Saying Goodbye - Father Scott Harter
School's out for the summer.
The GICC staff, having completed reports and shoved pesky textbooks aside, repairs to the relaxed atmosphere of Whitey's to eat, drink and make merry.
School chaplain Father Scott Harter sits across from us at a long table and trades laughing barbs with my husband John. Meandering around us is an elderly woman, not quite steady on her feet, who pauses at our table.
"What's all this?" she scans our group of jubilant teachers.
"This," Father Scott explains kindly, "is the Central Catholic faculty celebrating the last day of school."
But she's not listening. In her mild state of inebriation, she suddenly becomes transfixed by Father Scott's hair and begins to stroke it.
"Yeah, we're all having dinner together," he continues with unfailing politeness as the woman twines her fingers through his curls. I assume she's an overly-friendly parishioner until Scott glances painfully across the table at John and me.
"I don't know this person," he says aloud. Oblivious, the woman murmurs dreamily and massages his head.
Is there a diplomatic way to extricate him from her grasp, I wonder? But I abandon the idea and sit back. This is a gift, pure and simple. I want to see what happens.
Finally, her husband comes to collect her and ushers his tipsy wife out the door. Freed at last, Father Scott laughs ruefully. "Yep," he shrugs, "this is my life."
I can hardly blame the old woman. Wherever he is - at school, church, or even Whitey's Sports Bar - people are drawn to Scott Harter. It's not just his demented humor or energy or the joyous life he brings to any gathering . It's that in a sea of faces, his is the face that says yes: Yes, I'll help. Yes, I'll drop everything. Yes, I'll listen - even if you're drunk and touch my hair and embarrass me in front of my friends.
When he arrives at Central Catholic four years ago as a newly ordained young assistant pastor and school chaplain, I inform my husband that I will never confess my sins to a mere youngster. He's barely older than our sons, I scoff - hardly past puberty.
He makes jokes at school Masses that border on the irreverent. Just as the Good Shepherd searched for the lost lamb, he explains, so does Jesus search for us.
"And what did the Good Shepherd do when he found the little lamb?" he questions our students. "He beat it. He beat it severely."
One day at school Mass, he orders the students to say aloud with him the names of the three persons in the Holy Trinity. "First the Father, then the Son," he carefully intones, "and finally Harold Hankleton."
He announces at Mass that his sister has recently given birth. He pleads with her to name his newly born niece Celine Dion. "Or Celine DIJON if you prefer something more unique," he attempts to sway his sister.
Toward the end of one particularly long school convocation, a teacher consistently mispronounces the names of two of our students - twins Ryan and David Pilsl. "Pizzle", she says. Father Scott, sitting with us at the back of the gym, grins wickedly and holds up his phone to share the definition of pizzle.
"Pizzle," it says. "the penis of an animal, especially a bull."
In the blink of an eye, an entire row of teachers is snorting and giggling like the middle school children we struggle to control.
This is, perhaps, why my husband and I love him. It's why everybody loves him. He's naughty, he's lovable, and he's very, very good.
Aside from the jokes and the lively banter, his message to our kids is always that Jesus loves them to distraction, wants the very, very best for them, and can't wait for them to know Him.
"If Jesus is just like Father Scott," a senior boy confides, "I guess I'll be all right."
At GICC, Father Scott attends school concerts, sporting events, hears Confessions, is the master at "Simon Says", and plays his banjo in outlandish fashion at Christmas. He builds relationships and impresses upon our kids that Jesus also wants relationships with them. Somehow he makes it seem very simple.
Only last Christmas, the 60 some members of my family and I squeeze into St. Mary's Cathedral to listen intently to Father Scott's homily. Jesus, he tells us, is from the line of David - a notorious bunch of violent men, murderers and adulterers. I am mesmerized. Did I not know this? That Jesus' family was even more dysfunctional than mine? And yet, Father Scott preaches at that Christmas Eve service, Jesus was never afraid to enter dark corners.
Filled with joy, I marvel at his message - that Jesus would choose to come from a completely messed up family. Just like everybody.There's hope for all of us.
