Of Men and Mary Read online

  “Sorry, sir. I don’t see you on the books here.”

  “Oh, that must be a mistake. He’s expecting me, and it’s urgent.”

  The man came running out and upon seeing me, asked, “Do we have an appointment?”

  “Yeah, we have an appointment to meet today.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m here, and I’d like to meet with you. Can we meet?”

  Guilt must have gotten the better of him because he had me follow him into his office, where I nervously sat across from him and his imposing desk. I knew I had one shot, and I aimed high: “Mr. Smith, I’ve been successful at everything I’ve done in my life. What you read in the papers isn’t all true. I promise you that I will be your top salesman. If I’m not in your top ten in the first year, you can fire me. Actually, I’ll quit. You won’t have to fire me. I promise you will never regret hiring me.”

  To my astonishment, he said: “All right, I’m going to make an appointment to give you a personality and aptitude examination, which includes math and communication skills, in order to assess your suitability for this work.”

  It was an eight-hour test. Afterward, he called me in to review the results and told me there was one area of concern, which might preclude him from hiring me: “You don’t like doing detailed work. You’re extremely low in your score here, and with this job, if you aren’t a detail person, you can be sued and get into trouble. I’m not sure I should hire you.”

  Knowing my future and my family’s survival depended on my response, I summoned all my strength: “Mr. Smith. Number one, you don’t want a bookworm and a detail person to do this. You want a person who is going to create business and make things happen. I will do that. And number two, you want a person who knows their weaknesses. I spend one day a week catching up on all the detail work of my life so I’m sure to get it done because I am aware that I don’t like it.”

  Looking up at me, he said, “Okay, you’re hired. You can start when you’re off the crutches.”

  “No,” I responded. “That would be in four months. I need to start now.” He reluctantly agreed.

  “By the way,” I added, “can you pay me a little?”

  “This job is 100 percent commission. I can’t give you enough to support a family.”

  “How much can you loan me?”

  Mr. Smith, the regional manager, offered to loan me $2,500 a month for twelve months, barely enough to keep myself and family alive, supplementing Jennifer’s meager income from working at the restaurant. Pressed against the wall, I had no choice but to succeed.

  In commercial real estate, it takes about a year to generate an income. Without the luxury of being able to learn over a long period of time, I put every moment and ounce of energy allotted to me into becoming a successful commercial real estate broker. I got myself up at four in the morning and drove through town to memorize Sacramento’s commercial real estate properties. With the scant money left for me at the end of each month, I ate only liquor-store peanuts, chips, and Snickers®, and lost a lot of weight. I was working eighteen-hour days, stopping at 10 or 11 p.m. and sleeping four hours a night, all in the hope that I might be able to earn my way back to my family. When I wasn’t working, I was visiting attorneys or sitting in court, in a quagmire of acrimony. In short, I was in hell.

  One day, when I stopped by the family apartment, Jennifer prepared to bolt, like usual, and as she turned her back to me, I said, “You look really unhappy. You just seem like you’re so full of hatred toward me.”

  She spun quickly around and glowered at me with an icy stare. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Then she erupted into tears. For the very first time, I saw my wife’s vulnerability and pain. From within her came a paroxysm of deep, guttural sobs. “You’ve hurt me,” she cried. “You’ve hurt me so badly.”

  Suddenly, Jennifer became a different person in my eyes. Through the crack in her armor, God gave me a grace, and it cut my heart to the quick. For the very first time, I saw her as his little child, as an anguished little girl, and I realized that all my years of selfishness, which I had thought were simply normal living, had hurt her in so many ways. Before then, I had blamed Jennifer entirely for her behavior and wondered, “Why won’t she stand by me, like a good wife should? Why can’t she understand why I’m miserable and grumpy?” I felt like she had abandoned me in the darkest moments of my life. I had been completely blind to my part in her pain. But at that moment, I saw how I had crushed and wounded this little flower, and all I could think of was, “What have I done? What have I done?”

