I never met James T. Mullaney, Jr., my maternal grandfather — or ‘Grampy,’ as my family affectionately calls him. He passed away on Father’s Day, June 15, 1986, six years before I was born.
Yet his practical, sacrificial faith — rooted in duty to his country, family, and those in need — has not only shaped my spiritual journey, but it also stands as a model of civility in an age often marked by inaction and contempt for others.
Born on Dec. 28, 1928, in Leominster, Ma., my Grampy grew up in an Irish-Catholic family with his parents, James T. Sr. and Mary E. (Muldoon) and siblings, Richard and Mary. Underaged during World War II, he longed to enlist but eventually joined the U.S. Marines when the Korean War began, serving in the motor pool on Adak Island, Alaska.
Before he deployed, he met my Grammy, Kathleen A. Connell, now ten years deceased, at a local Irish dance. It was ‘love at first sight,’ according to the family legend. In time, they married; had six children; and built a home in Leominster.
To provide for his family, Grampy hit the road as a truck driver. Oftentimes, he was gone for six days a week, making runs from Montreal to Florida, leaving Sunday nights, and arriving back home on Saturdays. His dedication and work ethic were admirable, but what set him apart was his humility and kindness toward others — even those who did not deserve it, like the next-door neighbor.
The man was a curmudgeon. Not too keen about the large family’s apparent riff-raff, he wrapped barbed wire along his fence, often complained about the children dirtying his flowers, and — on one occasion — destroyed a parachute soldier toy my then 7-year-old uncle constructed, that had accidentally drifted into the yard, by tossing it into an outdoor fireplace while staring at him.
As the years passed, the neighbor became increasingly more house-bound. Recognizing this, my Grampy would assist with chores and even regularly cut the man’s hair. When asked why he would show any decency toward the man, after enduring the neighbor’s gruff manner for years, my Grampy evoked Scripture: “There’s no honor in only helping those who are nice to you.”
Too often, modernity encourages jettisoning negative or annoying people from our lives. In some cases, that can be necessary; but Jesus Christ calls us to “love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.” My Grampy’s act of faith — even love — ran counter to the human tendency to forgo bearing the troublesome, a lesson I have carried throughout my life.
This was not the extent of his sacrificial nature. On Saturday nights, he opened his home to fellow members of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), occupying their time with good conversation, sobriety, and coffee, instead of imbibing brews at the local bars. When someone would relapse, he would drive them to the hospital — or as he referred to it, the “drying out joint.” Such calls came in the middle-of-the-night. Even after he spent nearly 30 hours driving, longing for a good night’s rest or time with his family, he nevertheless answered the moment — putting their needs above his own comfort.
Grampy died from complications related to lung cancer and sepsis at 57 years old. His death resonated with the community. At his wake, my Uncle Tom was approached by people whom he didn’t recognize — but they had been recovering alcoholics. Their condolences were accompanied by a stunning testament: “Your father saved my life.”
I do not know the depths of my Grampy’s prayer life — but glimpses into his joviality abound when, during grace, he’d say, “Good bread, good meat, good God, let’s eat.” Certainly faith mattered to him. He regularly attended Mass and sought a religious education for his children, sending them to St. Leo Catholic School in Leominster. Moreover, my mother recalls him praying at his bedside sometimes, and even paraphrasing Ecclesiastes: “Cast your bread upon the water, for you will find it after many days.” In other words, perform acts of kindness without seeking an immediate reward.
He was no theologian, but he valued hard work and performing his Christian duty. Ultimately, to me, his actions point toward heaven — to Christ. What greater legacy can one achieve? Indeed, God calls us all to “go and do likewise” and exude His love to our brethren. Our collective mission — and responsibility — is to build the Kingdom of Heaven, helping lead souls to see His mercy and love.
Yet contempt, especially toward our political opponents, seems omnipresent, with the only thing Americans agreeing on being disagreement and polarization. This trajectory, however, is unsustainable to civility at-large; but hearts need to be remedied — and converted. And we can either choose to be instruments of peace or vindictiveness. Too often, we settle for the latter, that being the easier road to trod for our fallen nature.
However, in his own way, my Grampy chose the former. In these familial anecdotes, he chose love instead of disdain; sacrifice rather than comfort; and, in the end, his example has echoed through generations not only within his own family, but also to others during his earthly pilgrimage.
My hope is to impart this lesson to my own family, friends, and community — and, God-willing, my children. Though I never met Grampy in life, his faith guides me spiritually toward Christ. I pray he is in heaven; I ask for his intercession; and I hope we can all see our ‘troublesome’ neighbors as eternal souls, worthy of dignity and care.
Till we meet — thank you, Grampy.
Andrew Fowler is the Editor of RealClearReligion. He is also the Communications Specialist at Yankee Institute and author of “The Condemned,” a novella about a Catholic priest fighting off the cartel to save the residents of a small desert town (which you can find here).
