I’ve received many compliments on the cover of my biography, Called to Serve: The Untold Story of Father Irenaeus Herscher; and how we came up with it is an interesting story. The Franciscan Institute kindly allowed me to submit my own cover idea, and I knew, of course, that it had to be a photograph of Father. Fortunately there were plenty to chose from, in his archives, at St. Bonaventure University’s Friedsam Library. But which one? I was so tempted to choose one from his handsome younger days, grinning at the camera with so much enthusiasm and confidence. But most of us remember him as the older white-haired sage bustling about the library, so that’s what it had to be.
But perusing the hundreds of photos of him, I couldn’t seem to zero in on just the right one. Most of them caught him at an odd angle, or with a background that wouldn’t reproduce well. Moreover, I wanted the cover to add some kind of meaningful information about Father, in a short-hand kind of way, something that would add a touch of symbolism about his life. I found at last a nice photo of him, posing outside around campus: In it, he’s good ol’ Father Irenaeus, smiling, arms crossed, his habit a bit rumpled and his spectacles a bit askew, but it captures the essence of him, pure and simple.
Now behind the campus of St. Bonaventure, sits the “mountain” we call Merton’s Heart. It is more of a large hill, with a copse of fir trees, which, in my student days, had a heart-shaped clearing in the middle. Sometimes you might even see cows grazing up there. I was able to document, in my book, that Merton did indeed hike up to this spot, to reflect, to write and pray, and I believe it was Father Irenaeus who named the spot for him. I said to my husband—the graphic artist—“I wish he had posed in front of Merton’s Heart!” To which my husband replied: “We can make it happen!”
And so, he created on his computer, a photo “collage,” of two separate black-and-white photos—one of Merton’s Heart from the old days, and the picture of Father himself that I had selected. He then gave it a sepia overtone—Bonaventure and Franciscan Brown—and when I looked at it, I would swear it was an actual photograph, from Father’s archives. I like to think Father would be amused by this inventiveness, and pleased to be sharing the cover with that spot of nature he himself loved so dearly. It represents his connection to Merton, in a spiritual way, and I think he would have like that too. Although, being so modest, he might balk at the idea of an entire book being devoted to his life…