A Few Words from Home

A story that goes to the top of the list of ... well, you'll see!

Los Angeles is burning. It’s cold. It gets dark early. My transmission is running rough. And in the span of four days, I’ve had three people in my life pass away. These are the rough patches in life that make us ask, “Where does inspiration come from?”

It comes from laughing—even when we don’t feel like it. From sitting down to meals with friends. From fresh air and sunshine, when we can find it. It comes from showing up for daily Mass if possible, and from smiling even when the world seems determined to wipe the joy off our faces.

It also comes from serving others. I was a firefighter here on Long Island for 17 years. When personal hardships loomed large, I responded to more ambulance calls, turning my focus outward to those who needed comfort and dignity during frightening moments.

One night, about 20 years ago, I was called to assist at an accident in a neighboring town. A motorcyclist had collided with a car, and the scene was chaos. The woman driving the car had already been rushed to the hospital, and my team was tasked with helping her 10-year-old son. He sat in the front passenger seat, dazed and asking over and over, “Where is my mom? How is she?”

I climbed into the car and started talking to him, trying to distract him from the chaos outside. But all he wanted to know was, “Where’s my mom? How is she?” Over and over again, that’s all he asked: “Where’s my mom? How is she?”

I told him, “She’s already at the hospital, and we’re going to take you to the same place. You’ll see her soon.”

I was a teacher at the time and thought that I could distract him a little by asking aobut school. He was in fifth grade, and I happened to be a fifth grade teacher. However, before we could get into a conversation about science project and too much homework, I noticed that his pants were soaked in blood—not his own. He looked at me and said, “It’s from my mom’s head. She was laying on my lap when they took her out of the car.”

I swallowed hard, my stomach turning. My partner, Amy, and I transferred him into the ambulance and called ahead to the hospital. On the way there, he kept asking me the same questions: “Where’s my mom? How is she?” My attempts to engage in conversation were not working, and now I understood why.

When we arrived at the ER, we transferred him to his room. He asked again, “Where’s my mom? Can I see her?” I asked Amy to check with the nurses and ask if we could put him in the same room.

After several minutes, I told my young patient, “Let me go see what’s happening … I’ll be right back.”

I walked to the nurse’s station, but the look on Amy’s face stopped me cold. She pointed to the room next door. Before I could say anything, I heard the doctor inside call out, “Time?”

I froze. My mind went blank as I knew the doctor’s question only meant one thing.

The boy’s mother was gone.

I stood there, holding Amy’s hand, trying to process it. How could I go back in and answer his questions? What could I possibly say? It wasn’t my place to tell him, but the weight of it crushed me. I stayed out, letting others—people more equipped for that moment—take over.

As we packed up the ambulance, Amy shook her head and said, “This just went to the top of the saddest calls list.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. It was a night I’ll never forget.

I didn’t plan to share this story today. But at one of the funerals I mentioned earlier, I saw Amy for the first time in over 20 years. I wanted to grab her hand and ask, “Do you remember that night?” I didn’t, but I know she does. That call bonded us in a way that time and distance can’t erase.

So, what’s the lesson in all this?

Maybe it’s this: What God allows, we must be willing to accept. Not because it’s easy or fair, but because it’s life. Even when we don’t understand—especially when we don’t understand—we have to lean into faith, hope, and love.

Today, I pray for the three people I’ve lost and their families, for Amy, and for that boy and his family. They remind me that life is fragile, and we can’t walk this road alone. We need each other. We need to keep going. And when life feels overwhelming, we need to share the feelings with God, with one another, and continue to bring an experience of faith, hope, and love into every life we meet.

Peace be with you,
John