(re)Build it, and they will come.
Up and running again, our favorite writers are coming back to the playground. Here is an entry into our contest Wingnuts by one of our favorite people on the planet, Peggy Dobbs.
I was certain her favorite writer was me…Alas, it’s Morris West.
Morris Langlo West AO (26 April 1916 – 9 October 1999) was an Australian novelist and playwright, best known for his novels The Devil’s Advocate (1959), The Shoes of the Fisherman (1963) and The Clowns of God (1981). His books were published in 27 languages and sold more than 60 million copies worldwide. Each new book he wrote after he became an established writer sold more than one million copies.
West’s works were often focused on international politics and the role of the Roman Catholic Church in international affairs. One of his most famous works, The Shoes of the Fisherman (1963), described the election and career of a Slav as Pope, 15 years before the historic election of Karol Wojtyła as Pope John Paul II. The sequel, The Clowns of God, described a successor Pope, who resigned the papacy to live in seclusion, just as Pope Benedict XVI did in 2013.
Here is Peggy Dobbs entry. Welcome back!
“Just because I left the priesthood before taking my final vows doesn’t mean that you should.”
Miserable with uncertainty, I stared at Morris West with awe. I wasn’t a drinker but I picked up the glass he shoved into my hand and hesitated before downing what he assured me would calm my nerves as we waited on his, “Mate”, from seminary.
Reaching out my hand in supplication, I begged, “ Stay! How am I going to recognize him if you go before he gets here?”
Leaning closer, Morris teased. “He will be dressed like a priest. Listen… when I left seminary, he remained. ‘It was his profession to prepare other men for death, it shocked him to be so unready for his own.’ What I failed to tell you is that this advocate is dying but he is amazingly at peace with God, spending what time he has left helping confused seekers like yourself.”
Speechless, I watched Morris drain his glass and with a sailor’s jaunty salute he headed for the door. “That publisher in Rome want wait forever, my friend”, and he was gone.
Unaware, I mumbled aloud, “If this ‘Mate’ doesn’t show up, I suppose I’ll just have to wing it.” Searching the raucous bar for a sober face, suddenly a warm hand touched my shoulder.
Looking up into a gaunt face with a smile created by Love itself, he said, “I think I am the Wingman you are looking for.”