My father died in a car crash March 8, 1966, at the age of 32, leaving a wife and 10 children behind. He had been driving at night and, it was assumed, had fallen asleep at the wheel. The car hit a tree, most likely killing him instantly, and there he remained until morning when his car was discovered. The proper authorities were called, and the usual procedures commenced. With a special twist. We know my father died in the middle of the night, so the car would have been still for hours before it was found. Yet when the first person looked upon him, they saw a child’s rosary hanging and swinging over the door, so they also called a priest to the scene to say The Last Rites over him.
Now, stick with me while I backtrack a little to give the significance of the miracles of the last rites and the rosary. First, a rosary is a string of beads used in praying, and/or a Roman Catholic prayer of meditation on the recitation of the Hail Mary. The Hail Mary is a prayer which blesses and entreats Mary, the mother of Jesus, to pray for sinners. My father had “an unusual devotion to Mary.” Perhaps because he and his siblings had been deserted by their mother when they were children. His father had died the year before his mother left, so the children were on their own for weeks before the area people realized they had not been seen for a while. My dad, Karl, was the baby of the family. The children were separated and adopted or fostered by townspeople. He grew up in a good home, but not knowing who his blood siblings were until he was in High School. This is the climate for his devotion to Mary.
As for The Last Rites, they are a Roman Catholic sacrament (a rite of importance that shows God’s grace outwardly) done by a bishop or priest that involves both prayer and the giving of the eucharist (blessed bread representing the body of Christ) to cleanse a person of their sins before they leave earth. The Roman Catholic Church has strict rules, and it is doubtful he would not have been prayed over if it had been known he was not a Catholic.
As an adult with a number of his own children, Karl was touched when the story of the sighting of Mary at Lourdes came out in a film. He gathered his children into the living room and made them watch the show (“Song of Bernadette”). He was even more touched with the story of Mary at Guadalupe, Mexico, since it happened in North America. The story revolves around a young boy who Mary appeared to on December 9th, 1531. “For I am a Merciful Mother,” she said to him, “to you and to all your fellow men on this earth who love me and trust me and invoke my help...” As a sign of her coming, she instructed the lad to pick roses – which were very much out of season – and carry them in his cloak to the bishop. When he opened his cloak, there was an image of Mary painted on it exactly as she had appeared to the boy. (It is still amazingly preserved, even though later paintings of heavenly rays around the figure have greatly deteriorated.) When the church newspaper had an article on the story with a picture, my father was very struck with it and suggested they get the picture. Since they had no money for things of that nature, my mother realized how much it meant to him. As a mother of many children and in need of the female connection perhaps, she also prayed to Mary often; so they sent for the picture. When it came, they saw it was an odd size and despaired of finding a frame that would fit…until they noticed that the picture that hung over their bed had a frame that fit exactly. My father told everyone who came to the house about the frame. The little miracle had tightened their bond with each other and with their faith.
Now, the day of March 8, 1966. We had moved to Alpena about a year before for a job my father had gotten as a repair technician for Xerox. He traveled all over the north half of the state repairing their machines. On this fateful day, Karl had been on just such a trip in the area where he had grown up. After conducting his business, he visited family and then went to the prior as yet unsold home to load up on some of the things that had not yet been moved to Alpena. In the boxes were two items; a child’s fluorescent rosary and the rolled-up picture of Mary of Guadalupe.
The accident occurred, the rosary was seen swinging, he was prayed over by a Catholic priest – and because of this a few strings were pulled and my father who was a Protestant was buried in the Catholic cemetery (unheard of in those days) next to the plot where his wife will one day rest and an infant grandson would lay next to him. But before he was laid to rest, there was the funeral to be got through. My mother remembers standing in the doorway of the funeral parlor, looking toward the casket. It was centered in a large, empty room and she found she could not enter. She stood there several minutes unable to move, when suddenly she heard a voice as clear as could be say, “This body is but a shell. His spirit is with me.” Suddenly, she felt peaceful and able to get through the ordeal. In fact, she didn’t remember actually walking to the casket. She felt like she had been lifted from the door to the casket. Her best friend, who had come to Alpena with her husband the minute they had gotten the news of my father's death, told her years later – after my mother had told her story for the first time – that she had known something had happened but hadn’t wanted to ask.
My mother still remembers her amazement at all of the people who came to the visitation and the funeral in a town where they had lived for less than a year. In addition to those who knew my father, there were the children. Several of the Catholic Schools’ nuns brought their elementary aged children to the first night’s visitation to pray for him. This was significant to my mother because my father had a sort of magic with children, a connection. He was like a magnet to them. It was also the beginning of Lent (spiritual preparation for Easter) and the funeral happened to be on the same night as the Lenten services. Because the story of the rosary had been passed along, hundreds of people as they left the Lenten services came to pray for my father. One woman came with her daughter and stayed all night. She had lost her husband recently and had stayed in concern for my mother. All these details meant so much to my mother.
Does God really care for each of us so personally? Read on. After the accident, the items in the car had been gathered and taken to Alpena, but the reprint of “Our Lady of Guadalupe” which had become my parents’ favorite was not found. My mother was upset, but there was nothing to be done. It had poured rain during the weeks after the accident, so even if a search of the area had been made, there was no chance it could have survived the terrible weather. A month after the accident, a group from the Legion of Mary (there’s Mary again) came to visit my mother to see how she was doing and ask if she needed anything. Shortly after they left, one of my father’s co-workers who was also a dear friend came to our house, knocked on the door and stood waiting. When my mother answered the door, she said, “Good heavens, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!” Pale and at first speechless, he raised his hand and held something out to her. It was the picture. Rolled up as it had been when it lay on top of one of the boxes in the car; it was still in perfect condition. Not a scratch or any sign of exposure to the elements shown on it. When asked what had happened, he said he had been on a business trip and had gotten the feeling that he should go past the spot my father had died. Since the accident, he had avoided that road, not being able to bring himself to drive past it. He kept thinking he needed to look for something, so he stopped at the spot, got out, and found the picture. Stunned, he had driven directly to my mother to place it in her hands. Every little detail in our lives matters to God.
To this day the miracles of my father’s sojourn from earth are remembered and passed down to the next generation, and we recall the wondrous touch of our God who cares for the tiniest details that to us are so significant and to Him must be very trivial in the wide, incredible scope of creation and heaven that is His.
May we be ever aware of the tiny details that come along that could very well be miracles – and to help God along by listening to the prods that tell us to stop and look for something when we have no idea what we’re looking for. We might be that miracle someone needs.
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