Collin Doherty: Ask a question

He could hear the storm clouds release their fury with a bang and then the persistent barrage of heavy rain on the sidewalks outside the church. Agnes would be soaked. She'd only left five minutes ago.

Collin remained where he sat -- front, left pew. He looked at the altar where he'd conducted mass for what, forty years? No, not quite -- thirty-nine years. It would be forty in November, but this was just August. He'd taken over as chief pastor of St. Patrick's when old Father McCullough had retired in '04. He remembered the day well when he ascended the pulpit to deliver his first homily, his nervous, unsteady feet, his halting delivery. He was so young back then, really just a boy, only twenty-five years old. And called to the priesthood and to this beloved parish with the red velvet carpet along the altar, the Notre Dame buttresses and stained glass windows, the organ's famous pipes echoing trumpets, clarinets, bassoons, and cellos from the narthex to the precept. He loved it as the great soul of his being. It had become as much a part of him as, well, his family.

And what remained of Collin's family? His parents, dead ever so long ago, his sister, Julia, on her own and living in New York with, the dear Lord only knew, the most bohemian of independent women and, Collin could barely say, unmarried females. There were his three younger brothers, gone to Pittsburgh to seek their fortunes, only to die in the steel mills. And Siobhan, the closest of them all, driven from Philadelphia to Washington by the Great Depression. All the money from the Limerick fortune lost when the business crashed back in '30, Siobhan forced to accompany Patrick when after four long years of unemployment had finally secured a position in the Labor Department. Only he remained in Philadelphia -- and Agnes, but they'd counted her for dead back in '33 after she'd married Norman Balmoral and had her poor, God-forsaken baby.

Agnes. His favorite niece. The pain, Collin could feel, still unbearable after all these years. How talented, how smart, how gifted she had been. How creative, and how funny. But the betrayal -- all because she'd left their family for a Protestant. And one stupid enough to get killed in the war. And now Agnes comes to him, after nearly eleven years, wanting forgiveness and understanding. Wanting to know about faith and love. Well, he could forgive her in God's name, but doing it as her uncle, that was an entirely different story.

Collin thought about her children. He remembered little Grace, eleven years old at Norman's funeral, and Harold, seven years old. Grace was the spitting image of Siobhan -- and Harold, a beautiful little boy with the same blue eyes and dark hair as Norman. They were probably smart just like Agnes, funny and witty. He could just see Grace with her head in a book or her hands on the piano, running up and down. He could just see little Harold, cocking his head to the left when he didn't understand who Siobhan was -- that this was his grandmother, just like Mrs. Balmoral was his grandmother. How Collin wished he could meet them.

But could he? He'd promised himself, he'd never see Agnes again. And she hadn't tried to see him, at least not until today. Well, the Church told him, the sinned must first seek forgiveness before they can be forgiven. And so Agnes would have to seek his forgiveness -- but wait, she'd done that. She'd come to the church today, asking him for guidance, asking for his help. Collin's heart twinged. He looked at the altar again, at the benevolent face of Jesus -- and then he knew. Agnes, her little Grace and Harold, they were the only family Collin had remaining in Philadelphia. She'd asked for his help and he'd withheld it. What kind of uncle had he been? And what would his Savior have said?

The rain had stopped. Agnes's house was only six blocks away, just on the other side of Rittenhouse Square. Collin stood, crossed himself and bowed, turned around and walked right out of the church. Mass might take place in forty-five minutes, but he had an even more important job in front of him.