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Fr. Remy McCoy, my grandfather’s cousin, was my childhood hero. He was a White Father missionary in Ghana, West Africa, and he used to appear at our house in Detroit from time to time throughout my youth, as he made his way through the States making missionary appeals.
Sometimes he brought tapes of masses from his parish: the songs were sung antiphonally between men and women, accompanied solely by handmade percussion instruments. At the Consecration, instead of bells, firecrackers announced the Mystery.
Other times he would tell stories of answered prayers for rain and the resulting thousands (I amnot exaggerating) of people who camped out around his compound after the harvest season in order to hear more about the God who hears prayers from ordinary people.
Fr. McCoy was a man of adventure and a man of Jesus Christ. His example, and I am sure, his prayers, are a large part of what prompted me to respond to the Lord’s invitation to embark on my own great adventure in the priesthood.
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