  After that, Jennifer’s hatred for me remained, but a door in my heart had opened, which spurred me to try and help my wife even more. Eventually, money started coming in, not just out. After my first year of working in commercial real estate, there were two people vying for top rookie salesman in the Western region: myself and another man. Mr. Smith, my boss, was ecstatic with my performance. I was able to pay back his loans and had some money left over to put down on a deposit for a house for Jennifer and the kids—an old, cheap, run-down, three-bedroom fixer-upper.

  Eventually, Jennifer allowed me to move back in because she loved her children who were crying out for their dad. My kids were overjoyed, and I received a capricious welcome from my wife who gave me permission to sleep in a different room or on the couch. To keep her from kicking me out again, I feigned a happy countenance, while suppressing deep resentments that had settled in my spirit: grudges against her, the opposing attorneys, the people suing me—the world.

  Finally, an end came to the courtroom visits. In sum, Dad and I had to pay out about $1,500,000 in legal fees to clear our family name. After three years and thirty lawsuits, we never lost a single case; but to defend ourselves, it cost us everything we had. Among the many lawsuits and the lawyers spouting evil accusations and contrived threats, one attorney towered above them. The venom that surged from his mouth was so vicious and dishonest that, at times, I entertained creative ways to knock him off.

  One day, when I was standing in a closing elevator where I worked, a hand reached in to stop the doors. When they re-opened, I was face-to-face with the nefarious attorney. He walked in. The doors closed. My first thought was insane: “Is God allowing me the opportunity to get even with this guy?” I instinctively froze and didn’t say a word, like a cat bristling near its prey. As we ascended to one of the top floors, he turned to look at me and said, “You’re Dave Leatherby,” and he stretched out his hand. I wouldn’t shake it. “I just want to tell you how much respect I have for you and your family. Through all of those trials, you kept your integrity. And those clients whom I represented . . . they were so evil . . . but I just want to let you know how I much I respect you.” While he didn’t own up to his role in the matter, his words nevertheless made him very human. Stunned by his kindness, I reached out my hand to shake his. In that moment, I felt all the enmity I’d reserved specifically for him leave my heart.

  My bad habits didn’t all go away after I’d moved back home. On Friday nights, for instance, I often stopped into a bar downtown to have a few beers before going home. One evening, I noticed an acquaintance of mine, a successful attorney named Sam. He looked like he had been sitting in that bar since it had opened. I’d heard that he had left his wife. Now he was going through a divorce and losing touch with his kids. Carousing and drinking away his days, he was careening along a downward spiral. That day, Sam was flirting with all the women in the bar, and his face appeared sad and drawn. My heart stirred with compassion because I imagined myself just steps away from landing in his shoes. “At least I’m better off than this poor guy,” I thought.

  A couple of months later, when I was sitting by the side of a pool, watching my kids race at a recreational swim meet, a man walked up to me whom I didn’t recognize. He had a celestial glow about him and the most peaceful, content, carefree, joyful look on his face that I’d ever seen. Then it hit me. . . “Sam, is that you? You look wonderful. You look terrific. How are you? Wha
t a change!”

  “I’ve never been better in my entire life.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?”

  “Can I ask you a personal question? Are you Catholic?”

  “Yeah, I’m Catholic. Why?”

  “Well, I took a pilgrimage. I went to this place called Medjugorje. Have you ever heard of Fatima?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “It’s like that, but it’s happening today, right now in our lifetime. The Blessed Virgin Mary is appearing to six young people in Yugoslavia.” Then he began to share with me the conversions and the miracles he had witnessed: “Things are turning gold and the sun spins . . . I saw heaven touching earth and it changed my life.”

  I took a couple steps backward, worried I’d catch his crazy. “That’s nice. I’m very happy for you,” I sputtered and escaped as quickly as I could. Back home, I told my wife, “That poor Sam, he’s lost it. His pendulum has swung from one side of kooky to the other.”

  Yet all week long, I couldn’t stop thinking of the effervescent glow on his face. He looked about twenty years younger than the last time I’d seen him. He couldn’t make that up. As the following Saturday approached, I began to anxiously await the chance to see him again. Once I arrived at the swim meet, I started running around looking for him but only found his son. “Is your dad here?”

