle lessons, I abrupt-

ly asked Mother Ellen, “Will you please explain that 'Sacred

Heart’ thing to me and the statue with the heart on the

outside?”

She paused perceptibly, as she had a way of doing before

explaining something momentous. Then very slowly she told

me about a St. Margaret-Mary Alacoque, a humble little

French nun of the Visitation Order. She lived in the 17th

century: Christ had appeared to her with certain great mes-

sages that He wanted transmitted. The main part was that

Christ said He loved men very much, and wished they would

love Him. He asked that reparation be made by “First Friday

Communions” for nine consecutive months, promising many

favors in return, including that of final penitence.

That was about all she said. I made no reply, and turned

immediately to the remainder of the lesson at hand.

A Search

Two weeks later, in the midst of something else, I in-

terjected, “Would you please explain that St. Margaret-Mary

thing to me again? I think I must have misunderstood you.”

32



I had not misunderstood.

Then began a rapid-fire search for material on St. Mar-

garet-Mary and the Sacred Heart. First I found a brief story

about her—for children—prepared by Father Gerald Tracy,
She was a wonderful young nun who had lived at Paray-le-

Monial, a tiny village in France, and had died at 42 after

setting forth “Revelations” that in time have had great in-

fluence on the devotions of the Church, that have changed the

hearts of men as perhaps no message since the deaths of Jesus

and his immediate followers. Yet she was always a con-

troversial figure while she lived, and suffered persecution at

the hands of other nuns and of priests who drove her

into total physical collapse. Before she died, she knew full

well that she was entering what she called “the great retreat,”

and she was frankly glad to die, because she felt that she was

such “a sink of contradiction” that only after she was person-

ally out of the way could Christ's words to her be believed.

I searched through many libraries. A branch had a book
on her listed but it had been lost. At a bookstore, I was able

to get the fine modern book—not too accurate on detail but
giving a brilliant over-all picture—Behold This Heart . There
was Yeo's These Three Hearts

,

which didn't satisfy me as

well. The Cenacle library had books by Bougand and Father

Daniel, but as the English translations were old and the books

long out of print, I felt I should leave my right arm as surety

for each volume. (The present-day Visitation convents have

a special liking for Bougand because he tried very hard to be

fair in his judgment of the Saint's several fantastically-hard-

to-understand Superiors and her fellow Religious.)

I made a trip to Brooklyn to visit the Visitation convent

there. I have nothing against Brooklyn, but being a narrow

and confirmed Manhattanite I could get to Nome, Alaska

with less difficulty. The nuns there gave me a third class

relic of St. Margaret-Mary, silk that had touched her body.

The relic was enclosed beneath an “idealized” picture of the

33



saint. As far as I am concerned, Margaret-Mary needed no
idealizing.

Relics

Before this time, I had looked down on relics as something

medieval, a carry-over from my Protestantism. Now I came
to know what a relic can mean. I loved St. Margaret-Mary

and believed that I understood what she was talking about,

and I wanted—I so wanted—a first-class relic.
She had died in 1690, and obtaining one seemed improb-

able. There couldn’t be many available, and they would go

to ecclesiastics and Churches for special occasions. Not to

me.

Yet in less than a year, I had three first-class relics of

St. Margaret-Mary, with the proper certification papers with-

out which no relic can be accepted as authentic. It changed

my whole view of relics, and in other ways it broadened my

life and opened my mind and heart immensely.

The first came when one day, feeling quite hopeless about

it, I stopped by St. Francis of Assisi Church (the Franciscan

Church on West 31st St.) and asked simply “to see the priest

on duty.” When he came, I explained that I was a convert

and that I had a great liking for St. Margaret-Mary and

wanted a first-class relic of her. I had not been successful

so far. Without wasting time he asked,

“Would you like me to try to get you one?”

I told him I’d be delighted, but I’d already written to a

well-known religious goods store in Rome and commissioned

them to locate a relic, but so far they hadn’t succeeded. I

had done this at the suggestion of a Monsignor at the Chan-

cery, and he had allowed me to use his name in the letter.

If that didn’t work, what would? Really, I felt I was taking

up my time and his on a hopeless quest.

He said, “Let me see what I can do.” I left him my card.

That was towards the end of a week. The following

Thursday, I received a note from him, asking me to stop by

34



St. Francis of Assisi Friday anytime after 3 p.m. And add-

ing, “I have your relic for you.”

I could scarcely wait through the intervening time. By

2:30 I left the office and rushed by cab to the Church. The

priest had gone on duty early and didn’t seem surprised to

find me waiting on the doorstep.

