tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-668302614039424658.post7983376187863985380..comments2024-03-24T20:59:22.275-04:00Comments on Marash Girl: MIRACLE ON EDINBOROUGH STREETMarash Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17039340567144001321noreply@blogger.comBlogger3125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-668302614039424658.post-14236958470497903012011-02-06T09:28:20.012-05:002011-02-06T09:28:20.012-05:00@PetersonThank you, Peterson. Your telling of the...@<a href="#c4865673182417490913" rel="nofollow">Peterson</a>Thank you, Peterson. Your telling of the story has much depth and compassion.Marash Girlhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17039340567144001321noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-668302614039424658.post-48656731824174909132011-02-02T16:19:30.246-05:002011-02-02T16:19:30.246-05:00My version, lifted from the eulogy I wrote for our...My version, lifted from the eulogy I wrote for our dad.<br /><br />“When you are a Catholic, miracles happen.” This was the evangelism for Roman Catholicism that daddy would hear often enough from Johnny Flynn, a close friend, and one of the salesmen that frequented Newtonville Electrical Company, the business established, owned and operated by daddy and his brother, Uncle Paul. Johnny Flynn was six feet tall, 3 inches taller than my father, had those telltale Irish brown eyes that looked at home on the face of a boy, but always improbable on the face of an adult. He was a spare man with unsparing freckles over all his face, faded, then, from the onset of middle age. He was an average catholic for those days of the last years of the Korean War, if you counted the six children he had. Dad never took issue with Johnny Flynn’s declarations of miracles awaiting any who were blessed to be Roman Catholic or might become Roman Catholic, or his attempts at proselytizing. On Christmas Eve, 1951, dad got a call from a friend reporting that Flynn’s home had no heat, and had been that way for a couple of days. Dad wondered why he had not been told by Johnny, a good friend, and then he realized, no doubt, Flynn was too embarrassed to admit he did not have the funds to pay for a service call. Dad advised Harry Mooseghian, a protégé of his, to meet him late in the evening so they could embark on an adventure together. When it was dark enough and late enough, while Flynn’s family slept, the two snuck into the cellar of Flynn’s home, through the unlocked bulkhead doors. Sure enough, the culprit was a faulty oil burner. Dad returned to his store, found a model identical to the one Flynn had, stole back into the cellar a second time through the bulkhead doors, and exchanged the good oil burner for the ruined one. The following Friday, Johnny Flynn, visiting dad along with all the regulars that met there on late Friday afternoons for coffee and donuts, breathlessly recounted the tale of the miracle of waking up on Christmas morning, the week before, to a home well heated. For two days the Flynn family had shivered through the misery of December cold that hovered just above freezing, and on Christmas morning awakened to a home delivered and resurrected from the dead of winter. Johnny Flynn, flush with the proof of one more miracle in his life, and because of his deep affection for my father, tried again to convert Peter with, “When you are a Catholic, miracles happen.” Johnny Flynn went to his grave never knowing the story of his deliverance. <br />Whether it was helping out widows locally, or Armenian orphans in Beirut, or anybody else the Lord called upon him to help, it was done quietly, always.Petersonnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-668302614039424658.post-52541832016281681642011-01-01T14:11:28.394-05:002011-01-01T14:11:28.394-05:00I'm catholic also,butI'm sure that your Pe...I'm catholic also,butI'm sure that your Peter will get the eternal life with our Lord .<br />Garo DerounianAnonymousnoreply@blogger.com