We know that life can change in an instant. Those instants are rare though, and they’re surrounded by ordinary moments. They start in places we've been before like Kettletown Park, a wooded park that opens to a lake beach with a roped-in swimming area perfect for little ones because it’s only maybe four feet at its deepest point. The sun was shining and my husband Mike was in Singapore for the week. Often we met friends there, but today it was just us.

I sat in the sand with my younger two digging, filling buckets, and playing defense as one-year-old Justin's sandy fingers headed for his mouth over and over. These two never went near the water. Justin didn't walk and three-year-old Kelsey "no like the dirty water."

There was a faint and irregular beeping in the distance. A man with a metal detector searched for treasures while his daughter of maybe 11 played in the park. Five-year-old Kevin swam, often disappearing under water rings and reappearing at their extending edges.

I walked to the beach bag. I checked the time; we still had an hour. I glanced back to see two in the sand and one in the water. I checked the call log for the landowners; I was anxiously awaiting news about the lot where we wanted to build a house. Nothing. Another glance, two in the sand, one in the water, and an 11-year-old girl wading her way in. I rummaged for a towel and some new beach toys. I looked up to see one in the sand, two swimming, and Kelsey's head bobbing up and down in the murky water.

In my head, I looked up in time to see Kelsey just knee-deep in the water. In my head, Kevin and the 11-year-old girl noticed a drowning child just feet away.

In my head, Kelsey took two steps backwards so her little nose and mouth could easily reach the air.

In my head, I heard splashing because in my head drowning isn't silent.

In my head, I prayed for the protection of the Guardian Angels.

In my head, I looked up and saw only one in the sand and one swimming, so I scanned the woods and ran towards the water screaming. I called 9-1-1, and they sent a rescue team. In my head, I pulled a lifeless girl from the water, and the 9-1-1 dispatcher talked me through CPR.

In my head, I dialed the 16 digits of the company-issued international cell phone from the business card in my wallet. From two continents away, I told Mike that our girl had drowned. Outside my head, I dropped everything and sprinted towards Kelsey, furious that the resistance of the water slowed my pace.

I grabbed her and pulled her to my chest. Water fell from her mouth and she began to cough with her entire little body. She reached her arms around my neck and squeezed, "Thank you, Mama." I stood thigh-deep in murky water hugging her back.

The beeping grew louder. I looked up to see two kids swimming and one boy playing happily in the sand. A male voice said, "We had a rule, you can't go in past your belly button. You need a rule."

"She's never even gone into the water," I replied.

"Never past their belly buttons," he repeated.

I carried Kelsey out of the water, her arms still wrapped around my neck. I called to Kevin, "Did you see your sister in the water?"

"No. Can I have a snack?" he replied.

"When we get home. It's time to go," I told him.

"We packed snacks, I'll get them," Kevin said.

"No bud, we're going home."

I haphazardly packed the beach toys, wet towels, and the sandy bag of wipes. I tucked the memory away, never further than my pocket.

Purse across my body, beach bag on my shoulder, Justin on my hip, Kelsey's hand in mine, and Kevin a few steps ahead, we made our way to the car. I secured each child with a five-point harness. My clothes still soaked, I sat on a towel and drove away from an instant when life hadn't changed at all.

We hold onto the Sacraments as intangible treasures given to us by our Father in Heaven. In our hands, we hold His word. Upon the death of my beloved Grandma, my greatest model of faith, I inherited her red leather-bound Bible. I’m not a reader, though, so my favorite thing to do with the Bible is to open it to the pages with Grandma’s handwriting: the “Family Record” of marriages, births, Baptisms, First Communions, and Confirmations.

My grandma used to tell me that as a child, she always thought she would be a nun. Upon meeting my grandpa, she knew otherwise. When she was blessed with four sons, she said, “Oh, God didn’t want me to be a nun, He wanted me to be the mother of a priest.” I look at the blank page in the Bible to record “Holy Orders and Religious Life” and know that wasn’t God’s plan either. Grandma’s mighty prayers make me wonder if one of her descendants will one day fill one of those blank lines.

My dad was not destined to be a priest, though. He loved telling the stories of Sunday mornings of his youth. He knew Mass was a must. So, he rode his bike to St. Thomas Aquinas, grabbed his receipt in the form of a bulletin from the vestibule, and rode on to a friend’s house for the hour. He proudly handed the bulletin to his mom upon his return home.

My dad matured in his faith and became a great model to me, but he never quite outgrew that childhood spirit. He prayed his Rosary at stop lights and attended sunrise Mass alone on Christmas morning while we were sleeping teenagers, even though he had joined us for Mass on Christmas Eve.

