Where Faith and Love Meet Together

Where Faith and Love Meet Together



There is a certain steadfast hominess to the older neighborhoods of Pittsburgh.  With heavily boughed trees and root cracked sidewalks, one can imagine generations of families living, laughing, loving and dying in the labyrinthine streets of those shade covered enclaves.  Shadyside nudges up against the bosom of East Liberty; Squirrel Hill spills down onto the boulevards of Oakland.  Museums and monuments, Monet's and monoliths.  Honor and reputation to both uphold and bear. 



My father tells the story of how, when he was a boy running to school through that same labyrinth, each and every day he passed three red headed girls in uniforms, waiting to catch the street car. The two older sisters could have been twins; they were lithe and lean, their light strawberry blonde curls softly tossed as they turned their heads, fetchingly, to see if any boys were noticing them.  They gave my father not a glance, as he was young and small and not to be considered.  Their worlds completely separated by education and faith.  His was a lenient Methodist upbringing, theirs a stingingly sharp and devout Catholicism.  This was no small boundary, as faithfulness to propagate through procreation was instilled into young Catholic school girls at the earliest opportunity.

The third sister stood a bit apart.  Distanced from the closeness of the other two by not only age but several brothers at home, her hair was a riot of copper, dark and shimmery.  No brush could tame that mane, and it looked as if her mother,  already overwhelmed by the needs and concerns of ten other children, had given up.  The little one was paying no mind to her nearly-of-the- age -to -flirt sisters, her eyes were intent upon a small brown squirrel who was slowly making his way down the side of the tree nearest to the corner.  She dug her little round hand into a brown bag and drew out a ragged crust of bread... and tossed it toward the tree.



Where faith and love meet, this is the intersection where new families can begin.  Though they would never meet in childhood or high school, it was when my father joined the ranks of young white collared workers at Associates Savings and Loans in East Liberty he spotted a lovely little redhead, dressed demurely but smartly in a soft green wool sweater set, her riot of copper curls brushed smoothly this time, and reflecting the bright sunlight coming in the front office window. 

My father stopped in his tracks.  Memory stirred, but would not come. But the familiarity of the face, the upturned nose, dark lashes framing china blue eyes.  And oh, my, those freckles.  His heart stirred with a longing he had not felt in a good while. Little did he realize, that his heart was reaching, reaching back to a more innocent, and happy time, before his world ended, at the age of fourteen.

The day his mother walked out of his life and the life of his father forever.

Now, more than a decade later, he reached.  He grabbed the arm of his friend who has pushing past to get into the building.

'Stop, stop...Sal...do you see her?'  Jim asked in a hushed voice.  Almost reverent.

'Do I see who?"  Sal was still pushing Jim further through black enamel and glass doors, their dun colored raincoats swishing as they brushed each other.  When Sal observed Jim standing, stock still and staring, Sal, stopped as well and looked in the direction of his friends captivated attention.

"Yeah.....she's a cutie-pie, '  he agreed, 'I never knew you had a thing for redheads...'

Jim had never once, in his life, dated a red head nor been attracted to one.  Not till this very day and this very moment.  Not till this particular redhead had shown up to work.  Now, there were no other thoughts or plans or faces in his thoughts.  Only this face.  Only this girl.

'Sal' my father said quietly, "do you see that girl?  I am going to marry her.'



And 12 months to the week later, Jim, no longer a lenient Methodist, but a newly minted Roman Catholic stood on the laid marble floorstones  one of the city's oldest and  most stoic Catholic churches filled with families and friends, co-workers and well-wishers, and promised God and my mother that it would be she and no one else for as long as they both shall live.  And in the shady avenues of those neighborhoods, another family was born.  At the intersection of faith and love.