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Unlikely Ways Home

Real Life Spiritual Detours

Author(s): Edward L. Beck

ISBN13: 0385508581

ISBN10: 9780385508582

Publisher: Doubleday (July 20, 2004)

Extent: 304 pages

Binding: Hardcover

Size: 14.5 x 2.3 x 21.6 cm

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  • An engaging collection of twelve real-life stories that illuminate the ways God is present in everyday life.


    Edward L. Beck’s first book, God Underneath, was hailed as “a graceful and gracious work of self-revelation and spiritual wisdom” by the Los Angeles Times, and a review in the Dallas Morning Newsdeclared, “Edward Beck is a heck of a writer, and his gem of a book is not to be missed . . . you will not be able to put this book down.” In Unlikely Ways Home, Beck once again uses anecdotes and observations from his work as a Catholic priest to reveal the spiritual dimensions of ordinary life.


    The stories in Unlikely Ways Home encompass a wide range of topics, from the 9/11 attacks to such ongoing issues and concerns as addiction, adultery, and sexuality. Beck shares the poignant reflections of a man who lost his fireman son in the attack on the World Trade Center and describes, with refreshing honesty and compassion, the efforts of a gay couple to find a place for themselves within the Catholic Church. Written in a friendly, conversational style, Unlikely Ways Home is a moving, spiritually inspiring book that will appeal to both Catholic audiences and the general reader.

  • Edward L. Beck

    Edward L. Beck, C.P., is a Roman Catholic priest of the Passionist Community. In addition to giving retreats and workshops on spirituality nationally and internationally, Father Beck writes and develops mainstream television and film projects and is a commentator on religious and fatih issues for various media outlets. He lives in New York City.

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    Edward Beck s book, unlike much of contemporary Catholic spiritual writing, is not about abstract theory but about the concrete lives of real people with real problems, the kind of people you meet in the rectory office, the classroom, or the counseling center. It is hoped Father Beck tells more stories like these.

     - Andrew Greeley, New York Times bestselling author


    Father Beck has not only written eloquent stories about faith, but life. And the journeys that carry us on so many varied paths toward hope.

     - Diane Sawyer, ABC News

  • Chapter One: Leaky Roofs

    He was the kind of guy that she usually avoided; she was the kind of girl he always fell for. Bill was standing by the window of his dorm room as Madeline was hurrying across the university quadrangle. Something moved inside him.

    "The sun was hitting those red curls in just the right way, like a fiery frame on a perfect picture." His infatuation is visible even today, thirty-seven years later, as he recalls that moment in the quadrangle, remembering how the overflow of her glowing hair rested gently on the upturned collar of her peacoat.

    "She looked off-the-boat Irish," he says, "with a small upturned nose and skin the color of milk. I said to my roommate, Brian, 'Hey, who's she?' "

    Bill says that Brian jumped up from the bed. "Oh, yeah," he said from the window, somewhat disappointed. "I've seen her before. Cute, huh? I think her name is Margaret, or something like that. I saw her with some girlfriends at the two-for-one last week at Mickey's. She seemed to hang out with her friends most of the night."

    Bill ran out the door and down the two flights to catch up with Madeline, who was racing to a political science class that had begun ten minutes earlier. "Hi, how are you?" said Bill, breathless behind her.

    Madeline turned to see a guy she recognized from around campus. She remembered watching him and his friends throw some freshman into a university pond outside the science building. A few times she had noticed him towing his bulky lacrosse gear to practice. He wasn't her type. She liked bookish guys, ones who used words that sent others to the dictionary and who wore cardigan sweaters worn thin at the elbows.

    "Hi," she said, and turned around and kept walking.

    "Um . . . I'm Bill. Bill Fagan. I don't think we've met before, but I'd love to change that." Bill now stood in front, blocking her way.

    Madeline rolled her eyes, unimpressed by the unoriginal line. She had come from a small New England town outside of Boston and was used to more passive men, ones like her father and brother, who preferred discussing the relevance of Thoreau in the computer age to chatting up chicks. The men Madeline knew moved through life with a hint of repression. The man standing in front of her didn't seem to be that kind of man. But she was now seeing Bill close-up for the first time.

    "He had those turquoise eyes," she says, "with long black lashes that seemed to tickle his eyebrows. He was pretty startling, I have to admit." He wore an oversized sweatshirt with a large "A" on the front. It hung loosely on his well-built frame, the hood forming a high collar around his handsome, slightly pockmarked face. "It's funny, though," says Madeline. "What I remember most is that he smelled of baby oil."

    They were in their second year at a prestigious Catholic university in the South. Bill was the product of New England prep schools, but lacked the highbrow intellectual air of many of his classmates. Madeline had heard stories of the escapades of Bill and his frat buddies. Rumor had it that they rallied weekly in their dorm to show the Southern boys how beer was really supposed to be drunk. Hardly something that would impress Madeline.

    "Look, I'm really late for class," Madeline said, "and I don't get most of what this professor talks about anyway, so I really have to run."

