I haven’t seen him in thirty years, however he was a big part of my life for twenty-five years. Revered George Goudreau died nearly seven years ago.
He was the parish priest where I grew up for eleven of my years there and then for fourteen years in the parish where I raised my children. Did we know each other well? Better probably than the average of such relationships. After all, he heard my confessions for a quarter of a century! Of course, I never heard his confessions.
My opinion of Father Goudreau was formed as one forms their opinion of a book on the shelf—by the cover, first and foremost. Then as time allows, one opens the book and reads a paragraph here and there.
Always meticulously dressed in black, this priest appeared to hobnob with the upper echelon in his parish. His parish and rectory were run efficiently and were always in better than good repair. I often wondered if he had not missed his calling.
He took a rather seedy, rat-infested, broken down old home and turned it into something worthy of a glossy-pages spread in Down East. Every nook and corner was perfectly decorated, every seating lovely and perfectly comfortable, every glass gleaming and with every surface dust-free.
His people skills? He knew how to empty the pocket of his parishioners when needed. He organized the best Catechism classes around, probably had one of the highest conversion rates under his tutelage of those interested in the Roman Catholic religion. He had a heart of gold for those in need.
However, he was a bit reserved with folks in general and was not a ‘touchy-feely’ man. I never saw a smiling child run to him with their arms open. He appeared more comfortable with adults, but last night…
Last night Father Goudrean visited with me in my dream-state. He was relaxed and open. No more of the reserved priest. Children flocked around him. He and the children were dressed with beautiful smiles, one and all.
He walked hand in hand with children. He sat on a rock and the children gathered in around him, sat on him, stood between his legs. It was as if it was a whole ‘Sunday School’ in a perfect garden with him teaching and enjoying the ‘perfect-love’ with the children (of God.)
Though I was not part of the circle there, he and I did communicate. I don’t remember exactly what was said between us, but I feel we talked about his mission with the children and his joy in his mission.
I am happy for him…for the children…and for me. Reserved or not, he was one of my oldest friends and I am happy to see him in the light.
