This is a free post made possible by paid subscribers.
Writing is my profession and calling. If you find value in my work, please consider becoming a subscriber to support it.
Already subscribed but want to lend additional patronage? Prefer not to subscribe, but want to offer one-time support? You can leave a tip to keep this project going by clicking the link of your choice: (Venmo/Paypal/Stripe)
Thank you for reading, and for your support!
When I finally arrive in Chicago from Michigan, it’s dark, and the rain comes in waves.
Sometimes it drizzles, and sometimes it pours. The traffic seems oddly heavy for a Saturday night.
The skyline looks like something out of a cyberpunk film. A dense cluster of dark skyscrapers lit from within, their top floors buried in fog. The city lights glow against the underbelly of thick clouds, recalling the opening line from Gibson’s Neuromancer:
“The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”
I’m getting in late to where I’m spending the night after dinner, staying with a priest I only know through Facebook messages, so I’m grabbing food on the way in. I’ve never spent any time in Chi-town other than just quickly passing through, so I don’t know much about the food scene, or the best places to eat.
But I do know this is a city famous for deep dish pizza — my favorite kind — and that’s been on my mind since at least the Indiana state line.
From Michigan to Chi-Town:
Per usual, I can’t just eat and travel like I used to, because gluten. Fortunately, I found a place called Lou Malnati’s that has a deep dish pie I can actually eat. To say I’m excited is a bit of an understatement.
I place my order while I’m still on the road, but I arrive a bit early for the scheduled pickup time. I’m happy to find parking with no trouble. Chicago is a big city, but it’s very clearly not New York. I don’t think I’ve ever found parking in Manhattan.
I make my way over to the building and go inside. I give them my name. The order is definitely not ready.
I grab a Pepsi Zero from the cooler. I hit the restroom. I look around. I pace. I look at my phone.
“Expecting heavy rain soon in Chicago” it says, in the little widget at the top of my screen.
And then, all of a sudden, it starts to pour.
By the time my pie comes out, a crowd has gathered by the doors. Nobody wants to go outside. It’s absolutely dumping. I have mixed feelings about my willingness to get my clothes wet, but what I’m really worried about are my shoes.
I have one pear of sneakers that I’ve been wearing pretty much everywhere, and if they get soaked, I have no good backup, and no idea how long it will be before they dry.
So I wait. Five minutes. Ten minutes. I’m wondering how long the pizza in my hand is going to stay hot. The rain isn’t letting up, and as I look through the glass door, I see the accumulated water growing deeper, running across the parking lot in a torrent. I imagine my shoes splashing into that fast-moving stream, the mesh offering no resistance to the moisture that will soak straight through.
I keep waiting.
Suddenly, the rain lets up. Not all the way, but about 60%.
“I think that’s as good as it’s going to get,” I announce to the gathered crowd, and I push the door open and go. I make it about three steps before my right foot drags just a little, kicking a wave up on top of my right foot. I feel it seep in immediately, and swear inwardly, but there’s no point stopping now. I make it to the car and dive inside. My feet ping my brain with a status report: could be worse, but it’s not great.
Nothing to be done about it now.
I shift the car into reverse, then pull forward out of the parking lot. As I do, the rain comes to an almost complete stop, and I’m hit with the irony of the fact that if I’d waited just one more minute….but no, it doesn’t matter.
Don’t dwell on it, I tell myself. Just go.
The parish where I’m staying is about a mile away. I never got a name for the church, just an address, and the instruction to head towards the four-car garage at the north end of the parking lot.
But the compass in my car is broken. It always and only ever points North. I didn’t realize it until I started heading West towards Ohio from Buffalo, and noticed it didn’t budge. I feel like there’s a metaphor in that somewhere, but I’m not in the mood to parse it out.
It’s dark, and cloudy, and I have no idea which way I’m going. There are garages around the periphery of this parking lot. There are, in fact, multiple parking lots. I’m not even sure I’m in the right one. I pull out my phone and fire up the compass app, then head in that direction. I text the priest who is hosting me, and he tells me he’s on his way out. It occurs to me that I don’t even know what he looks like. Under the security lights, I see a thin man in clerics walk outside and wave, then point a garage door opener and push the button. One of the bays opens up, and I pull inside.
Father Michael — not his real name, but I’ve agreed to keep his identity out of this — greets me and shows me around. The rectory is enormous, spanning several floors and multiple dark, slightly creepy hallways.
He takes me to a large industrial kitchen and grabs me a chair so I can eat my pizza. It turns out it’s still hot, which is a bonus. As I eat, we talk, getting to know each other a little bit better now that we’ve met in person. The crust is crispy and buttery. The sausage is amazing. I’m trying to figure out how to focus on the conversation when I have something like this to shove into my face.
I am outside my comfort zone by a significant margin. I don’t like meeting new people. I don’t like cobbling together these first, potentially awkward conversations. But I have remembered, over the course of this trip, that I’m actually really good at this. It just makes me feel uneasy. I’m tired of this discomfort holding me back. I’m determined to be personable and unselfconscious. Well, as much as someone like me can ever be.
