Second Chance... the reflections of a Passionist

It was nearly Christmas. Mom had not been doing too well. In fact, after several falls and a leg wound that stubbornly refused to heal, we were all just a little concerned. Here at Mater Dolorosa, our wonderful Passionist retreat center, beautifully nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, we had already celebrated the coming of Christmas with our staff, benefactors, and other special volunteers who make Christmas happen on an almost daily basis. Nonetheless, I was eager to head for home. Los Angeles is a long way from St. Louis, especially when you are worried about someone in the family. I knew I would be able to put my mind to rest after seeing Mom first hand, but there was so much to do before I could catch my flight!

The day itself had begun much like any other day. Only problem was, I felt like I was fighting a cold. Mary Lou kindly drove me over to the nearby Arcadia Methodist Hospital. They did some blood tests and took my temperature; the doctor ordered a prescription to be filled. "Go home. Get some rest. You'll be fine," he said. I did as the doctor proposed, but also started packing some things for the next day's eagerly awaited flight. My last recollection was telling Brother John that I didn't have much of an appetite. Don't worry about dinner. I am going to bed early. See you all in the morning.

Morning never came. Instead, I was in a coma for the next nine days at the same hospital that had sent me home to prepare for my flight to St. Louis. I can only relate events as they were told me by means of others who worried and prayed their way through the long, silent days of the coma. Alone in my room, I had collapsed and was not discovered until the next day. No one had seen me that morning. It must have seemed strange that I was so invisible on the day I had longed for so very much! Instead of finding me packing for the trip I was discovered on the floor, unconscious and in a pool of blood. Our Sierra Madre emergency team responded to the 911 call; in minutes they quickly transported me to Arcadia Methodist. As all of this was transpiring, my Passionist brethren were on the phone, gently telling my family what had happened. The day was December 21st, the birthday of my twin sisters, Regina and Roberta. What a birthday gift.

Mom, Dad, and Roberta flew to L.A. It could only happen because of the overwhelming generosity of some very close friends from Detroit. You would have to know these special people in order to comprehend the kind of love they have shown to us Passionists. Isn't it amazing, even in the darkest of moments, how God sends friends to assist us? Days moved quickly for me, so very slowly for everyone else. It looked as if I might not make it. Each departure from ICU was like a final farewell. Our Provincial, Fr. Michael Joseph Stengel, was sending out messages to our Passionist Communities. Our associate retreat director the suddenly stellar, Fr. Phil, gathered retreatants and friends to pray the precious Eucharist in Possenti Hall. "This guy, Fr. Pat, as you all know, can be as stubborn as a burrow," said Phil. "And besides, God can do all things. Nothing is impossible with the Lord!" The Mass gave all in attendance comfort. I have no doubt but that it gave me new life. I came out of the coma early the next morning, looking at the face of our present Provincial, Fr. Michael Higgins. I realized with some dismay that I wasn't in Heaven!

Where I happened to be was in a state of liver failure, brought on by the deadly infection of Hepatitis B, a disease that destroys the vital functions of this amazing bodily organ. Some people, when exposed to the virus, develop natural antibodies. I did not. Somehow I was exposed to this silent killer, perhaps years ago through a blood transfusion following surgery. It could have been through some kind of exposure when I was in Asia two decades before, or when I was in the Philippines. It's funny how not knowing didn't really matter when faced with imminent death. All that mattered was that somehow God was present and that this mysterious mantel of death could only be faced with and through the Lord. Powerlessness wasn't so very terrible. There was simply nothing left to do but surrender. At the same time, there was a kind of inner ache, a deeply sad feeling that loved ones, family and friends, would be thrust into a state of sorrow because of me.

In the midst of all of this unknowing was one most amazing grace: the realization that if I really did surrender all to the Lord, then I couldn't lose. I had a tremendously deep inner conviction that if it was the Lord's plan that I should die, then I knew there awaited a new and eternal life. And if this happened not to be the Lord's plan, that if I were to be graced with a chance to live again, then surely I would be in His care day by day. How could I possibly lose? And at this point I experienced a kind of serenity that I never dreamed possible. In that moment I realized that, indeed, the Lord truly is my light and my salvation. The Lord really is the stronghold of my life! The psalmist's words took on a whole new meaning for me as I wondered what the long days ahead would hold.

