A POD Tribute

A Vanceburg Volunteers's Memories of Father PatO'Donnell
By Cathy Bookser-Feister

Anyone who ever knew Pat O'Donnell can talk about him for hours. Get a group of former Vanceburg volunteers together and the stories will begin. Pat O'Donnell-POD, as we called him. He was so BIG! How tall he actually was, I don't know, but I know he stood up straight and wore his clerical black shirt and pants, so he always looked bigger. When he came into a room, everyone knew it. And he was single-minded; you knew his opinions shortly after you began a conversation with him. If he was in the room, you were aware of his presence-of his remarkable talents and energy.

He could take a pencil and paper and make a sketch of anyone or anything he saw, and it was good, too. He could design wooden chairs and church pews that had incredible, simple beauty (and also made you sit up so straight that you would never need a chiropractor). He could catch a fly with his huge thumb and pointer finger, just pinching the fly out of the air. He'd just grab it, no fly swatter needed. He could write a story about the missions in such a way that, when you read it, you just had to open your wallet and send 10 dollars, or, if you were a 20-year-old looking to "Do something beautiful for Jesus," you just had to hop in your car, drive to Vanceburg, and become a volunteer for Holy Redeemer Parish.

At least that's what happened to me and to many other young people in the 60s, 70s and 80s.

He was an idea man, with all his ideas focused on ways to bring more people to God: hymn singing, Bible School, taking food to the hungry. He had great ideas, big ideas, holy ideas, and, oh yeah, you, the volunteers are the ones who are going to help me implement these ideas, whether they're unrealistic or not.

And, gosh darn it, you just had to love him. You knew you loved him, and that's what made him so doggone difficult. You knew that he would lay down his life for a friend, or even for a stranger who walked in the door. You'd seen him with people who had nothing, and you knew he treated them with total respect.

But he made you mad--the rules he set, the stupid restrictive rules! After all, I'm 19 years and I should be able to do what I want. What do you mean, no alcohol allowed in the volunteer house? I'm 21 and I know everything. What do you mean, no "exclusive friendships" among the volunteers?! Who do you think we are? How can you be so old-fashioned, Father? Don't you know it's the 20 th century?

Now, in my mid-forties, after raising teenagers and hearing stories of sexual abuse problems in the church, I see this so differently. Thank you, POD, for protecting us by that restrictiveness.

And alcohol? Gee, the county was dry, the culture was predominantly anti-alcohol, and there were hormonally charged young men and women living in close quarters. Why would anyone add alcohol to that volatile mix? And look at the personalities involved: young people full of fervor, full of energy, and absolutely, without exception, headstrong. (You couldn't get up the nerve to leave your home in Ohio, New York, or Minnesota without the headstrong part.) Headstrong kids butting heads with the man who wrote the definition of the word.

More stories: his incredible voice and musical ability. "Where are you from, Fr. Pat? Inevitably led to a musical answer in his booming, clear voice: "Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana, Gary Indiana...."

He wrote his own service music for the Mass, and arrangement with the same tune for the Holy Holy and the Lamb of God, a kind simple upbeat marching tune that absolutely sticks in your head forever. We sang it every morning at 7 a.m. Mass, when we were half-asleep, when we were happy, when we were in love, when we were tired and when we just wanted to go home to the city. "Holy, holy, holy Lo-ord, God o-of might and power...." We mocked that music behind his back, singing it as if it were calliope music in a circus. But I'll tell you what, I'll never forget it. The stuffy liturgists who write some of the service music that I see in the missallettes today could learn something from the singability of this tune. It expressed God's power, majesty, and simplicity all at once, and every note of it was in the middle of everybody's singing range - perfect for full congregational participation.

And participate we did--in church, in the life of the parish, and in the lives of the holy people of Lewis County. We got closer to God. We saw the have-nots of the world. We explored cultures different from what we were raised in.   And we changed. We all changed in ways that we never could have without having had the opportunities that Pat O'Donnell gave us. He took the risks, and he helped build up Christian leaders that would long outlive his mortal life.