Something about Harry

I had not seen Harry Rose in 12 years and it was only by the grace of a God-incident I ran into him yesterday.

Let me tell you a little about Harry. I met him in 1995 at a football game. He was an avid supporter of the Bishop Moore Hornets in Orlando even though he never graduated from the school. He attended St. James Cathedral school as a child but never graduated from there either. By today's standards, Harry would most likely be considered a student with some learning challenges. When it came to book learning, Harry struggled — but when it came to his love of God there was, nor is, no one who knows more, loves more, and follows his Lord and Savior more than Harry Rose. His one regret, which he has mentioned to me in the past and yesterday, was getting caught with a “cheat sheet” when he was an altar boy because he could not memorize required Latin words in the 1950s. He has yet to forgive himself for the cheating because it cost him the privilege he treasured more than anything — his right to serve God at the altar during Mass.

Harry and I encountered one another as I was walking out of work yesterday heading across the street to Java Lava with my “three weeks to go” pregnant daughter, Sarah and co-worker, Ann Borowski. I heard someone holler from their car. “I'm looking for the Florida Catholic, where is it and where can I park?” As I glanced over, I honestly thought it was a priest-friend joking around. The person then yelled — “I need to see Marie St. Pierre (Harry always called me Marie) and I don’t know where I can park — Is this the Florida Catholic?” As I looked inside the car, there sat Harry Rose, dressed in his finest shirt and tie, hair combed neatly, and U.S. Navy jacket zipped half way up. He had papers on the seat, a box of tissues next to him and as he looked at me, his pale blue eyes that forever spoke of kindness welcomed me before he yelled out — “I have been looking for you Marie, I have the stigmata from my mother. She gave it to me.”

My first thoughts were of frustration. Harry was never short-winded and now it seemed to me, he was making little sense. I directed Sarah and Ann to head over to our favorite restaurant (I highly recommend the BMT sandwich, if you ever visit the great little café). As Harry began to talk at a fast pace, concerned I'm sure that I would choose physical food over his need to share spiritual food, I adopted the mentality of being present in the moment, knowing God led me here so I directed my hungry companions to go eat and became attentive to Harry Rose.

For about 25 minutes Harry talked and the stigmata story unfolded. He lifted his shirt to show me where he believes the Blessed Mother, not his mother as I first thought, placed the stigmata on his stomach. With tears flowing and with all his belief and honesty, Harry shared how the Blessed Mother came to him in a dream, telling him she was marking him with the stigmata, not for the sake of pain, but for him to share in the last hurtful wound imposed upon her loving Son before he died. If it were anyone but Harry, I would have dismissed them as crazy but he has walked with the Lord so closely his entire life that I was drawn to listen. The remaining conversation had nothing to do with his vision but rather of the people, total strangers, who have approached him asking for prayers. Harry had not come to me seeking publicity in the newspaper, he came to me to ask why and I stood there wondering, why ask me?

At the end of a beautiful and precious conversation, I took Harry's hands in mine and said, “God chose you Harry and you are no different than any of his Apostles as they were of every walk and variety of life you can imagine. God chose you and with your deep faith and humble presence, you are serving him very well. What a great person God has chosen to do his work, you must continue.” Harry sobbed shaking his head. He grabbed some tissues and apologized for his tears.

Before we departed, I hugged Harry, held his hands and together we prayed. Walking away, I thanked God for leading me outside at that moment in time to once again encounter the opportunity to look into those pale blue eyes and recognize that 12-years later, there is still something about Harry. And that something is the presence of one of God's great servants.

God bless you Harry for you blessed me and I still had time to devour that basil, mozzarella and tomato sandwich. Amen!

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