When he became a grandpa, he joined the kids on roller coasters and for cotton candy. He took them to be sized for their first two-wheelers and was always up for a round of golf or an afternoon of fishing. They loved when he joined us at Mass, but he got “the look” from me because he was always cracking quiet jokes. Never during the Consecration, though – his mother taught him well.

Dad lived fully and died suddenly. He was out on a charity bike ride when he had a heart attack. Dad’s sacraments were recorded in the family Bible in his mom’s hand, but the page for “Extreme Unction” (the Anointing of the Sick) never bore his name.

I knew my dad loved Jesus. I also knew that he was aware of his own playful spirit and his need for reconciliation. He went as quietly and surely as he did to sunrise Mass on Christmas morning. I must imagine that at some point in the confessional he enjoyed sharing the story of skipping Masses in his youth. Years after his death, that blank page still stared back at me, a free and unrealized gift of God’s grace – the Anointing of the Sick.

I flipped it closed, keeping only the red leather cover open. There were prayer cards and newspaper clippings tucked in the front cover. Something else. A thick piece of parchment with an ornate border, an image of Pope Paul VI, and a raised seal with Latin I could not read. Some of the English words rose to my gaze, though: Dad’s family name, “humbly prostrate at the feet of Your Holiness… Apostolic Benediction…”

Then these words: “A Plenary Indulgence to be gained at the hour of death, on condition that, being truly sorry for their sins, but unable to confess them and to receive the holy Viaticum, they shall at least invoke with their lips or heart the Holy Name of Jesus.”

Dated: 1967. In 1967, dad was 11 years old, skipping Mass and riding his bike to a friend’s house instead. In 1967, Grandma added this page to her treasured Bible. In 1967, his mom, my dear grandma, was protecting his soul in case he died unable to confess his sins. Forty-nine years later, on his bike, by God’s grace and the prayers of his mother, I am so very sure dad had the name of Jesus on his heart.

(Writer Laura Brennan is a lifelong member of St. Rose of Lima Parish.)

I was a last-minute substitute teacher for a 3rd-grade religion class, so I felt no guilt for going completely off script. We opened the class with an Our Father, and then I asked the students if they had any special intentions. We prayed for lots of pets, family members who were sick, and everyone’s moms.

“I want to pray for my grandpa who died,” came a voice.

“Yes, let’s pray for the soul of your grandpa and all those who love him,” I said.

“Why do we pray for people who died?” asked a student who hadn’t raised his hand. Father Mike Schmitz’s podcast had prepared me to answer this question.

“Imagine, it’s Saturday morning, and your parents have asked for your help with yard-work. You put on your junkiest clothes and head out to help weed. You’re covered in dirt when someone arrives to surprise you and take you to meet… What famous person would you want to meet?” I asked.

The answers came back: Taylor Swift! Jayson Tatum! Mr. Beast!

“Okay, so imagine you’re about to be whisked off to meet Taylor Swift or Jayson Tatum. Do you just hop in the car?”

“No way!” came a sea of voices. “I need a shower.” “I need to put on my jersey.” “I need to get dressed up!”

“Right,” I said. “You have to get ready. Now, imagine you’re meeting God! You have to be ready. So, you make a quick stop in Purgatory, which is like a shower for your soul so you can be ready to meet God face to face.” I continued, “The way a soul gets ready to meet God is through our prayers.”

I knew this myself because I was lucky enough to have a dad who taught me; he prayed every day for the souls in Purgatory — the one closest to Heaven and the one farthest away. I told the class about my dad and about this beautiful tradition.

One of the students asked, “Could my prayer really get someone into Heaven?” I assured him that it could. “Can we pray right now?” So we did, for the soul closest to Heaven. In my life, I have never seen a group of children pray with so much fervor and intention. Their voices were clear and full of excitement. There were twelve students plus me, so we offered 13 Hail Marys together.

“I think someone just got into Heaven from our prayers,” one of the students concluded. “Me, too! Maybe a few people,” the other students replied.

“Let’s say another one!”

I have no idea what the lesson was that day because we spent the remainder of the hour praying Hail Marys and cheering for souls meeting God — maybe that boy’s grandpa? Or maybe my dad.

(Writer Laura Brennan is a lifelong parishioner at St. Rose of Lima Parish in Newtown.)

