This has been a dark week in New York State, despite some landmarks being lit up in Planned Parenthood pink. I write a little about it here. If you click on the link, you will see and read a little about Sisters of Life, who are one of the beacons of a culture of life and civilization of love in the Empire State where they were founded (and now beyond), despite it being the abortion capital of the country, now officially taking on a culture of Gosnell, where even babies who survive abortions have no legal protections.
The late Cardinal John O’Connor founded the Sisters of Life after making a powerful visit to the Dachau concentration camp. I’ve been especially grateful this week that he did, that women answered and continue to (they have 100 women and are bursting at the seams). Wondering what he might say about now, I cracked open a copy of Full of Grace: An Oral Biography of John Cardinal O’Connor journalist Terry Golway put together that was given to me as a gift one year after speaking at the annual Cardinal O’Connor conference at Georgetown University.
There’s a story in there of a woman who fainted one day at the St. Joseph altar at St. Patrick’s cathedral in New York. Golway gave her the name “Margarita” for the purposes of telling the story while retaining some of her and her family’s privacy. She was a woman who came to New York from Latin America, pregnant, and contemplating suicide.
“At the age of 29, I was at the peak of my professional career. Then, I got pregnant in the most unthinkable way that a woman can get pregnant. I thought I had lost my mind. I thought, ‘How can a baby come to life in these circumstances.’ It’s not the first time this has happened, it has happened so many times in history, and it is happening right now. It’s one thing when you hear about it, but when it happens to you, it’s not comprehensible.”
She went to New York because she had a brother living here. It was October 7, 1995, and Pope John Paul II was in Central Park. “There were barricades around, because the Pope was coming later. But I just went in and I sat there for a long time, and I left.” She went back two days later and after she fainted that things would begin to change for her.
Somebody saw me and picked me up. I spoke with a priest who asked me what happened. I couldn’t stop crying. I told him my story, and he said, “OK, give me your name and telephone number, because I think somebody should know about this.” So next morning I get a phone call that I should go to the back of St. Patrick’s the next day after Mass. I went — but I couldn’t care less why I was going, because I didn’t want to live.
The Cardinal was there, and after the 7:30 Mass, he met me in the back of the church. I had never heard his name before. I didn’t know who he was, and I didn’t care. To me, he was just a priest from the church. He asked, “What is your name?” I couldn’t stop crying, and he said, “I guess it’s going to be difficult,” and I started laughing. And then he asked me how he could help me. He didn’t ask me what had happened—he asked me how he could help. So I told him the story, and he said, “Don’t worry. What is it that you need?” I didn’t know what I needed—I wanted to die. So he said, “The first thing you need is a doctor.” And with that, he opened the door for me to come back to life. He talked to people who lead me to the right places to get the help I needed—physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. The things he did were little miracles, and pretty soon, incredibly, I was back on my feet again and I wanted to live. He was like a father to me, no even more—I could see God through him.
She goes on to describe how Cardinal O’Connor baptized her son and always went out of his way to check in on her – giving her calls, finding her in a crowd. She explains:
Those were the kinds of things he did. I consider him to be the instrument of God used to bring me back to life, and to allow me to have my son alive. After I met him, everything began to fall into place. He helped me get a new job. And he showed me how to go from hating a situation to loving someone so much. I brought Patrick [her son] to see him sometimes, and the Cardinal would have candy there, and my son wanted some. And the Cardinal would say, “Ask Mommy if I can give it to you.”
What always impressed me was how very ordinary things were done in such extraordinary ways, how a very ordinary man – which is how he considered himself – was so extraordinary. You know how God takes care of us individually? Cardinal O’Connor did the same thing for me, and he did it for many other people. What he did for me he would have done for anybody.
The message of the week is the same message we’ve been needing to hear and take to heart for quite a long time now. The governor isn’t everything. The president isn’t everything. The government isn’t everything. The law isn’t everything. The media isn’t everything. These are important. They have influence. These are teachers for good or for ill. They can be tremendous and grave obstacles. (They can also be opportunities, albeit challenging.) We still have power. There is still conscience and virtue. Ordinary choices can make for extraordinary gifts.
That’s why I interviewed Cheryl Calire from Buffalo this week and hope to continue to highlight this kind of selflessness that we’re called to. Especially when we’re living under pink lights of extremism. Father forgive them they know not what they do is certainly a prayer that has come to mind often this week. But what about me? What about each one of us who knows. What are we doing? What are we supporting with our time and finances and prayers? What more can we do to meet the needs around us. This makes a difference. If you’re angry or depressed or tempted to despair this week over abortion in New York or the onslaught over the Kentucky Catholic high school students or anything else, do something. Volunteer at your local pregnancy-help center, see what opportunities might be at your local Catholic high school for mentoring. See what the needs are and help meet them. You might just help open a door to new life for someone.