I can hardly believe it’s been 20 years since I was ordained a priest. Where does the time go? I still feel like I’m the 30-year-old man who was ordained at St. Camillus Church in Silver Spring, Md., in 1989. On the other hand, my body sometimes gently reminds me that I am not 30 years old anymore.

Having lived the last 20 years of my life as a priest, I realize that I am a very rich man. I’m not talking about a Warren Buffet, $37 billion kind of rich. I’m talking about a kind of wealth that even millions or billions of dollars could never buy.

Recently, I responded to an emergency call that was made to Our Lady of Victory in Centerville. The woman on the phone explained that her husband was dying, and she requested that a priest come to the home to anoint him with the sacrament of the sick.

I must admit that often my first reaction when I’m asked to anoint someone is usually not, “Great. I can’t wait to get over there.” Usually, I feel a sense of apprehension and anxiety about entering the situation. No one really “enjoys” being around serious illness and heart-wrenching sadness. Yet, these experiences are often very beautiful and powerful.

I arrived at the house about 15 minutes after receiving the message, and I was greeted by the woman who had called. Her husband was lying in bed, conscious, but obviously weak. Their daughter also joined us, and our conversation was relaxed and natural. I felt at home with the family, and they seemed at home with me. But even “feeling at home” doesn’t explain how I ended up telling the story that spontaneously came out of me within a matter of minutes.

Suddenly, I found myself telling the dying man a story about the time I was stopped by the police on the Massachusetts Turnpike as I went through Chicopee. I had been caught speeding. The speed limit had changed from 65 to 55 on that part of the turnpike, and I had neglected to make the necessary adjustment and slow my car down. So I was issued a speeding ticket.

When I finished telling the story, I remarked to the man, “This is my confession to you. Will you absolve me?” The irony and the humor of a priest confessing something to someone who was dying was not lost on any of us. We all chuckled, including the dying man. Then we all prayed together. I had brought holy Communion with me so that the man and his family could be comforted and strengthened by receiving the presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. They were grateful to receive this precious gift.

We also celebrated the sacrament of the anointing of the sick. I anointed the man on his forehead and on the palms of his hands with the oil that had been blessed by Bishop George W. Coleman at the Chrism Mass. In the midst of our shared prayer, I felt a sense of peace and calm among us. It seems that the love of God, in all of its beauty and splendor, was very powerfully present with us in Word (Scripture), in sacrament, and in our attention to one another during this encounter.

Before I left the house, the family expressed their sincere and heartfelt gratitude for my visit. It had obviously meant a great deal to them. But it had also meant a lot to me. From my perspective, I had shared the presence of Christ with a faith-filled family. But I had also experienced the Lord’s loving presence through them. We had shared stories, we had prayed together, and by being a little playful, I had made a dying man laugh one more time. I am not kidding when I tell you: That made my day.

A few days later, much to my surprise, I actually received a thank-you card from the man who was dying. He told me he was deeply grateful for my visit, and that he missed worshiping with us in the parish community. His wife told me that he really wanted to get that card out to me. It was so important to him. It made my day again. The man who chuckled at my highway confession and at my playful request for absolution died about a week after my visit. 

I was able to visit him one more time before he died, but by the time of my second visit, he was no longer able to communicate verbally. I have since shed a few tears for this man and his family, and said a lot of prayers for them, too. I am grateful that my life was enriched because our paths intersected, if only for a short time.

This is what I mean when I say that in my life as a priest I am very rich. Money can’t buy an experience like the one I just described. Money can’t buy experiences with others that are beautiful, powerful, meaningful, touching, sacred or truly life-giving. Yet, in my life as a priest, these kinds of experiences are possible on any given day. You just have to give yourself to them.

I am happy to say that I am a very rich man. Filthy rich, in fact. But my wealth has little to do with money, and lots to do with the only three things that really last: faith, hope and love.

Father Kelleher was ordained a Benedictine priest in 1989 and is parochial vicar at Our Lady of Victory Parish in Centerville.