A few weeks ago I walked into church and was struck by a peculiar sight. A healthy, younger (40-ish) woman was moving along with a walker. She was accompanied by an older man. My son, John Paul, was helping her. The two had a subdued solemnity, even joy, mixed with a kind of heaviness I could not explain. I welcomed them to our church and inquired where they were from. They said Erie, Pennsylvania… my wife’s home of 43 years.
Of course, I had to go retrieve my wife, who had already made her way to the front of the church and was praying in preparation for Mass. Now that we live a few hours away in Toledo, she always delights in any Erie connection.
The story unfolded. The gentleman showed us pictures from two months earlier, in a room down in Florida preparing for open heart surgery. He showed a photo of his beautiful wife smiling next to him. Another, with this woman, his daughter. Another yet, with his son.
And he shared photos of a car smashed beyond recognition.
Tears streaming down his face, the man explained that when he had awoken from heart surgery, the surgeon informed him that there was bad news. He thought it had to do with the surgery, but it did not. During his post surgery recovery the three had been driving. A car crossed over the median and smashed into them, killing both his wife and his son. His surviving daughter was undergoing therapy on her leg, thus, the walker.
Read more at Catholic Exchange.