First Person: ‘My job is to show up. God does the rest’

“First Person” shares the stories of people who make a life here, in their words. Conversations are edited for clarity and length.

The Rev. Peter Uhde, 72, became a Catholic priest in his home state of New Jersey, worked with Portuguese immigrants, and served as an Army chaplain on 9/11 and in the overseas wars that followed. He eventually retired to Harpswell, where he says Sunday Mass at the St. Katharine Drexel chapel on Mountain Road.

Did I always want to be a priest? It’s an unfortunate answer, but it shows God has a sense of humor — and knows what he’s doing. I was going to Seton Hall University on a track scholarship. It’s a Division I school, so I was pretty fast. I went to the weight room, went to the workouts. The one thing I wasn’t going to was the classes.

The university was going to kick me out. The assistant coach said, “Tell them you’re going to be a priest. They’ll never kick you out.” I said, “You’re kidding,” but I went to the seminary office and said, “I want to be a priest.” The guy said, “Why?” I should have seen that coming. But I got into the program and I still remember, my junior year, walking into the library for the first time. Nice place. Probably should have been here sooner. And believe it or not, from that day on, researching and studying became my passion.

I wanted to excel, but I still wasn’t certain about the whole priesthood thing. The girl I had been dating — and both of us thought, we’re going to get married — wound up marrying a pole vaulter who became a dentist. At seminary in the summer, we had to do apostolic work. My job was at a youth camp. These busloads of underprivileged kids would show up and I began to realize, it’s not all about me. Just the opposite. It’s what can I do to help others? It made me realize I’m just a tool being used by God. This is where I belong.

As a young priest, I was working with immigrants in the Ironbound section of Newark. They were poverty stricken, living in basements, five families in an apartment. The pastor, Father Gino, grew up across the street from the church and he acted like it. A piece of work. One Saturday night, we were sitting at the bar wearing regular street clothes. Father Gino had one too many, so he was quasi-passed out. A construction worker came in and took the only open seat, right between us. He says, “I don’t know you.” I said, “I’m a new priest over at St. James.” He goes, “You ain’t a priest. Prove you’re a priest.” Father Gino wakes up, reaches across this guy and pulls my arm and says, “You don’t have to prove you’re a priest.” The guy goes, “Who the hell is this?” I told him, “He’s the pastor.”

The whole neighborhood was Portuguese, so I began to learn the language. Then the diocese sent me to Lisbon, where I lived in the seminary and went to the university. They had no heat in the building. I was freezing, so I went to town and bought a space heater. All these Portuguese seminarians said, “Can we study in your room?” I said, “Sure, come on in,” and then I started asking them questions — “Hey, who was the king in 1873?” and so forth. With their help, I went from zero to hero in speaking the language and learning the history.

I also learned how people survived in a place where a bed was a luxury and enough food was a very good day. When I got back to New Jersey, I had a whole different paradigm. The church was like a liturgical bus garage; if it was a bowling alley, it would fit three lanes. There was a mass every hour, on the hour. On Sundays, 400 people crammed inside, and there were big speakers outside so people could stand on the sidewalk and hear the Mass. Around here, maybe once a month you baptize one baby. There, every Sunday you’re baptizing 20 or 25.

The thing I learned was that nobody’s perfect. Everybody’s doing the best they can. We’re all flawed, we’re all weeds in the flowerbed. Everyone’s best is different because their environment, past and present, dictates so much. So let’s say you’re a single mom, three kids and each kid has a different last name. It may have started because your alcoholic father never said a word. And your mom? After her third time at rehab, she was going to be OK. But meanwhile, you convinced yourself that the only way to get validation was being popular with the boys. Now you’re older and you’re stocking shelves at Dollar Tree. But you’re getting by, taking care of your kids. What courage. What resiliency. People like that inspire me.

As I said in my homily at Mass this morning, anyone can count how many seeds are in an apple, but only God knows how many apples are in a seed. Don’t underestimate who you are and what you — one seed — can become.

I wanted to be an Army chaplain. I was 40 years and change, the oldest guy to ever go to basic training. “Good Morning America” came to film me, which means I had to look good. But let me tell you, I was dying inside. Your body mass index couldn’t be higher than 25. This old German contract doctor measured me and says, “25.1. You fail.” So the diocese sent me to Bayonne, New Jersey, and my mission was to lose weight. So every day, I would take the ferry over to Manhattan and walk up the stairs at the World Trade Center to burn off fat.

On Sept. 11, 2001, I missed the first ferry because I had stayed up late to watch the Giants play. And the ferry boat just stops in the harbor. Everybody says, “Some guy flew his airplane into the World Trade Center.” And then this other plane came. Soon, I was seeing people jumping out of the buildings. I couldn’t see them land because of my distance. They would just disappear.

I was assigned to the triage center in Bayonne, where bodies were taken for identification. First responder units came from all over, waiting for the thousands of injured to come. But no one came.

Two days later, I was at ground zero when they found a woman, an emergency medical technician, who had taken shelter under her ambulance when the buildings were collapsing. The ambulance was crushed. She was still alive, but there was no way to save her.  So I just held her hand, prayed with her, absolved her. At times like that, you’ve got to believe that God’s with you. Later, as an Army chaplain, I saw men who were standing there one moment and blown to smithereens the next. So you contact their family back home, and fast. If you don’t do it fast, they’re going to find out from Facebook.

I was in Iraq twice, Afghanistan once. Once I came back because I had kidney stones, and they told me I have stage 4 cancer in my throat, blocking my carotid artery. They used an artery from my chest to carry blood to my brain, but there was still this mass in my neck.

At Walter Reed hospital, I was in a basement hallway talking Portuguese and the head of radiology came out to see who was speaking Portuguese and said, “What brings you here?” After I told him, he said there was a new procedure. It was experimental, the doctor said, “but if it works, that cancer might just melt right out of your neck. And if it doesn’t, you’re dying anyway.” I thought, “You cut bedside manner class, didn’t you?” But you know what, it worked. In today’s Gospel, God says, “Don’t kill the weeds. I’ve got plans for the weeds.” God had plans for me.

My parents decided to retire to Maine and bought this house on Orr’s Island. My dad died and I eventually came to Harpswell to take care of my mother at the end of her life. When I retired, I moved here and realized there weren’t many priests. So I began saying Mass in the summers at the St. Katharine Drexel chapel on Mountain Road. This room’s full of weeds that have done well. They have lots of different stories, but in terms of being God’s people, it’s the same. They’ve got their own fears, their own worries; they’re trying to live their best lives. They still need to have their faith validated.

Whether in Portugal, Iraq, Afghanistan, Harpswell — my job is to show up. God does the rest.