Fumbling in his pocket to bring out an envelope, he ex-

plained. The parish had sent a messenger to Rome by plane

the day after my visit to obtain some articles that were needed

for a celebration and to attend to other duties. Father

obtained permission to add the request for the relic to the list

of articles. When he wrote to me he knew the relic was on

its way.

And there it was, beautifully mounted, “St. Margaret-Mary

Alac.”

The certification papers said it was part of her bones.

Now, this had a peculiar significance to me. For you see,

centuries ago in the midst of her torments at Paray, she had

once begged Christ to allow her to be utterly forgotten and

her body scattered as dust to the winds. And in one of His

rare refusals of her humble requests, Christ told her that she

would suffer much for Him, but what became of her later

must be left in His hands because He had purposes of which

she did not know.

I kept feeling I wouldn’t have gotten this relic of the be-

loved St. Margaret-Mary Alacoque of the 17th century—here,
in 20th century New York—unless this too was one of
Christ’s mysterious purposes and unless He had allowed it.

It w^s a tiny fragment of the bones of a saint who was loved

by Christ for her valiant devotion. I felt humbled in a way

I couldn’t express; I felt honored beyond all words. That is

what a relic can mean, and what this relic meant to me.

Sister Marie Rose Laforest

After that, I began corresponding with Sister Marie Rose

Laforest, Superioress at the present-day Visitation Monastery

35



at Paray-le-Monial. She sent me earth from the famous
Garden of the Revelations, photos of the authentic portrait of

the Saint, and a wonderfully wrought reliquary with another

first-class relic of St. Margaret-Mary. She also sent a thick

paperbound “Life of St. Margaret-Mary Alacoque,” issued in

1921 and written with scholarly detachment and honesty by an

unnamed Religious of the Paray community. These nuns

regard it as their greatest privilege to be the world-center

of the Sacred Heart devotion.

There is a legend, and it is no more than that, that St.

Margaret-Mary will not rest until the whole world is won to

the Sacred Heart, until it comes to love Christ passionately

and to live as He wishes. While she lived that was not merely

her greatest concern: it was her only concern.

I thought there might be too much here for a Johnny-

Come-Lately to ponder. Perhaps it takes a special dedication

to enable an extrovert like myself to grasp what Mother

Ellen had been saying all along: live the life first, become

truly formed spiritually, and then engage in activity.

Later the good Sister at Paray sent me something else,

something gorgeous. It came quite unexpectedly. It was a

book, bound in brown leather with two worn metal clasps,

published 330 years ago under the authority of Clement VIII.

It was a Holy Week book that had been used by the novices

who had studied under the Saint. Since she had charge of

these books and handed them out, it was almost certain that

she had handled it. This Sister Marie Rose Laforest authen-

ticated in a signed letter, adding that the markings in the

book just might have been made by the Saint.

With reverence I took the book in my hands. I fingered

the worn clasps, and wondered if ^he too had had trouble with

one of them. And faintly traced in ink on the back flyleaf,

I found a fascinating thing, an almost unbelievable thing.

There was a drawing of a heart, very tiny, and further down

the page, two hearts. And St. Margaret-Mary had said to

36



Father Claude de la Colombiere, . . These three hearts shall

be bound together for all eternity. . Had she perhaps

traced the hearts as she tried so hard to work out a worthy

symbol of the Sacred Heart?

Yet all of this, however interesting, was of little account

compared with the sure knowledge given through the Revela-

tions that Christ loves us madly, almost to folly. He would

make this earth, as Gretta Palmer has said, “at least the

foothills of heaven.” And He would have us part of His

heaven.

Chapter 7

GOD’S WONDERS—AND NEW DISCIPLINES

I have learned something new about prayer lately. It is

this: we have to become mature enough to accept the full

dimensions of our prayers.

There is the story of the girl who realized she had too

much pride. She prayed for humility. She looked stunning

in black—and the Lord sent her a green coat, and then she
was humbled! The answer had come, but not exactly in the

way she had expected.

My new knowledge came very simply, as these things are

likely to come to us.

Some months ago my gallant and wonderful eighty-three-

year-old aunt, who reared me, had a stroke and was hospital-

ized for some weeks. Her loved voice was slurred now; at

times not even I—for all my trying—could make out what
she was trying to say because she spoke rapidly and in obvious

distress. Soon her head was down, her eyes usually closed;

she could respond only slightly, though her responses were

always intelligent. She looked and was desperately ill. The

doctor would not hazard a guess as to her chances; the nuns

thought it “very much touch-and-go.” They all pulled for

her. During the first week, before her condition worsened,

she had become the hospital’s most popular patient.

