A Crazy Phone Call

Bless the Child really began, I think, several years before I wrote the book, when a friend called me from a hospital to tell me she was near death… she said she wasn’t afraid to die but was terrified that she was possessed by a demon!  Gotta say, I didn’t see that coming!

 

She said no one at the hospital believed her and she was afraid of losing her immortal soul.

 

I didn’t have a clue if she was under the influence of meds, hallucinating, or mad as a hatter, but I’d been raised an Irish Catholic and thought such a call for help shouldn’t go unanswered.

 

What in the World?

I ran to the hospital to see her and was horrified by her physical condition – the doctor said she’d be dead in a week – and almost equally so by the fact that she seemed quite rational in describing the entity that was harming her, and utterly terrified of what seemed so real to her.

 

I spoke to her doctor who was young, callous and too busy to be caring.  He said it was a hallucination caused by her meds, which I figured it well might be… but his attitude was so arrogant and cold-hearted it really ticked me off.

 

She was obviously desperate and suffering, yet this doctor didn’t seem to give a hoot, while I thought anybody with half a heart would have tried to help her in some way, if only by taking her seriously enough to give her comfort.

 

 Exorcists aren’t just in movies.  Who knew?

 

I called the Archdiocese and found, to my Catholic astonishment that they had a resident exorcist. Father turned out to be a kindly and compassionate man who was on his way out of the country the following morning, but would speak with me before leaving.  He said it was entirely possible my friend was telling the truth but several steps must be taken to ascertain what, if anything, was really going on.  He said I could help by following his instructions to the letter.

 

Father outlined my tasks, I took notes while my mind was still reeling from the fact that he was taking this seriously!

Find an Exorcist!

He said my first task was to find a priest who would help  determine if there really was a spiritual problem going on here … most such investigations, he said, turn up drug-induced or mental illness.

Then he outlined the kind of priest we’d need:

• one who believes that God exists and that the devil does, too.
• one who believes in the true difference between Good and Evil
• one who joined the church to save souls, not to be a political strategist.

A tall order, I thought, as I embarked on this seemingly bizarre mission, but Father sounded rational and very compassionate.  He also seemed to be a true believer, so I decided to do exactly as he asked.

A Saintly Priest is Found

I didn’t know any such priest as he’d described, but I believed my sister knew such a wonderful man.  She’d told me of a priest who  delivered the sacraments to the homeless.

 

Father had also instructed me to call three Carmelite Convents because “no exorcist worth his salt would go up against a demon without the Carmelites at his back.”  He’d given  me telephone numbers, in case I’d need them.  I was pretty sure I’d fallen down the rabbit hole but was utterly wowed by the compassionate kindness of the nuns I spoke to at the convents!

 

When I found the tall,  Middle Eastern beanpole of a priest and asked his help for my friend, he said he would take on the task I’d outlined but I must come with him to the hospital to participate in whatever was needed. He also told me to go to confession before returning to the sickroom where my friend lay.

 

He asked if I’d had any blessed article with me when I’d visited the hospital and I remembered the blessed rosary I always carried in my purse.  He seemed greatly relieved by that, and said we were surely dealing with Harassment or Oppression, not real Possession, as no demon would ever have let me enter the sickroom with such an object on my person!

 

I went to the hospital administrator to make sure no one would interrupt us while the priest made his evaluation of the situation.  To my grateful surprise, not only was he sympathetic to the story I’d told him, but immediately got on board and offered the services of the hospital chaplain to help!  He added  it wouldn’t be the first exorcism ever  performed in that hospital.

 

Let’s just say that even though it turned out my friend was Harassed, rather than Possessed, it was still an amazingly holy ritual to participate in and  an equally amazing outcome to witness.  This experience led me to explore the entire phenomenon of Possession, and eventually helped me garner the knowledge I needed for the story of Bless the Child.

 

Happy Ending

 

And yes, my friend made it out of the hospital and believed with all her heart that she had been saved in both body and soul by the prayers that were said for her there.

 

To say this experience was  extraordinary  would be putting it mildly.  Even though it took me several years before I tackled writing Bless the Child, I never forgot the emotions of the experience and the kindness of those who were so willing to help a soul in distress.

 

But that isn’t quite the end of the story.  Several months after delivering my manuscript to the publisher, I met a Jain monk who was considered a Saint by his millions of followers, who told me writing Bless the Child was a task my soul had agreed to before incarnating this time (see

I Meet a Bona Fide Saint in New Jersey).

 

So who knows what precipitates the creation of a story?  What if imagination isn’t all of it and some stories have a mind of their own or a cosmic purpose that needs to be written down?  To tell you the truth, the whole process of writing novels feels a bit magical to me.

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