went to see the Dominican Fathers read the Holy Office in a New York City priory. The fathers seemed bored, inattentive, and one of them swatted a fly. Pete, disgusted with the Dominicans, looked around for what he thought was the strictest, most rigorous of the active orders, and settled on the Capuchin Franciscans.”3
It is very probable that Pete Groeschel gave at least some real thought to joining the Order of Preachers, if for no other reason than the one already stated: he had a warm relationship with the Dominican Sisters of Caldwell and was very impressed by them. Marjule once commented that her brother and the superior of that community, Mother Dolorita, were alike in some ways and got along well. Surely those sisters would not have hesitated to suggest their own order to a boy who was considering the priesthood and religious life, especially a boy who showed as much promise as Pete Groeschel did.
Whether the Dominican Fathers’ lack of attention at prayer (or the fact that one of them swatted a fly during it) was the deciding factor in sending Pete into the arms of the Capuchins seems a bit difficult to believe, but is impossible to know. What is possible to know, however, is that Pete’s interest in the Capuchins predated both his senior year in high school, as well as that disappointing visit to a Dominican priory. It is also possible to know that a profound desire to serve the poor lay at the heart of his religious vocation from a very early age. So it is not altogether unexpected that the Capuchins, rather than the Dominicans or any other order, would have appealed to him as he contemplated his future.
By the age of sixteen it seems clear that Pete was already focusing on the Capuchins—even though he had never met or even seen one. In fact, by that point it is likely he was becoming rather determined to cast his lot with them, as the following piece, which was one of the last things he ever wrote, shows.
The Tale As Father Told It
As I work on this little memoir, I discover some odd and interesting things. One of them is that I am able to summon up memories of events and people I haven’t thought about in many years with almost startling clarity. That’s surprising to me, because the recollection of this morning’s breakfast is vague, indeed; and, let me tell you, last night’s dinner has long ago been consigned to the realm of total oblivion. Memories from the distant past, however, seem to be like snapshots in an old, dust-covered album that I haven’t opened in ages. I expect the pictures in it to be dim, faded, and perhaps even unrecognizable. But as soon as I open the book, the past becomes present once again in all its vivid colors and details. Such things remind me of how very wrong we are to think of the past as being over and done with. It is really something that we carry with us at every moment, as an ever-present companion along the way—as an intimate part of us. It is the lens through which we view and make sense of the present. Too often we take memory for granted, as if it were an old file cabinet sitting in the corner of the room. But we should not. I find I forget many things these days, and I won’t say that’s not frightening. At the age of eighty I see that old file cabinet as a treasure, as one of God’s most wonderful gifts to us, and I take pleasure—real delight—in exploring it while I’m still able.
I once attended a memorial service for a non-Catholic friend. Sadly, the man who delivered the eulogy did not believe in life after death in any way. Yet he spoke of “the resurrecting gift of memory.” This is a startling way to put it, so startling that I recall that phrase and nothing else from the eulogy. I have come to understand that those few words contain real truth and real beauty, and perhaps even some unwitting theological insight. I make much use of God’s “resurrecting gift of memory” these days. This little book allows me to do so; it has given me the opportunity to make many moments in my past present to me once again, to make them so real I can almost touch them.
Today an image from the past has leapt into my mind with unexpected vibrancy, as sharp and clear as if it were an actual photograph. It is of my father and me when I was nearly seventeen. In this remembered snapshot I am wearing my best clothes—the same ones that I wear to Mass on Sunday—and my father is wearing a suit as well. His hat is in his hand. We are standing in front of the friary at Mount Carmel Church in Orange, New Jersey. I remember—I can almost see—that my hair is especially carefully combed. That image makes me smile a little, for it sparks another recollection, one of me earlier that day trying to look as serious and mature as possible. As part of my effort to achieve this goal I labored very diligently to get my cowlicks under strict control (anyone who knows me can attest that God has completely spared me this problem in recent decades).
As I think of myself on that day I can almost see or even feel my own eagerness and nervous anticipation, for my father and I had come to this church and this friary for a very important reason. I was to meet a Capuchin friar for the first time, and I was to discuss with him the possibility of my entering his order. As I remember myself standing in front of that friary, I know I thought I looked calm and in control. But even from this great distance I can see that was not the case at all.
The end of high school was in sight, and to my sixteen-year-old mind, that meant that the time for decisions could no longer be postponed. The moment to commit to a course of action had come. So I had searched out the Capuchin church closest to my home and made an appointment. I was growing more and more eager for this next step, and I desperately wanted it to be toward the Capuchins. If you had asked me as I stood waiting in front of that friary why I wanted this, I probably would have given you some sort of reasonably coherent answer. I’m sure I would have told you that I wanted to be of service to the poor, which was the type of work at which the Capuchins excelled.
I probably would have spoken about Padre Pio, the great Capuchin stigmatic, who had become well-known in the Catholic world after the war. He was a charismatic figure to me back then. In fact he seemed larger than life, an almost medieval saint who stood in bold defiance of many of the ideas of the secular world. But if truth be told, I didn’t really know why. It was just a vague but persistent feeling, a yearning. Yet, after all these years, I still know that it was exactly the right thing for me to do. I have no doubt that it was the step God wanted me to take; it was the direction in which He had been gently prodding me for years.
Many thoughts flow through my mind as I remember that long, empty moment before the door opened and my father and I walked into the friary. I have to admit that I recall being aware that my father was disappointed—albeit very mildly so. Although he never said anything to indicate that fact or even to hint at it, I was aware that becoming a follower of St. Francis is not exactly what he would have chosen for me if he could have done the choosing. He actually had his sights set on the Jesuits for his son. Like so many people back then, he greatly admired them. He spoke of the Jesuits in glowing tones, telling me of their greatness, their intellectual acumen, their uniqueness among the orders of the Church, their devotion to the pope. And I have to admit I was impressed by the Society of Jesus.
Several times I even gave serious thought to following my father’s advice. Yet, even though I wanted to please him and make him proud of me, I simply could not do it. I really did admire the Jesuits, and over the years I have been blessed with wonderful Jesuit friends, such as Fr. John Hardon and Avery Cardinal Dulles. But I did not feel drawn toward the Jesuits when I was sixteen nor did I at any other point in my life. The Capuchins, on the other hand, were like some unseen star that exerted a powerful gravitational pull on me. I believed that it was simply my destiny to enter their orbit. I don’t know why, but I did. I know my father accepted that, and I am still grateful to him for his wisdom and love for me, for it took both of those things for him to let me take the path that I believed God had chosen for me.
The door finally opened, and there he was: the first Capuchin I had ever seen. He greeted us warmly but rather formally. That didn’t matter because I barely heard his words. I was far too busy taking inventory of his beard and his habit, the cord around his waist and his rosary. In fact, I think I was trying to commit them to memory. He looked just like the pictures I had seen in books and Catholic magazines, and for some odd reason this pleased me immensely. I guess I thought it proved that we had found the Real McCoy. Maybe I thought it meant I was off to a brilliant start. As we entered, I was struck by the simplicity of the friary. It seemed to me to show very clearly that those who lived in it had no great love for worldly things, no attachment to luxury. On the way home that day I learned that what I saw