UNITED STATES
National Catholic Reporter

Gerald Kleba | Jul. 8, 2013

VIEWPOINT

I was wearing walking shorts and a sports shirt, so when the hospice nurse arrived at the house, I had to introduce myself: “I’m Gerry Kleba, the family priest.” I’m not much into clericalism, so I don’t use the title “Father.” Within minutes, the mother of the family slipped away peacefully, as her children and I prayed, cried, talked, even laughed. I’d known the family for 40 years. The older children — in their teens then — had typed the parish bulletin on stencils, mimeographed and folded them on Saturday mornings at the rectory.

I had barely left the house, started my Prius and driven to the corner when I started to feel not only very sad, but very, very angry.

I turned off the radio to examine my emotions as I drove through the old neighborhood…