The sign, "RESERVED FOR MR. C" was one of the things I noticed immediately when I walked into DTC sanctuary for the first time. It was May 1 -- and I was there for a Poverty retreat . What a blessed life I have had since then. The sign, computer printed in all cap block letters on bright yellow paper, was taped to the pew in the back row -- closest to the entrance - and exit.

I wondered about this "Mr. C". Who was he that he got a pew reserved for him in such an overt way? I also thought -- "that's where I would sit if I ever came to this church".

While I sipped my coffee and waited for things to get started, I thought about my mentor and major professor, Jim Moran -- we grad students called him "The Marshall" because he dressed like a 70s cowboy with his Frye boots and package grabbing faded Levis. He always wore a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose his tan forearms, snaps undone to his belly button to expose his hairy chest and the amulet of his totem - the polar bear he wore around his neck. Jim was a dead ringer for Chuck Norris. Once when he and I were at Disney World waiting in line for the Back to the Future ride, a guy came up to him with a pad of paper and asked for his autograph. Anyway - Jim was a brilliant scenic designer -- studied with Howard Bay at Brandeis where he took his MFA. He was a good Irish Catholic boy from north of Boston -- grew up with the Jesuits and went to Holy Cross as an undergrad. He is one of the first guys who told me about how smart priests could be. Jim was very dark and moody. He drove a 1986 Silver Corvette. Now I know what a miserable alcoholic he was -- but at the time, he just seemed "artistic". I drank a lot of Jim Beam with him.

I was thinking of Jim because he used to sit in the back row of the Clarence Brown Theatre during opening night performances and when he checked in for the run -- in the same seat that was marked off for Peter. Jim smoked Newports like a fiend. He liked that seat because he could always slip out to the lobby and smoke one during the act. I started sitting back there with him during the last year of my program. Partly because I had a mad crush and wanted to be near him -- but mostly because I was such a control freak that I'd have a handset dropped out of the control room window directly above so I could make tweaks to the lighting up to the very last minute before surrendering the show after it opened.

When I saw this Mr. C for the first time, I smirked. He was as opposite Jim as anyone could be. Mr. C is a hulking fellow -- north of 300 pounds. Whenever I have seen him, he is wearing an outfit that reminds me of what costumers put adults in to emulate children in plays like "You're a Good Man Charlie Brown". Striped shirt, elastic waist shorts, tube sox pulled up to his mid calf, sneakers, and a maroon windbreaker. It was my first Mass in this chapel. He was sitting in his assigned seat, arms spread out spanning the entire pew, legs sprawled wide, his head lolled on his chest. This Mr. C was obviously what they used to call "retarded".

As I have mentioned, I tend to observe a lot during mass. I was aware of Mr. C sitting behind me -- and could hear his responses. I noticed his head would stay down and he would be disconnected until time to respond to a reading or to say the words that everyone else knew how to say. Then he would come alive, raising his head, looking alert, and reciting the words loudly -- filling the room, clearly audible over the collective voice.
At one point, he stood up, hiked up his pants, and lumbered up to the front of the sanctuary. He sprawled in the front pew -- seemed to be waiting for something. The priest announced the Prayers of the Faithful. This was what Mr. C was waiting for. He blurted out something like "dear Jesus, my best friend and brother, please help me to work the new plumbing fixture for my shower tomorrow. Lord hear our prayers". Whoa! I felt a tingle. Nothing like this has happened in any church I've gone to before. Mr. C stood up and lumbered back to his assigned seat. I thought maybe that his seat was assigned to contain him through the rest of the service.

I love Mr. C. I delight in his childish faith. I go to mass, sometimes just to experience his presence. The was he says "Lord grant us peace" the same way every time -- trilling the word "peace" so it effervesces through the congregation gives me goosebumps of pure joy. Mr. C is always the very first in line to receive the Eucharist. His anticipation in palpable. He sometimes serves as altar boy -- which makes me giggle because he is so gigantic. He is so careful and excited to be helping, that Fr. Bob will sometimes sternly have to s-h-h! him. I have heard Bob say "no talking during mass, Peter! from the pulpit more than once. The bad little girl inside of me adores when this happens. Jesus loved the little children, after all.

As I said. Mr. C and Jim -- from outside appearance -- could not be more different. As much as Mr. C is joyous and faithful, Jim was bitter and tormented.

Jim has been dead for about 15 years now. He was younger than we are now when he went. A year of tortured denial in treatment for lung cancer. He never surrendered. I watched him smoking out of the window of his smoke-free office at the University of Tennessee when I went to visit as a guest artist just a few months before he died. He was ravaged by chemo -- his beautiful body emaciated.....

I am told that The Marshall died on the floor of his rented house in Knoxville -- with two colleagues who were friends in attendance. His mother was on a plane -- summoned by those friends because Jim would never tell her he was sick. His last tortured words were: "This is fucked up."

I still have the little plastic polar bear that Jim gave me. I've kept it carefully for the last 15 years. It is sitting on the window sill in my kitchen. Whenever I notice it I say a little prayer.