In fact, what lie ahead was the miracle of a liver transplant at the UCLA Medical Center, under the skilled and blessed hands of a team of doctors and care givers who are surely some of God's chosen ones.

Such was the event of near death, one that occurred nearly four years ago. But what did it all mean to me, both in terms of myself as a person, and most especially, as a Passionist? I doubt that I will ever be able to adequately express the meaning of those months of illness and rebirth. But one thing is for sure, the experience I have described has been an important starting point for me in reinterpreting the meaning of the vows I took as a Passionist 34 years ago, and the wonderful ministry I entered into as a priest 26 years ago. There is no doubt that these were the most significant and magnificent moments in my life.

Two insights graced and permeated my experience of near death. They are, in fact, one reality. The first has to do with my sense of self in relation to our Passionist vocation. The second pertains to a sense of who I am in relation to my Passionist brethren.

When you are given a "second chance", to use well-known words from Alcoholics Anonymous, things start to look differently. There is a whole new understanding of the exhortation of St. Paul when he urges us to dedicate ourselves to the things that really matter. For me, this moment of crisis made me ask myself some very important questions: What do I really want to dedicate myself to? If the Lord is gracing me with the chance to live, then what do I really want to do with that life?

Having been literally filled with an overwhelming sense of the love and concern of my Passionist brothers, in both East and West as well as around the world, there was no doubt that being a Passionist and sharing in the charism of our Holy Founder was what God wanted for me. The commitment of my vows was renewed, not in any ceremony or vow formula; rather, it was renewed with every breath I was able to draw deeply, with every step I was able to take without a walker, without a wheelchair. It felt so good to walk, to live!

Yet, what became most clear to me in those long and sometimes tedious moments of recuperation was that I didn't want to waste my life. I didn't want to spend my life doing things that didn't matter. This "watershed moment" became an opportunity for me to more clearly choose to commit myself to the service of my Passionist Community and the community of the Church.

Wanting to do what matters, and not spending a lot of time on things that are superfluous. I really wish I knew what the difference between the two really is! But, I do know this much: a life of simplicity, a life of chaste celibacy, a life of obedience, all of this makes so much sense when it is driven by a vision greater than my own, by a vision like that of St. Paul of the Cross. His was a burning desire to bring the message of the Passion of Christ into the lives of people who were faced with hurt, alienation, and despair. I realized in a deeper and more profound way that I wanted to share that passion of Paul Daneo. I also realized that my love of preaching, and the opportunity to experience the effects of preaching within a group of men or women on retreat was a good way for me to put this passion into action. I am nourished and given great energy when I see that people feel healed or comforted by what we are all able to offer through healing and caring environments, through liturgy, through sacrament, through the warmth of normal loving relationships. How beautiful is our ministry as Passionists when we are able to bring comfort, hope, and meaning to others!

In a more practical way, I recognized that I did not want to spend my life arguing with people who have decided that anger is the best way to get by! I don't want to spend my life doing anything that may lead to making my own needs more important or more reflected on than the needs of others who are presently sharing in the mystery of Christ's suffering and dying. That is not my vision of Passionist life. I wholeheartedly believe that we are called to proclaim through selfless living the greatest mystery of the world, the endless self-giving of Christ Crucified. How could I forget such a glorious goal? Did I not learn this from so many great Passionists who have gone before me, great men who took seriously the quest for holiness?

In relation to my Passionist brethren, I came to know in an even more vivid and deeply felt way that I mattered to those men whom I called my brothers. I have always had a sense of feeling loved within our Passionist family. How strange it would be, it seems to me, to live in a family where one did not feel loved. Yet, through these many months of illness and recovery, I savored in a new way the meaning of being loved and cherished as part of a good and loving family. How wonderful it would be if every priest and religious, pastor and preacher, could truly stand before his or her parish, community, or society and declare, "I know that I truly matter to you. I know that you love me." What kind of a difference would this make in the practical and daily life of this unique body we call the Church?

As I look back, there are some memories that are still quite painful and frightening. I find myself in awe of a certain elusive and central mystery of our faith. To express it is simple, yet it remains inexplicable. How can moments of suffering be seen as an invitation into the Passion of Christ, indeed, into a certain new and unique kind of intimacy with Christ? How can the sharing in the experience of his cross be seen as a gift, as an invitation to growth and new life? So much remains to be food for prayer and reflection. How grateful I am that the Lord has given me a bit more time to rejoice in his love!