Following Philomena: Incident 6

In the last part of the story, you may have noticed that while quite ironic, instances four and five happened as a result of our mentioning Philomena first. For example, the name didn’t fall from the sky on a piece of paper at random (until one day it did; more on that later). Both individuals mentioned, both our friend Dale and Father Dave, reassured us about Philomena after we had already brought it up. So how would we know if Philomena was really supposed to be Philomena, or if my overly active imagination was running away with this story?

So far, Philomena had made herself known to us five times. I had heard of her at Mass, saw her on a page of first grade illustrations, found her on a maternity t-shirt, and had spoken of her with two different friends. And yet, I doubted. Truthfully, my own doubt exhausted me. But what if it’s not a girl? What if that’s not what her name should be? If it were not a girl, why would all of these Philomena incidents continue to occur? The questions lingered on and on, with no answer to be found.

Until one Sunday. My husband attends monthly meetings at a Franciscan Friary about an hour away from our home. He’s been doing this for a few years, and over time, I’ve attended meetings with him. I’ve attended regularly enough to get to know some of the secular Franciscans, and my personal favorite is a woman by the name of Dorothy. The first time I saw Dorothy enter a room, I thought she was perhaps Barbie stuck inside of a sixty-something-year-old’s body. Dorothy wore stilettos, a pencil skirt and matching blazer, and a tiny little hair accessory in her long, pin-straight blonde hair. I was amazed. Until I saw Dorothy again. Same style, different color, different day. Simply put, the woman looked great. We made small talk some times, and I got to know a bit more about her. She waited until after we’d met a few times to drop this bomb: SHE HAS SIXTEEN CHILDREN. I’m the first to be annoyed by all capital letters, but I really feel here that this point needs to be emphasized. SIXTEEN! I asked some questions, many of which she assured me she has been asked precisely one thousand times. This woman glowed. She spoke with a calm confidence, as if nothing she was saying was absolutely absurd.

We got to know Dorothy better. In fact, she attended our wedding (and tore up the dance floor, I might add). Shortly thereafter, I told Dorothy I was pregnant. She was, of course, elated for our little family, but truthfully I felt as though my news was a bit lame. After all, it was my first pregnancy, not my ninth or eleventh or SIXTEENTH. I talked for only a few minutes, about pregnancy symptoms and how far along I was. I spoke in a very general sense, and Philomena was far from my mind. I told her that yes I felt great and yes we were excited and… Dorothy interrupted me.

“Yes? Excuse me?” Dorothy took my hand.

“Sarah. Ever since you started telling me about your pregnancy, I have been feeling like God wants me to tell you about my fourteenth child.”

The statement stopped me abruptly, and truthfully, I found it incredibly strange. Why would this woman tell me about her fourteenth child? Why not her first child? This is my first go at this, after all. Maybe she hasn’t heard anything I’m saying. Maybe she thinks I…

“My fourteenth child. Her name is Philomena.”

As the blood rushed from my face, I had to ask Dorothy to please excuse me while I took a seat.