I walk this hallway every day, many times every day. But today I paused in the upstairs hallway of my home and focused my eyes on the bust of the Blessed Mother holding the Christ Child. It is ivory with gold accent lines and a few chips that it acquired before it was mine. This beloved statue belonged to my Grandma, and it sits atop her hope chest in a spot it has occupied for so long that the wood beneath is permanently discolored.

Beside Blessed Mother is a frame with a childhood photo of Grandma and me on Christmas; I’m clutching the Cabbage Patch that Santa had left under the tree. In a year when Cabbage Patch dolls were elusive, Santa must have worked overtime to find the “preemie in a pink Christening gown, with a binky, and a tuft of blonde hair,” that my 5-year-old self had detailed in my letter to him. Grandma and I wore matching smiles, but the photo isn’t quite clear enough to see our matching hazel eyes. Remembering the love we shared, so innocent and pure, I felt a single tear form in my eye.

Grandma was easy to love. When we got stuck in the elevator in her apartment complex and realized that we might be there a while, she suggested we eat the ice cream in our shopping bag before it melted. She was the first to put black olives on all ten fingers. She was always up for another game of cribbage or another hand of penny poker. Her hugs enveloped you. She watched daily Mass on TV and called our house at the Sign of Peace.

Summers meant sleepovers at Grandma’s. She began every day with the Rosary and her morning prayers. I tried so hard to emulate — I prayed for everyone I knew twice over, but her prayers continued through another cartoon or two. When the hour hand circles after daily Mass, as I remain in prayer with so many intentions to bring to the Lord, I feel her closeness and gratitude for her example. Grandma prayed for the Red Sox for decades, not living long enough to see her prayers answered when they broke the curse and won the World Series.

A second tear followed the first down my cheek. I really miss her. I remember her faith, her playfulness, her sorrows, her love, and her gentle counsel. I felt sadness and longing. Then came a surprise: joy! Joy in the realization that, 20-plus years after her death, I still love my Grandma enough to cry from missing her.

In childhood, an iconic and coveted toy or personalized surprise under the tree is tangible love. As we get older though, a gift certificate can be that same treasure. For Christmas, when I was an ambitious 20-year-old college student, my parents gave me the perfect gift: a gift certificate for a Franklin Covey planner, a tool that promised both efficiency and the clarity to execute a principle-centered life.

Our mall had a Franklin Covey store. I eagerly approached the mid-sized planners that were portable enough to carry all over campus, but large enough to track my studies, meetings, and service projects. Brown, black, or purple leather? Zip-bound or button-up? Contrasting color seams or matching ones? Daily calendar pages or weekly ones? Blue pages, green pages, or white ones? Should the time be broken into hours or morning/noon/night? I loved every decision.

I headed to the counter with my beautiful brown leather planner, calculator insert, daily calendar pages, and the bookmark that contained Franklin Covey’s signature Weekly Compass: a system to ensure that my schedule aligns with my life goals, roles, and values.

Those first moments at home with my new planner were the zenith of youthful optimism. I unwrapped the crisp tissue and slowly unzipped the leather planner. I opened each package of filler pages and carefully placed the wrappers in the luxurious shopping bag. I admired every pen and card slot and I opened every pocket. The back pocket had papers in it. I pulled out a receipt and an envelope. Strange, I thought, before realizing that this planner must have been returned, and these items belonged to its previous owner.

I opened the envelope to find a $500 Gap gift certificate inside. Five hundred dollars!

Over the next few hours, I did some sleuthing. I had a little information from the store receipt and the envelope. I called the store and was able to get a name and city/state from their credit card records. I hit the phone book and used my dial-up internet to search the new online telephone directories. I narrowed my search down to about 5 people and I called them. I had a few awkward conversations and left a few phone messages. I had done my very best, used up an afternoon, and it seemed that I might be going on a shopping spree.

The next day my telephone rang. “Hello.”

”Hi, is this Laura Marusa?”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Robin. You left me a message yesterday?”

“Yes, I bought a Franklin Covey planner and found something inside.”

“My Gap gift certificate!” she exclaimed through tears.

“Yes, exactly! It’s yours?”

“I can’t believe you found me. How did you find me? I never thought…” her voice trailing off.

”There was a store receipt, and they gave me your last name. I called a few people hoping to find you.”

”The gift certificate was a gift from my mom. I had gotten a promotion at Pier One Imports. She gave it to me for my birthday, to get some new work clothes. She was really sick at the time. She has since died from cancer. I was so upset when I lost the gift certificate. She asked me over and over if I had found it. The very last time I saw her in the hospital, she asked me again. I was embarrassed and frustrated to have to tell her no. She told me, ‘Don’t worry, Honey, you’ll find it.’ I never thought about the planner. I returned it months ago. I couldn’t believe it when I got your message. I can’t believe you called.”