  “Oh yeah, he’s right over there.”

  Rushing up to him, I said breathlessly, “Sam, you’ve gotta tell me more about these apparitions, this thing going on in Medjugorje.”

  Sam’s mouth broadened into a contagious grin. Handing me a small pamphlet, he said, “I thought I might run into you today.”

  Sitting myself down on the grass, I devoured that pamphlet. Something long lost was stirring in my heart. It was hope. My mind raced with the question, “What if I had been alive two thousand years ago, and someone approached me to tell me about a man who was working miracles, who might be the Messiah? What would I have done? Would I have been a person to seek him out, to seek out the truth? Or would I have been one to say, ‘Oh, that’s nice. I have no need to find out. I’m fine with my life.’” I hoped I would have immediately gone to seek out Jesus. Within seconds, I knew I had to go to Medjugorje.

  Challenged and inspired, I went home and suggested to my wife, “Let’s take a vacation.”

  “Well,” she retorted, “I don’t want to go to some Communist country. That’s nuts. Let’s go somewhere fun like Hawaii.”

  “But I really want to go to this place.”

  “Fine, just go then.”

  My new prayer of earnest became, “I want to know the truth. Is the Mother of God really appearing in Medjugorje? And what’s more. . . is the Catholic faith true?” Only a week later, in July of 1990, I found myself on an airplane, coping with various fears: “Dear Lord, I’m not trying to worship Mary. Really. I just want to know what’s real. I don’t mean to offend you.” I was afraid not only of the mutterings from my anti-Catholic past, but also the whispers from myself: “If Mary is really appearing from heaven, that means I’m going to be in her presence, and she is goodness through and through. What might I look like in the light of such holiness?”

  My first day in Medjugorje, I could tell immediately that I was in a spiritual oasis. Pilgrims were gathered from all over the world, cradled by an invisible mist of profound peace. Different races and nationalities were praying, singing, and worshipping God together with all their hearts. But after three days in Medjugorje, I grew utterly disappointed. I didn’t just travel halfway around the globe to find peace. I wanted to know the truth—whatever that was. Disconsolate, I went to the evening Rosary in St. James Church on my third night, and as I knelt next to an American pilgrim whom I’d befriended, I looked down and watched the silver chain of my rosary turn from silver to gold in front of my eyes. I was utterly amazed, but then my mind inserted skeptically, “Maybe they make trick rosaries over here, which change color with the heat of your hand or something.” Pushing the rosary toward my neighbor, I asked, “What do you see? What color is this rosary?”

  “Well, it’s black.”

  “No, no, not the beads, the chain.”

  “It’s gold.”

  Even then, I didn’t believe a miracle had happened. “Maybe,” I thought, “these communist countries have ‘radiation leakage,’ like in Chernoble.” The next day, I came across a group of Americans and sidled up next to them to enjoy the sound of my native tongue. They were chatting about a private appointment with the visionary Marija at her home. Sensing my eager ear, one of them turned to me and asked, “Would you like to join us?”

  “Oh, yes! I really would.”

  We walked across fields and in between rows of grapevines and came to stand in front of Marija’s simple home, built of stone and mortar. “It is here,” I thought, “that I’m going to find out the truth. I will scrutinize Marija—the way she’s dressed, the way she speaks—and I’ll be able to tell if she’s a fraud, if she has ulterior motives or is in this for herself.” When she walked out of her front door to greet us, the group of Americans began to take pictures of her, and she bowed her head forward. The interpreter said, “Marija asks that you put your cameras down.”

  “Silly Americans,” I thought to myself. “What are you doing?” Then Marija lifted up her eyes with a look of gentle joy, peace, and love. I felt, at that moment, like she was looking straight into my soul.

  She continued, “You didn’t come here to take my picture. You came here to listen to Our Lady’s words. “It is no accident that you are here. God is calling you, and God is real. . .” Members in the group pulled out their cameras, again, and started taking pictures of her. She put her head down, looking very sad, and waited. When the camera flashes ceased, she looked up at us, and then she shared some of the most profound wisdom I had ever heard—holy words that a saint might impart. Marija genuinely wanted us to hear and to follow Mary’s messages. Clearly our understanding was deeply important to her. Not only was her sincerity manifestly apparent, but she had the same look on her face that Sam, my attorney friend, had: serenity, contentment, joy. “How often do you pray?” someone asked her.

