My first novel was inspired by my friend, Monsignor James Costigan, a wise and witty Irish priest with a twinkle in his eye. When "The Blessing of the Celtic Curse" hit the shelves, I couldn’t resist gifting him a copy. I was eager to find out if he would enjoy a tale about his beloved Ireland spun by a Southern gal like me. The following week, I received my answer.
My husband, John, and I were craving seafood, so one day at lunch, we popped into a delicious restaurant by the name of Erica Davis on Victory Drive. It was drizzling outside, so we were shown to the last available table inside—the place was packed. As we walked to our spot, I heard my name yelled across the restaurant.
“Leigh Ebberwein?”
I stopped to find the voice and focussed on the culprit—Monsignor Costigan, wearing his collar and black dress slacks. My stomach clenched. Was he mad at something I wrote about Ireland? Wondering if I should walk over to his table, I stood like a deer in headlights.
“Leigh Ebberwein? You kept me up all night last night!”
My face went hot. The patrons around me watched the scene, ping-ponging from me to him. He loved it. He had the whole room’s attention. Then he continued.
“You kept me up all night reading your book. It was wonderful!”
I literally started crying. Happiness and relief rushed over me. I blew him a kiss as he turned back to the friends at his table, but John and I laughed through our whole meal.
That was the person Monsignor was. He encouraged, loved, and laughed. You might have noticed that I’m speaking in the past tense, and that’s because my dear friend went home to meet his maker last year. I assume Saint Peter needed a good laugh from a mischievous little Irishman. But one thing I know for certain is that he sure is missed by all of us he left behind. Rest In Peace, my dear friend. And thank you for helping me find my voice.
Comentários