We exchanged contact information, so I could mail her the gift certificates. A few weeks later, I received a thank you note and a $25 gift certificate to Pier One Imports. I bought a soft blue decorative pillow for my dorm room bed. My kids recently found the pillow stuffed in the linen closet and commented on its softness and beautiful color. In that instant, a decades old memory flooded my heart with a moment when a planner, a lost gift certificate, and a pillow were actually the love of a mother.

©Laura Brennan

(Laura Brennan is a lifelong parishioner of St. Rose of Lima in Newtown.)

On a perfect June Sunday, I walked the campus of Wesleyan University during warm-ups of my teenage son’s swim meet. These swim meet walks were a welcome break from the humid pool bleachers on days that began before sunrise, ended well past dinner, and consisted of hours of waiting to watch a mere threeish minutes of my son’s races. It was an internal battle of gratitude — for motherhood … pride — in my son’s tenacity … restlessness — the longing of my own soul for purpose … and resourcefulness — in using the present well. I’d found a shady path and had my headphones tuned to Father Mike Schmitz’s Sunday Homily podcast.

The sound of my ringing phone interrupted Father Mike, so I fumbled in my pocket to see that it was my brother David. He was in the hospital with a bowel perforation, one of the miserable inflictions of colon cancer. He was always a phone talker, and these long hospital days meant extra calls. Sometimes they came with medical updates, but more often they were stories of fantastic nurses and mediocre meals. I expected his typical greeting, an exuberant “Hey! Whassup?” in response to my exaggerated, “Hello.”

Instead, I heard, “God will forgive me, right?”

“Yes. Always.” I paused after these words, allowing them to linger and penetrate. My next words were just as emphatic: “What did you do?!?”

“It’s Sunday, and this is a Catholic hospital, so they just came around with Communion. I took it, but then I realized that I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything because I might be having that surgery, so when they left the room, I spit it into a napkin. God will understand.” He said these last words with an unfinished certainty.

“Yes. Absolutely,” I said, completing it for him. Next, with great urgency, I said, “What did you do with the napkin?” God himself was in that crumpled paper.

“If I were there, I would consume it,” I continued, “I’m not exactly sure what you should do with it, but don’t throw it out! And don’t flush it! Just tuck it into your bag and I’ll find out what to do.”

David talked fast and explained about the recent restrictions on food and drink because of the possibility of surgery within the next 24 hours. There were a few surgeries on the table, so he added a few details of possibilities. I’m also a fast talker, so I continued to assert God’s love and the need to care for the Eucharist.

“Hold on,” he told me. I could hear him rummaging through his things. He returned to the phone and, with great excitement, he said, “Taken care of. They made the decision like 10 minutes ago. Up until 10 minutes ago, I could eat or drink. I feel like I need Jesus. He won’t hurt anything.”

“You ate it?” I asked hopefully.

“Yup.” I let out an audible sigh.

Here on this shady path, and there in the Holy Spirit Hospital room four-plus hours away, we shared a triumphant moment of faith. David stopped attending weekly Mass the very week he moved out of our parents’ house. Twenty-five years later, when confronted with Christ himself, he knew.

The next 25 minutes of the conversation were hard. David’s condition was becoming more serious. He was scared and frustrated. We talked through what we could, and then he got off the phone to speak with a nurse who had entered his room.

I said a prayer for my brother and then returned to my podcast. That very day, we were celebrating the Feast of Corpus Christi, a celebration of the Eucharist being the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ. The Gospel reading for the feast day was Mark 14:12-16, 22-26, where Jesus declares, “This is my body.”

Father Mike’s homily podcast concluded with a story of a 12-year-old girl in Communist China who had seen a church ravaged and the contents of the tabernacle spilled on the bare ground.

Each night, after sunset, she snuck to that place, got on her hands and knees, and ate a single Host. She returned, night after night, risking her life, to save her Lord. On the ninth night, after consuming the final Host, she accidentally made a noise. She was heard by the guards who beat her to death with the butts of their rifles.

The same Jesus who died on the cross, the same Jesus on the bare ground in China, was the same Jesus in the napkin in the hospital in Pennsylvania. In that moment, my brother simultaneously needed Him and saved Him.

***

David passed away several months later on December 22, 2024, the fourth Sunday of Advent, which focuses on the love God has for mankind to become one of us.

©Laura Brennan