    Bill says he knew he was getting the brush-off, but refused to take the hint. "Okay, sure, but how about tonight or tomorrow? I could just stop by to say hello."

    And that's just what he did--for the next two years--a lot of hellos, and too many good-byes. Bill and Madeline became smitten lovers: studying economics and the required theology courses together; eating the bad cafeteria food at a private corner table; taking long hikes in the ambling hills surrounding the university; and falling asleep together in each other's dorm room long after curfew.

    Bill learned that Madeline was a part-time reporter at her hometown local paper during summers. He liked the pride she took in her small town--one, she was quick to point out, that tourists traipsed through each fall to marvel at the renowned rainbow foliage.

    She told Bill she once broke a story about a textile mill that she discovered was pouring gallons of industrial toxins into the pristine waters of a river that ran through the center of town. Simultaneously, a medical student doing research had revealed occurrences of unusual cancers in town children. The Boston Globe picked up the story from the wire and put it on their front page, making Madeline somewhat of a local celebrity. Bill could see that she was a woman drawn to a noble cause.

    And Madeline began to see that Bill wasn't as vacuous as at first she had assumed. One winter afternoon she spotted him in the university chapel kneeling in the first pew with his head bowed, and it wasn't even Sunday. She wondered how often he did that, and what he was praying about. He looked peaceful and childlike. Two days later she was surprised to hear him say that he usually avoided the weekly drinking soirees in his dorm, fearful they could threaten future job interviews in the real world.

    "I'd always leave before it got too crazy," Bill says now. "I was intent on being successful and rich and was pretty damn sure, even back then, how I was going to do it."

    Madeline admired his mature discretion in not allowing college pranks to ruin an ambitious life plan. Maybe she could learn to love a man like this.

    Turns out, she did. Six weeks after graduating from college, Bill and Madeline married in a traditional Catholic church wedding just outside of Boston with Bill's roommate, Brian, as best man and Madeline's sister, Carey, as maid of honor. The newlyweds said, "I do," before witnesses and God, and they meant it forever.

    Many times I have heard them tell the story of their meeting. Sometimes the details change--a few are added, others left out--but passion is always evident (in the telling). It is as if that magical moment lives again for them, as it seems to for rapt listeners. Perhaps the headiness of that passion helps to make up for some of the heartache that followed later.


    Although I first met them long after they had married, I felt connected to them from the beginning. They introduced themselves to me outside of church after a Sunday Mass at which I had presided, and they invited me to go sailing with them that afternoon on their thirty-five-foot schooner, named Waterview. Before the sun had set that day, beyond the choppy blue waters, they had shared with me much of the sacred story of their life together.


    Soon after the wedding they moved into a small farmhouse in the western hills of New Jersey. They describe it as a "handyman's special," an erroneous choice since Bill could barely negotiate a hammer.

    "It was so funny," says Madeline, "because he didn't even know the difference between a Phillips and a regular screwdriver, and here we were in this dilapidated shack that needed a lot more than a screwdriver. For the first six weeks, when it rained, we hung buckets from the ceiling with rope to catch the water dripping in. One bucket was right over our bed and after a bad night storm, we woke up to water streaming from the sides of the bucket onto the lace duvet cover that my grandmother had given us."

    "Never mind the lace duvet cover," says Bill. "How about streaming onto us. We didn't sleep the rest of the night because the bed was so wet. And when I had to get up to pee, I slipped on the floor and fell right on my ass. I was black and blue for weeks." They laugh.

    When Bill and Madeline speak of those initial years, they hint that the early struggles somehow strengthened their marriage. "They helped produce that indissoluble bond you hear so much about," says Madeline. "Kind of like the way gold gets tested in fire. And that leaky roof became a kind of metaphor for our marriage. We fixed it together. I just didn't realize that we'd have to keep on fixing it."


    It was a long commute to work for Bill, who had gotten a job as an assistant to a well-known investment banker in a popular New York brokerage firm. Not able to pass up employment with a firm many of his classmates coveted, he commuted four hours, round-trip, while Madeline stayed home and wrote freelance articles for local newspapers and writing journals. She became pregnant six months after they were married.

    "I had so looked forward to having a child, though we hadn't planned on it quite that soon," says Madeline. "But we couldn't have been happier. Maybe a little concerned that we weren't too stable financially. Both our families said they would help us though, so I said some prayers and trusted that God would see us through."

    A boy was born just as the new roof was being completed. Two more children followed in consecutive years, another boy, then a girl, and then a miscarriage. They always said they had four children. Madeline wrote less and got involved with her children's school, substitute teaching there when necessary, while Bill worked his way up in the firm more quickly than any associate had in its seventy-five-year history. And he came home later and later.

    "I gave up trying to keep meals warm for him," says Madeline. "And most nights I gave up hope that he'd be there to keep me warm either. I started to feel so lonely, and . . . angry, I guess. And then I'd feel guilty because I knew how hard he was working to make our life what it had become. But I started to hate what it had become. It wasn't only his working later and never being around. It was that even when he was home, he wasn't really here, mentally. 

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Unlikely Ways Home