or kiss him, how can I reassure him that I love him, that I have not abandoned him?
We were not abandoned. They did come back. But it was hard. We cried for our parents, at the disruption in our routine, at the clumsy ministrations of these friends. But they did their best. We got letters from Mom and Dad every single day, and Joan or Ladon or another friend would read them to us and write out our reply. They sent our parents daily updates on how we were doing, my brother’s progress in potty training, and what we were eating for dinner.
We were reunited as a family by Easter of 1977. We had not forgotten our parents nor transferred our love for them to Ladon and Joan. They had not become strangers and we did not harbor deep resentment or fear abandonment. Mom reflected on that period recently by saying: “You were an exceptional three-year-old and my sense is that you shouldered responsibility for Jerry—becoming comforter and big sister…more than might have been desirable. But hey, I think it contributed to the woman you are today—not too shabby.”
After that, our parents tried to orchestrate their arrests so that one of them would always be with us. As far as I can remember, they were successful in this and we were never separated from both of them again.
We did spend long stretches of time—years in some cases—without one of our parents. Lots of classic family moments were marked by the absence of one of them. Mom did get out of jail in time to give me a home perm for my eighth grade graduation (an oddly fancy and momentous affair). But Dad was in jail for Kate’s high school graduation, Jerry’s college graduation, and my college graduation. He died before Kate graduated from college. I now have a sense of how difficult it was for Mom and Dad to be away from us, but I wasn’t really aware of their struggles as a little kid (which is probably a good thing) because our community worked hard to take care of us.
We remained completely connected to our parents while they were in jail. We kept all of their letters in a book made out of wallpaper scraps, and I was told later that any time someone came to visit, I would sit them down on the couch and make them read my parents’ letters to me. I have one distinct picture in my head of being in the living room when the postman delivered the mail. Whoever answered the door quickly sorted through the mail and found a letter to me from my dad. I sat down on the sticky black vinyl couch and that person read me his words. As I listened, I kept looking underneath the paper, looking for my dad behind the words. His presence was so strong in the letter that I did not understand that he was not really there.
Jonah House was chaotic, intense, crowded, ever-changing, and never spotlessly clean. The dishes, sheets, clothes—even the pots and lids—never matched. But our homework got done, our lunches were packed, our teeth and hair were brushed (sort of), our curiosity was sated, our need to run and play was fulfilled, our minds were crammed with facts and figures and images, our faith was built on the streets and in the study of history and the gospels. We were raised by a village. Sometimes we loved it; sometimes we hated it. But it was always home.
People often wonder why the Berrigan kids never rebelled: never became Tea Party Republicans or Wall Street day traders. In our culture, youth rebellion is a cliché, but rebellion against rebel parents is a goldmine. But we did not rebel at all. And I credit these friends, our community, for that. We saw from the beginning that it wasn’t just our parents. They weren’t alone in their convictions. They attracted other people: sane, healthy, functional, loving, complicated people who gave up a lot (in many cases) to come live with us in radical, catholic squalor.
And we were in relationships with so many of these adults—men and women who shared their perspectives, ideas, stories, and lives with us. We saw them in