"One day you'll give these homilies on a national stage," I tell Father Scott, "and be famous and rich."
"I hope so," he nods solemnly, "because I've only ever wanted to be rich."
He jokes, but his homilies give everyone, including our kids at Central Catholic, nourishment that stirs even young hearts and minds. Not long ago, he tells the story of his college-aged self.
"I was lonely," he tells our students, "and was pretty sure the only answer was a girlfriend."
Never did he imagine, he recalls, that God would have something so much better for him - an answer to his loneliness with a vocation that fulfilled his deepest longings. We should never fall into the trap, he cautions, of thinking we know better than God does about what's best for us. The kids listen, I notice. It's because he speaks as one of them. But we adults listen, too.
Deep down, I know we won't keep him much longer. He's too gifted. He's too everything. Already he's ministered to St. Mary's and our school for four glorious years. How did we manage to keep him this long? So it's devastating but not at all surprising when he announces at Mass that he'll be transferred to Ord this coming July.
Kids cry, teachers cry, parents cry. It's easy to see Father Scott Harter has shed some tears of his own.
John and I stop him in the hallway after Mass. He looks like a 12-year-old boy in that moment, and I hug him close. But my sarcastic husband is merciless.
"What's this?" he jokes. "Is this the same priest who reminded us never to think we know better than God? What happened to that guy?"
Father Scott laughs. "This is the way I'll always think of you - so nurturing."
But later, I see the grief in my husband's face. "We need to make trips to Ord once in a while," he tells me. "It's only an hour away, and I always want that kid to be in our lives."
I try to be happy for Ord and the future parishes who will be pastored by Father Scott Harter. But right now I hate them. I hate them all. He belongs to us, dammit. This is where he started his ministry, by God, and it's where he should finish.
It strikes me this goodbye is not much different from the way I grieved when our boys left for college. That's what Scott Harter is to all of us - not just our wild-haired chaplain. But a son, a brother, a friend. He'll be a rock star in Ord. And everywhere else. He'll save souls, create joyous laughter, play his banjo, and shine like a mega-watt light bulb. Parishioners will take him to their hearts and love him mightily.
But they should never forget we loved him first.
And best.
And always.
 |
| Father Scott Harter, GICC chaplain |
School chaplain Father Scott Harter sits across from us at a long table and trades laughing barbs with my husband John. Meandering around us is an elderly woman, not quite steady on her feet, who pauses at our table.
"What's all this?" she scans our group of jubilant teachers.
"This," Father Scott explains kindly, "is the Central Catholic faculty celebrating the last day of school."
But she's not listening. In her mild state of inebriation, she suddenly becomes transfixed by Father Scott's hair and begins to stroke it.
"Yeah, we're all having dinner together," he continues with unfailing politeness as the woman twines her fingers through his curls. I assume she's an overly-friendly parishioner until Scott glances painfully across the table at John and me.
"I don't know this person," he says aloud. Oblivious, the woman murmurs dreamily and massages his head.
Is there a diplomatic way to extricate him from her grasp, I wonder? But I abandon the idea and sit back. This is a gift, pure and simple. I want to see what happens.
Finally, her husband comes to collect her and ushers his tipsy wife out the door. Freed at last, Father Scott laughs ruefully. "Yep," he shrugs, "this is my life."
I can hardly blame the old woman. Wherever he is - at school, church, or even Whitey's Sports Bar - people are drawn to Scott Harter. It's not just his demented humor or energy or the joyous life he brings to any gathering . It's that in a sea of faces, his is the face that says yes: Yes, I'll help. Yes, I'll drop everything. Yes, I'll listen - even if you're drunk and touch my hair and embarrass me in front of my friends.
When he arrives at Central Catholic four years ago as a newly ordained young assistant pastor and school chaplain, I inform my husband that I will never confess my sins to a mere youngster. He's barely older than our sons, I scoff - hardly past puberty.
 |
| Senior Miles Rerucha and Father Scott |
"And what did the Good Shepherd do when he found the little lamb?" he questions our students. "He beat it. He beat it severely."
