My past few columns have had an unintentional theme: notable priests and their service to God. I’ve written about Pope Benedict, Cardinal Pell, Archbishop Cordileone. Now I add one more, certainly of lesser celebrity, but important to me all the same.
Father Rufin Mika passed away Jan. 31, and I have found myself flooded with memories from my teenage years and the early days of my married life.
It must be said that two years ago I was told by more than one source that Father Mika had already passed away. Scott and I, with our six kids, went to Mass on All Souls’ Day, stopped by a local cemetery, and did everything necessary for a plenary indulgence on behalf of Father Mika’s soul.
I smiled up to the heavens, imagining him before the face of God and pleased that we could take some small part in that. I asked him to pray for us in return for the favour.
About a week later I was informed that Father was indeed not dead. I was torn between relief and true regret that my long-time pastor was not yet in heaven! And so, now that I have confirmed for myself his passing, I feel entitled to cash in a rain check for his quick admittance to glory. You’re welcome, Father. Pray for us.
I was a teenager when Father Mika became pastor of Our Lady of the Assumption in Port Coquitlam. My memories of him, though, mostly begin with the start of my pro-life activism. Father Mika suddenly became a constant support and is fixed in my mind as having provided some of the most hilarious and warmest memories of that time.
Father allowed me to make pro-life talks and presentations during Mass. Once he even left to join the congregation while I spoke, and jokingly followed my talk up with, “Well, we don’t need my homily today!”
Father allowed me to write a monthly pro-life column in the bulletin. I perhaps had a zesty tone in my little columns, and it caused a stir more than once. Father would invite me into his office to talk it out, wondering if there was some way to soothe people’s annoyance. He, in humility, would listen to me impatiently insist that there was no way to soothe the horror of abortion, and if people in the pews were resistant, how could we possibly change the world.
Father would listen, and nod, and tap the ashes of his cigarette, and finally, to my great relief, affirm me in my zeal. I can feel him patting my cheek and telling me not to worry. He even defended me from the pulpit! That alone encouraged me to keep fighting. (The columns he allowed me to write eventually found their way into the hands of a certain editor of a certain Catholic newspaper.)
My mom became Father’s secretary, and many mornings after weekday Mass, we would be invited to join Father for coffee in the rectory. I picture him sitting there, like a Polish mob boss, leaning back, legs crossed, cigarette in hand, calling up to my mom and insisting that she turn off the phones to join us for a cup.
It was during one of those morning rectory gatherings I announced my engagement to Scott, which Father fully celebrated, and in the coming years I would announce the coming of little ones. Father would sometimes have a spare $20 bill that he would discreetly pass to me, “for milk, to keep the little ones healthy.”
Father brought Scott into the Church and married us. In a fervent desire that our wedding be perfect he even restarted the bridal procession after the bridesmaids had started down the aisle to get the timing right.
He baptized Andrew and Nicolas, bestowing the gift of grace and eternal salvation as children of God upon them. He taught me a few Polish expressions so that I could write a letter to Pope John Paul II. In his way he was a father-figure to me.
Father lived in Poland during the Second World War and the communist invasion. While others may have scoffed, I was always curious when he noted the obvious signs of communistic socialism growing in Canada. These past few years have proved him a prophet.
I will remember Father, perhaps most importantly, for the day he allowed me to kiss his hands. He had told me of his childhood in Poland when a priest’s hands would be kissed, as they were truly the hands of Christ.
He said this in humility, as a simple truth. It was a gift to be allowed the audacious action of kissing his hands whenever we met. That sign taught me more about the priesthood and the realities of the Mass than I had perhaps ever been taught before.
At the prayers for the dead the night before his funeral, after having laughed to myself many times during the evening as memories came to mind, I cried, and kissed his anointed hands for the last time.
Rest in peace, Father. Pray for me, and please kiss Our Lord’s hands on my behalf.
