by Joseph Leverette
When I was in college, I had a job driving for the President of a large University. My duties were essentially to drive the prominent President on his business trips out of town, and to escort him to the airport for his flights as needed. The justification of the position was that I was providing security for the highly esteemed academic grand poohbah, but it was really just a convenient job perk for the El Presidente.
A major job duty for a University Chief Executive is fund raising. They have to be good at smooching up to very wealthy people in order to have them agree to donate to the latest fund-raising campaign. The campaign was usually another big concrete building.
My job duties were explained very clearly to me before I started the gig. Drive the car, be on time, don’t get lost, and most importantly, don’t be seen or heard. Those were fairly easy job duties. I knew my lowly role in these excursions, and that suited me just fine. While I waited endlessly in the car for Mr. President to finish his money begging appointments, I had plenty of down time to study for my school classes. I was getting paid to study and do my school work, that was my fringe benefit.
There was ordinary one day that I did unexpectantly get to meet one of the University’s benefactors. It was a dreary day; the morning was bitter cold. The itinerary for the day was printed out with my driving directions. Those paper directions took us to a nice, gated townhome community in the affluent part of the big city. I figured it was just another hob-nob visit as the President brokered more free cash for the great University. We pulled up to the front of the elegant brick home, and I was instructed by the President that he would be done with his meeting in about two hours, and I was to wait. What else would I be doing? Playing a round of golf? But the waiting was no problem, I had a car heater and a fascinating reading assignment on the economics of 19th Century Bulgaria to complete.
President Moneybegger was greeted at the front door by several men and quickly entered the house. I cranked up the heat and flipped to Chapter One, Page One. A few minutes had passed when there was a tap on the car window that startled me. I lowered the window and a distinguished looking gentleman wearing a full-length black cashmere overcoat stood there staring at me. He was bend over, hands on his knees, as he spoke. I listened to his smooth, pleasant voice as he began asking me one question after another. How are you doing? Are you warm enough? What is your name? I figured the man was trying to determine who I was and why I was sitting in a running car in his upscale neighborhood on a below freezing morning. He was sizing me up as to my business in a polite way, I assumed. Then I noticed something particular about this man. He was wearing a Roman clerical collar. The nosy man was a priest.
“Joey, I am Father Donoghue. This is my house and I want you to come in and wait there. You will be much more comfortable,” the priest said.
I appreciated the invitation, but I understood the expectations of my involvement in these house calls very clearly. Drive the car and stay out of sight. I did not want to get in trouble with the P.O.T.U. (President of the University) for crashing or delaying his meeting with these important and prominent supporters. I politely declined the offer to come inside the fine, warm house. But the priest was a persistence priest.
“I see you enjoy reading books. I want to show you the library in the house. It is quite fascinating, and you can browse comfortably in the library while you are waiting.”
I offered my thanks once again, but declined a second time. I told the priest that I was just fine waiting in the car and did not want to be any bother.
“It would be no bother at all. I will have my butler bring you some hot coffee and tea cakes. I insist,” Father Donoghue said as he opened my car door and gestured toward the front door.
Well, I had never had anyone offer me tea cakes before, nor had I ever been in a house that had its own library, and I especially had never known anyone that had a butler. My interest was sparked. There was simply no way to say no to the priest. I relented, and accepted the invitation to wait inside the house.
The inside of the house was impressive. African mahogany planked walls, beautiful Persian rugs, and all types of wonderful works of arts throughout the house. Father Donoghue began to give me a personal tour of the house, and he pointed out the artists and specifics of many of the paintings on the walls. As we walked slowly toward the library, we passed a conference room where my boss – the mighty President of the University – and several other gentlemen appeared to be waiting tolerantly to begin their important meeting. I could only assume they were waiting on Father Donoghue, and I was the source of the delay in their business discussions. I was definitely going to hear an ear full about this later, I was certain.
We finally made it to the stately library. Shelve after shelve of books with antique bindings. We talked further – delaying the meeting longer – and Father Donoghue noted several first edition printings of literature in his collection. Who was this guy and why was he being so friendly, I asked myself? I took a seat in a plush high back leather chair next to a roaring fireplace, and Father Donoghue finally told me, to my relief, that he had to be getting back to the meeting. In parting he said, “Joey, if you need anything during your visit, just please ask anyone and you will be taken care of.”
Wow, I was feeling kind of special. But I felt really extra special a few minutes later when a portly butler, immaculately groomed and dressed in formal black suit, appeared with a silver tray containing coffee and tea cookies. This was all pretty nice. I warmed my feet by the fire and nibbled on lemon tea cookies, all while scanning a first edition copy of Gulliver’s Travels.
The meeting was over in about an hour. Father Donoghue reappeared and escorted me and the University Rector to the car. The priest asked me about the books I found in his library and if my visit was enjoyable. His focus was completely on me. The priest had a magnetic, larger than life type of personality. I was genuinely touched by the hospitality, but was concerned a reprimand would be coming from the high and mighty president very soon. I was sure that he felt I had interjecting myself into the business of the day inappropriately.
I drove the car slowly down the tree lined street, waiting for a rebuke from the President.
“I am sorry that I delayed your meeting. Father Donoghue just wouldn’t take no for an answer and it was difficult to reject his insistence,” I said in defense before the subject was raised by my passenger.
“Don’t worry about it one bit. That is just the Most Reverend’s way,” the President intoned, as if he wasn’t surprised by what had occurred.
“He is a different type of person. In a good way. Who is he anyway? I meant, besides a priest. What does he do for the Church?” I inquired.
“‘He is Archbishop of the Archdiocese here. He is appointed by the Pope.”
“O, okay,” I replied.
I am not Catholic and I really had no idea what the President was talking about, but I got the idea that Father Donoghue was a pretty important guy. We drove back to the college that cold day in silence.
Father Donoghue had a lasting impression upon me. As I thought later about the events of that day, I realized I had learned an important lesson in life. In that situation on that particular day, I was the nobody. I was the lowest man on the pole. No one was waiting to see me to discuss important business. I was just the schmuck that drove the car for the convenience of more important people. That is not what Father Donahue thought. I can imagine this kind man looking out his window on a frigid morning, and seeing me sitting alone in the car. His first thought was about me – the least among them – and he was concerned about my needs and wanted to attend to my well-being. He truly had a servant perspective, even though he was a man deserving of great respect and the greatest among the group that day.
About twenty years later, by chance, I heard on the television news that the former local archbishop, Father Donoghue, had died. While I didn’t really know the man, having only met him once, I was saddened by the news.
It has been nearly thirty years now since my brief encounter with this man, and the impression he made that day remains with me. I try to apply the lesson he taught that day, but will never have a heart as humble as Father Donoghue.
Joseph Leverette is a freelance writer who lives in the humid-swamps of north-central Florida. He is avid kayaker and expert saltwater trout fisherman. When he is not fishing, he spends his free time picking up after, walking, and feeding his two dogs – German and Kiwi.