One day at school Mass, he orders the students to say aloud with him the names of the three persons in the Holy Trinity. "First the Father, then the Son," he carefully intones, "and finally Harold Hankleton."
He announces at Mass that his sister has recently given birth. He pleads with her to name his newly born niece Celine Dion. "Or Celine DIJON if you prefer something more unique," he attempts to sway his sister.
Toward the end of one particularly long school convocation, a teacher consistently mispronounces the names of two of our students - twins Ryan and David Pilsl. "Pizzle", she says. Father Scott, sitting with us at the back of the gym, grins wickedly and holds up his phone to share the definition of pizzle.
"Pizzle," it says. "the penis of an animal, especially a bull."
In the blink of an eye, an entire row of teachers is snorting and giggling like the middle school children we struggle to control.
This is, perhaps, why my husband and I love him. It's why everybody loves him. He's naughty, he's lovable, and he's very, very good.
Aside from the jokes and the lively banter, his message to our kids is always that Jesus loves them to distraction, wants the very, very best for them, and can't wait for them to know Him.
"If Jesus is just like Father Scott," a senior boy confides, "I guess I'll be all right."
At GICC, Father Scott attends school concerts, sporting events, hears Confessions, is the master at "Simon Says", and plays his banjo in outlandish fashion at Christmas. He builds relationships and impresses upon our kids that Jesus also wants relationships with them. Somehow he makes it seem very simple.
Only last Christmas, the 60 some members of my family and I squeeze into St. Mary's Cathedral to listen intently to Father Scott's homily. Jesus, he tells us, is from the line of David - a notorious bunch of violent men, murderers and adulterers. I am mesmerized. Did I not know this? That Jesus' family was even more dysfunctional than mine? And yet, Father Scott preaches at that Christmas Eve service, Jesus was never afraid to enter dark corners.
Filled with joy, I marvel at his message - that Jesus would choose to come from a completely messed up family. Just like everybody.There's hope for all of us.
"One day you'll give these homilies on a national stage," I tell Father Scott, "and be famous and rich."
"I hope so," he nods solemnly, "because I've only ever wanted to be rich."
He jokes, but his homilies give everyone, including our kids at Central Catholic, nourishment that stirs even young hearts and minds. Not long ago, he tells the story of his college-aged self.
"I was lonely," he tells our students, "and was pretty sure the only answer was a girlfriend."
Never did he imagine, he recalls, that God would have something so much better for him - an answer to his loneliness with a vocation that fulfilled his deepest longings. We should never fall into the trap, he cautions, of thinking we know better than God does about what's best for us. The kids listen, I notice. It's because he speaks as one of them. But we adults listen, too.
Deep down, I know we won't keep him much longer. He's too gifted. He's too everything. Already he's ministered to St. Mary's and our school for four glorious years. How did we manage to keep him this long? So it's devastating but not at all surprising when he announces at Mass that he'll be transferred to Ord this coming July.
Kids cry, teachers cry, parents cry. It's easy to see Father Scott Harter has shed some tears of his own.
John and I stop him in the hallway after Mass. He looks like a 12-year-old boy in that moment, and I hug him close. But my sarcastic husband is merciless.
"What's this?" he jokes. "Is this the same priest who reminded us never to think we know better than God? What happened to that guy?"
Father Scott laughs. "This is the way I'll always think of you - so nurturing."
But later, I see the grief in my husband's face. "We need to make trips to Ord once in a while," he tells me. "It's only an hour away, and I always want that kid to be in our lives."
 |
| Father Scott with Kam Willman. (Grand Island Independent) |
It strikes me this goodbye is not much different from the way I grieved when our boys left for college. That's what Scott Harter is to all of us - not just our wild-haired chaplain. But a son, a brother, a friend. He'll be a rock star in Ord. And everywhere else. He'll save souls, create joyous laughter, play his banjo, and shine like a mega-watt light bulb. Parishioners will take him to their hearts and love him mightily.
But they should never forget we loved him first.
And best.
And always.
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