37



One charming incident a nun told me about with much

glee. She visited my aunt briefly one morning, and said,
“I understand your niece is a Catholic, and that you are not.

I just wondered what you were?” And my aunt replied

stoutly, ‘‘I’m a good Methodist. It takes a good Methodist to

bring up a good Catholic.”

I was frantic with worry. I understood that to most

people 83 might seem an appropriate enough age for anyone

to die, but my aunt isn’t like most people of 83 nor indeed of
any age. She is unique, and I hope she lives to be 120.

The Power of Prayer

Mother Ellen was a tower of strength. She prayed hard,

and got a lot of other people busy at it too. And, miracu-

lously, my aunt pulled through. She personally believes the

prayers of the priests and nuns did it.

When my aunt came home, she was greatly disabled at

first, and a registered nurse had to be on duty while I was

at work. A nurse-companion is adequate, and even she would
not be necessary were my aunt not blind from cataracts. But

regardless of who is on duty at the house from 9:00 a.m. to

5:00 p.m., I am on duty the remaining 16 hours of the day.

This has meant a change in my way of living that has to be

taken in stride realistically.

It has meant heavy evening and night-time care, though

that is decreasing now; coping with a huge back-log of

hospital and medical bills and weekly expenses double those

I had before; living within a rigid framework whereas I

previously had much liberty; gearing myself always to her

needs, not mine.

Now, consider. If God graciously answered my prayers

for my aunt’s recovery, it was inevitable, in view of her age,

blindness and partial crippling, that convalescence would be

slow. How could it be otherwise?

And how else, could God rid me of excessive self-concern

and ego, and tear out the trivial, the preoccupations, the

38



neurotic tendencies common to us all and certainly to me?

How else, and how better? He used my love for my aunt

as a lever.

Regardless of how our prayers are answered, and some-

times the answer may be in the negative and entail much

grief, there is a litany of thanksgiving used by the nuns of

the Cenacle of St. Regis that has helped me, and may be

treasured by others. As I write, I can see the Sisters reciting,

with bowed heads:

For all Thou hast given

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast withheld

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast withdrawn

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast permitted

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast prevented

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast forgiven me

Deo Gratias.

For all Thou hast prepared for me

Deo Gratias.

For the death Thou hast chosen for me

Deo Gratias.

For the place Thou art keeping for me in heaven

Deo Gratias.

For having created me to love Thee for eternity

Deo Gratias. Deo Gratias. Deo Gratias.

39



Chapter 8

THE ARC BECOMES COMPLETE, AND THIS EARTH

“THE FOOTHILLS OF HEAVEN”

I have been in the true Church, established by Our Lord

2,000 years ago, only since Christmas, 1951, and yet in that

brief time the arc or pattern of living that makes of our

lives a veritable City of God on earth has become complete.

Spiritually speaking, I still have a long, long way to go

—yet the way ahead is bright with His glory shining as a
light to guide my feet. I have much to learn, and much to
practice, but I am no longer a wanderer searching aimlessly,

without compass or guide. For no matter what comes, I

am Home, and I shall live as one who has regained the security

of home.

Worldly drives of ambition lose importance as we realize

that all the heights and depths of our lives are limited, that

the only real security is found in a complete dedication to

Christ, the Christ Who alone is “the resurrection, and the life.”

And the only true “Utopia” is the one existing within

Christ’s Mystical Body, where at varying levels and with un-

even success—but with His help at all times—we strive to
follow His way.

Christ and His Church do not demand an impossible per-

fection before we begin, or as we go along: all of us are sin-

ners, but sinners for whom abundant reparation has been

made, to whom abundant grace will be supplied.

On this basis, this earth becomes indeed “the foothills

of heaven.” And for me, my life-long search for truth, for

love—for Christ—has ended. I will have difficulties and
problems about my religion; they are a part of life. But

basically, I stand with confidence at the foot of the cross,

close to the One who is the Author and Subject of our Faith.

40



Catholics who have non-Catholic friends in-

terested in the Church can help them achieve

the spiritual peace of Faith. The publisher

recommends the following pamphlets for re-

ligious inquirers:

FINDING CHRIST’S CHURCH, by John A.

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FINDING CHRIST, by John A. O’Brien,

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HOW YOU CAN CONVINCE TRUTH
SEEKERS, by John A. O’Brien, Ph.D. (24

pages, 10c)

SOLVING MY RELIGIOUS PROBLEM, by
Henry C. F. Staunton. (32 pages, 10c)

WHAT IS A CATHOLIC? by John Cogley.
(24 pages, 10c)

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