dead. And if He, human as well as divine, is alive, overcame death, then everyone lives after death. A most consoling faith.
What sort of belief would a person such as Hank Hunsinger have about a life after death? From the little Koesler had been able to learn, he doubted that Hunsinger had given much if any thought to the question. Even though he had somehow found his way into a Bible study group, there was little indication that he thought about death and its consequences at all. It probably was the combination of not being religious along with being young and, though periodically injured, healthy. The Hun would have had no occasion to ponder death and a hereafter.
No matter. Now he knows all the answers.
Although Koesler did not often find himself on the southwest side of Detroit these days, it was easy and reassuring to recognize and remember the old neighborhood. As he drove down Junction Avenue, he passed the stately St. Hedwig’s Church, a Polish parish. Amazing how well the neighborhood had been preserved! So many Detroit neighborhoods had been allowed to deteriorate and decay.
Finally he reached the celebrated intersection of Vernor and Junction and the familiar sprawling brick buildings that were part of the vast plant that was Holy Redeemer. He found a parking space just across the street from the Hunsinger home.
The doorbell was answered by a woman who identified herself as Rose Walker, one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s sisters. Koesler could see the resemblance. “It’s so good of you to come back, Father. We have a buffet set up in the kitchen. Would you like something to eat?”
“Maybe a little later. Right now I’d like to talk with Mrs. Hunsinger for a few minutes, if that’s all right. “
“Of course. I’ll take you to her, Father. She’ll be pleased to see you.”
Mrs. Walker led the way into the living room. Koesler located Mrs. Hunsinger immediately. She was seated near the large front window. Near her sat a man in a straight-back chair. Neither was speaking. Again, from the family resemblance, Koesler guessed it might be her brother.
Mrs. Walker made introductions. Suspicions confirmed; the man was one of Mrs. Hunsinger’s brothers. He excused himself to let the priest be alone with Grace.
Koesler was very glad he had decided to return to the home after the ceremonies. There was almost no one here besides Grace Hunsinger’s immediate family. For most, the special occasion of a funeral had given way to an ordinary Wednesday, and work was waiting. For others, the show was over.
Mrs. Hunsinger appeared to be very calm, but also very remote, as if contemplating some tranquil mystery. She had held up well at the mausoleum too. Just that one moment at communion when she had been overcome by emotion.
He could understand that. For many Catholics, himself included, communion was a time of the most intense prayer and communication with God. It was not at all uncommon for one, in a stressful demanding moment such as the funeral of a loved one, to find the intense emotional impact of communion overwhelming.
“Mrs. Hunsinger?”
“Oh? Oh, Father Koesler.” She had been unaware of his presence. A brief smile of recognition and welcome crossed her face.
“I thought we could talk a little bit.”
She nodded, but without animation.
“How are you feeling?” Koesler felt like taking her hand in his as a consoling gesture. But, as was his wont, he remained reserved.
“All right now, I suppose.”
She was dry-eyed. If he had not witnessed her breakdown in church, he would have found it difficult to believe it had happened.
“You know, Mrs. Hunsinger, according to our faith, it’s all over now.”
“What’s that?”
“Henry. It’s three days since he died. He is well into eternal life.”
“That’s what troubles me.”
“You shouldn’t be troubled. The way you and I were raised and the way we were taught our catechism, death and judgment were presented in a more frightening way than they are today.”
Even though a good number of years separated the two, Koesler could be fairly certain that both he and Grace Hunsinger had been taught identical Catholic doctrine. So little of that doctrine had been changed before the Second Vatican Council.
“Our early impression of God,” Koesler continued, “was heavy with vengeance. We could lead decent lives in the state of sanctifying grace and then maybe slip and eat one pork chop on a Friday and if we died before getting to confession God would zap us into hell. And, while that oversimplifies things a bit, it is pretty much the way we were taught.
“Now, I think, we tend to view the morality of a life as a whole rather than consider its individual episodes. Not that an act of theft is good. But that the act of theft flows from a lifestyle where an individual act of thievery might be more a mistake than typical of the way that person would ordinarily operate.”
“But Henry’s lifestyle was not all that good-”
“Perhaps not. . at least not as far as we can judge. But Henry has been judged by God. . by an all-loving and forgiving and understanding God. We musn’t lose faith that Henry has found that God can find ways unknown to humans to forgive. We leave Henry to our Father in heaven with great confidence and hope. It’s all we can do.”
They were quiet. Koesler was content to allow his words to sink in. He sought only to give Mrs. Hunsinger confidence to help her over her terrible loss. It would do Henry’s mother no earthly good to remain tortured by her son’s sudden death following upon-to be kind-a not exemplary life. He hoped he had given her some reason for optimism.
“You walked right along there.” Mrs. Hunsinger was staring out the front window.
“Pardon?”
“On the day of your first Mass. The procession came out of the rectory and went down the street and up the steps into the church. I was standing right there.” She pointed, Koesler had no idea where. Somewhere along the route the procession had taken. He remembered the day clearly.
“It was a warm, sunny day. I was standing there holding little Henry’s hand. Then we went into the church for your first solemn Mass. It was beautiful and you sang so well.
“Then after the Mass, we came outside again and waited while the procession returned to the rectory. When you passed by, all recollected and pious, I remember I squeezed little Henry’s hand and told him he should grow up and be just like you.
“But,” she sighed deeply, “it was not to be.”
Koesler looked at her for a long time. She continued to gaze through the window at the facade of Holy Redeemer Church, lost in her memories. He took one of her hands in both of his and pressed gently. She did not react. She continued to sit and gaze.
Finally, he rose and stepped away. He was startled to find that he had almost backed into Mrs. Quinn. He was additionally surprised to find Mrs. Quinn fully awake.
“How is she, Father?”
“I think she’s all right. I wish I could have been better able to comfort her, though.”
“Time, Father. It’ll take time. It always does. Both of us have lost our husbands. And we know only time can heal a wound like that. It’s probably worse with the loss of a child, even if the child is a grown man. That I wouldn’t know; I’ve not lost any of my children, praise God.”
All the while Mrs. Quinn talked she was leading Koesler toward the kitchen. As he passed through the various rooms in the old house, he was impressed with how neat and tastefully decorated they were and how well kept up. He commented on this.
“Well, thank you, Father. It’s kind of you to notice. Grace and I do our best and we try to make up for each other. And Henry provided handsomely. He wanted us to move. He was willing to buy us a house or build one wherever we wanted. But Grace wanted to stay close to her Holy Redeemer. And I can’t say I disagree with that.
“That would be a point in his favor, wouldn’t it, Father. . I mean, as he stands before our Savior in judgment.
