On Leaving Home -by M. Bradley McCauley

Leaving Home
M. Bradley McCauley

Published in Catholic Digest Magazine – 1973

As I wandered through the rain-spattered streets of my hometown, my eyes filled with tears. We were moving to Germany and it would be years before I returned, perhaps never. The tears mingled with the raindrops on my cheeks as I recalled incidents of the years I’d spent here. I was fifteen, an emotional age and still in high school. My father was assigned overseas for three years and I was desolate at the thought of leaving home and friends.

It was Sunday afternoon on a chilling March day, and the gray clouds matched my mood. The raindrops were like the tears I tried to hold back as I walked along the quiet, almost empty streets staring at the melting patches of snow. I paused and watched a crumpled cigarette pack floating toward its destination and thought of how I would soon be carried on the choppy waters of the ocean.

I thought of my mother, standing before the open steamer trunk deciding what to pack, and I wanted to scream at her because she and my father were causing me to hurt so deeply. Instead, I grabbed my coat and rushed from the house, wanting to be alone to find some way of facing what I knew could not change.

The tears began to sting my cheeks. I brushed them aside, thrust my hands into my coat pockets, and stared at the park on the corner. The sounds of childhood rang in my memory. I could almost hear my squeals of delight as I was pushed higher and higher on the swings, the sounds of laughter as I’d chased squirrels, which darted quickly up the trees and chattered down at me from the safety of the sturdy branches. The squirrels were gone on that afternoon and so were the squeals and laughter.

My eyes moved to the water fountain and I remembered my delight the first time I was able to get a drink without anyone lifting me up. Near the fountain was a bench and I could almost see myself and Leo as we sat there only a few months earlier, huddled together on a quiet autumn evening with the leaves drifting down. We were falling in love and he had asked me to wear his class ring. I was happier than I had ever been, or ever thought I would be.

I turned from the park and its memories -- away from the leaves which had been cruelly rotted and covered by the icy menace of winter. I forced myself not to think of the preceding months of joy and happiness. I knew in my heart our love would last beyond the separation and not disappear like the autumn leaves--no menace could destroy something so beautiful.

I ached for an answer -- some way to face what was to be. Even today, after all these years, I still remember the hurt. Even as I write this, I can still feel the tears burning my eyes and stinging my cheeks -- the lump in my throat.

Vaguely I heard the townhouse clock strike four. I knew I should start for home, but I continued to walk until I found myself standing in front of the church I had attended all my life. The huge carved wooden doors stood beckoning beneath the gray concrete slabs topped by tall spirals.

I hurried up the steps and entered into the warmth and flickering glow of the votive candles. It was empty after the busy morning and peacefully quiet. I walked slowly up the main aisle, slipped into a pew, knelt and stared ahead seeing nothing through my uninhibited tears. I could hold back the sobs no longer and laid my head on my folded arms giving into my despair.

Finally, when there were no sobs left, I raised my head and wiped my tears staring at the altar ahead. The church was blurred but slowly the crucifix above the altar took shape and I saw the outstretched arms, the bloodstained hands, and the pain-filled face.

My mind began to retrace those agonizing days leading up to the crucifixion. I thought of His cry in the garden as He prayed for strength to face what had to be, what He could not change. His acceptance of a future that held pain and death made me feel ashamed of my lack of acceptance.

I drew a deep breath, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and felt a surge of relief difficult to explain. I was sorry, not just for what He had endured but sorry that I was so weak and full of self-pity. I lowered my head and prayed for strength and guidance.

As I left the church, I turned before opening the doors and looked at His face and whispered, “thank you,” for I knew I had found the help I needed.

Twenty years have passed since that Sunday afternoon. As an Army wife, I have seen many moves. It has never been easy to say goodbye to close friends or leave a house filled with memories. 

As we drive away, I look back, see a rose bush we planted, remember one of my children learning to ride a bike or climb a tree and my eyes fill with tears. I think of the good friends and the wonderful times, then I remember that walk and I brush away the tears, tell the children of the adventures ahead, and whisper, “thank you.”

Written and published in 1973.