  She answered, “Well, I’ve offered my entire life as a prayer to God.”

  At that moment, I couldn’t take any more honesty and wisdom, so I turned around and walked away. I believed this young woman. Her whole being exuded truth . . . therefore, I had to believe that Mary was actually coming to us from heaven . . . therefore, what Mary was saying was real, and her messages pointed to the truth of the Catholic Church. Confronted with the fact that I hadn’t at all been living my Catholic faith, and thus the life God intended for me, an avalanche of shame, remorse, sorrow, and regret came crashing into my spirit, and I wanted to be alone. I’d grown up priding myself in being the only kid in school who never blubbered, and then the man of the house who never whimpered, and now I was convulsing with tears, as if my body couldn’t vomit out my sins fast enough. Walking into the nearby village cemetery, relieved to find no one there, I fell to the ground, weeping profusely. I sobbed for two straight hours. I cried so hard that I couldn’t stand up. The galling thought kept coming to my mind that if I were to die right then, the world would not be a better place because I had lived. In fact, I’d probably made it worse. “Forgive me, Lord!” I prayed. “If you want me to finally follow you, you will have to help me because I’ve broken every promise I’ve ever made. My every New Year’s resolution has been a debacle . . . every diet lasts one day, so if you want me to be different, you’ll have to change me.”

  On the remaining days of the trip, I walked buoyantly in the Spirit and encountered miracles and many wonderful people. When it came time to return to California, I didn’t want to leave because I felt like I was already home. On the plane ride back, I knew that my life had changed forever for the better. Only one small worry nagged at my joy: “Lord, please don’t make me a religious fanatic.”

  In the days following Medjugorje, I tho
ught I was doing great. Every morning, I woke up filled with joy and peace. I loved my family more than ever, and I wanted nothing more than to pray and to study my faith. The Bible and the lives of the saints replaced my morning routine of the daily Sacramento Gazette. Friday nights, I skipped past the bar and prayed for my friends inside that they might come to know the truth and be filled with joy. God was more real to me than my own right hand, and the sins around me that I hadn’t been able to see suddenly caught my attention and clashed with my spirit. When my kids would play certain movies at home, I’d gasp, “Why the heck are we watching this?” Certain television shows, books, and magazines lying around the home slowly found their way to the door, while the messages of Our Lady slowly found their way in. Mass became part of my daily routine; then I joined a Rosary group; then I started my own Rosary group, never insisting my family join me in anything. Life, for me, became wonderful. I was experiencing great peace and indescribable joy, resting in the assurance that my faith was true and that what I was doing was right.

  In my family’s opinion, I had indeed become a fanatic. To give you the view behind their eyes, I’ll let my son Jeremy, who was twelve at the time, share his perspective. . .

  After Dad went to Medjugorje, he was never the same. Only after he got back did my two sisters and my brother and I find out that he’d been on a pilgrimage, not a business trip. Something happened to him there. Dad became Mr. Catholic Church, and we kids rebelled against it. He smiled way too much.

  My dad is strong and masculine, a real man’s man. He raised my brother and me not to cry (my two sisters could, but not for long). We didn’t fuss as kids because we’d get swatted. I felt intimidated by him, and at the same time, always longed for his embrace and his words of pride and unconditional acceptance. But that wasn’t his way, nor the way of his father before him. Before his trip to Medjugorje, I’d never seen my dad get a misty eye, much less cry. But afterward, whenever someone would speak of Our Lady, I would see tears running down his cheeks. If the priest in the homily at Mass said simply, “And the Blessed Virgin Mary . . .,” we kids, who normally weren’t alert in church, would come to attention, look down the pew, and see Dad wiping his eyes at the sound of Our Lady’s name. So I knew there had to be something special about the Mother of God. . .