After two slices, I’m more or less done. I could eat more, but I’m satisfied for now. We head back outside and grab my stuff from the car, and after hauling it up three flights of stairs, Father Michael shows me to my room. Well, not just a single room. It’s a suite — a bedroom, a bathroom, an office, and a living room. It’s a fantastic setup, and more than I could have hoped for. Once that’s done, we go on a tour of the property that will last another couple of hours.
The parish — originally called Notre Dame de Chicago — was built in the late 1800s, and is one of the oldest in the diocese. It started out as a church for French immigrants, but as their population waned, it was later given to the Fathers of the Blessed Sacrament in 1918. I get a private tour, and the interior is beautiful. That said, it’s certainly showing its age.
Father Michael was only transferred here this past summer, and he wasn’t given any kind of heads up about the situation he was heading into. The list of deferred maintenance items he relays to me is long, and the cost is overwhelming. He has a surprisingly good sense of humor, considering all this, and the fact that the parish is operating on a significant monthly deficit. This could perhaps be fixed over time through growing the congregation and the collection, but it’s an inner city parish that seats 400 people and only has enough parking for about a tenth of that.
Within his canonical parish — a geographic territory that most modern Catholics have never even heard of — is another historic church, a Jesuit school, and five major hospitals. The stories he tells me about the messes he’s uncovering are enough to make me feel stressed out, and it’s not even my responsibility. After a long discussion, we wrap things up, and I head to bed.
But not to sleep. As has become my habit these days, these are the loneliest hours, and I feel compelled to distract myself from them. I scroll on my phone, watching funny videos until I can no longer keep my eyes open.
In the morning, I decide to try heading to Sunday Mass again. I hadn’t planned on it the night before, but something tells me I should go. I shower and dress and head over to the church. The only access from within the rectory is through the sacristy, but Mass has already started, so I walk outside through the rain and go in the main entrance.
I’m late, and when I arrive, it’s in the middle of the homily. A very animated deacon is giving an impassioned sermon. There’s a moment, when he’s talking about coming closer to Christ, when he says — I kid you not — “Have coffee with him.”
OK, I think. Message received.
The skeptic in my brain reminds me that this could just be coincidence, but I’d rather it not be, so I don’t pay him much attention.
I notice that while the church isn’t packed, it’s not exactly a sparse crowd either. And more interestingly, they’re also on the younger side. The gray haired demographic (which I suppose I’m now technically included in) is not the majority.
After Mass, I drive into the city looking for coffee and a gluten free donut. I find both. Like most large cities, Chicago has an excellent food scene.
In the afternoon, I return to redeem a promise of tacos. There’s an event hosted by the Mexican community in the parish basement, with food and a raffle, and Father and I head downstairs. Sadly, almost all the food is sold out. I grab a bowl of menudo and a plate of rice, and we sit down at a table to talk. A man comes by and offers me a magnet with an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe. He asks if I’m familiar with her.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve been to the basilica in Mexico city multiple times.”
He’s surprised by my answer, but also pleased. The magnet is a nice gesture, and I gratefully accept. Father asks me if I’m up for going on a tour of some of Chicago’s most beautiful churches. I tell him that it sounds like a great idea, and before long, we’re out of the basement and on the road.
The rain has finally cleared up, and I see the first sunny skies since I’ve arrived. We spend the next four hours or so going from one church to the next. It’s kind of a whirlwind tour, but I’m perfectly fine with that. More than anything, I’m impressed at the amount of beauty that still remains in this diocese. I know Chicago is an old city with deep Catholic roots, but still, I’ve never lived anywhere with so many examples of excellent sacred architecture.
I’m surprised to see that in three of the churches we visit, Eucharistic adoration is taking place. Knowing what I do about this diocese and its cardinal archbishop, it’s not something I expect to see.
Father went to seminary at Mundelein, and he’s quite clearly proud of it. He regales me with history and context. We talk about how bad things were at the seminary in the 70s and 80s, and how much better things are now. He takes me all over campus, but as we reach the denouement of the tour — the library — we are disappointed to find out it’s closed.
“I really wanted to see your reaction!” he tells me. He assures me it’s an incredibly impressive place.
We round out our tour with a stop at one Father’s local favorite taverns, where we have burgers and beer and catch the tail end of the Giants/Broncos game.
The Giants are up by 19 points when we arrive. Six in-game minutes later, they lose by one point.
I find myself wishing I’d seen the first three quarters instead.
After a couple more stops, we go back to the rectory, and talk about life and the reasons for my trip over bourbon until after 1AM. It’s a great conversation and a a solid end to a great day, but we’re both tired, so we say goodnight and each head off to our rooms for some much-needed sleep.
I have every intention of spending the next day writing, but as it turns out, there are other adventures in store.
More on that in the next installment.
If you liked this essay, please consider subscribing—or send a tip (Venmo/Paypal/Stripe) to support this and future pieces like it.
Given the reason for this road trip, I feel kind of guilty that I am getting so much enjoyment out of reading these installments. But I am. Praying for you and your family, and looking forward to hearing about your next adventure.
I know pizza. That’s NOT pizza. That’s a casserole.