I know that the church kills, but I never thought that my father would have been a target. While standing outside the church in Gorizzo, my father recounted the story of the day when he could have been killed on holy ground.
It was August of 1954 and dad was fourteen years old. The town had just finished its celebrations for the feast of the Virgin Mary and my father was asked to take down the flags that were connected to the crosses mounted atop the walls of the entrance gate. Dad climbed the walls and hung on with one hand while he tried to loosen the flags with the other hand. When the knots proved to be too tight to undo he tried to break the string by force. Dad, having the family trait of being much stronger than he looks (and he still looks pretty strong) pulled sharply, snapped the string and tore off the cross and the plaster from the top of the wall as well. In fact, he pulled so sharply that the momentum caused him to fall back, the spikes on the gate catching the front of his shorts and holding him there above the ground as the cross came down piercing his arm and going clean through to the other side of his forearm. Now that’s what I call being touched by the Holy Spirit! The scars on his arm and stomach remain to this day.
Despite the fact that tragedy was averted by mere inches, my mom and I couldn’t help but smile at the recollection. For my mom it was yet another reminder of how tough her man has always been. It was different for me; having been the recipient of much “discipline” at the hands (huge leathery hands) of my father, I’ve never had cause to doubt his strength. My laughter came from the thought of such injuries taking place on sacred soil while trying to help with a religious festival. Not quite irony, but surely a perverse set of circumstances.
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