I may forget the names of my children.
I may even forget my wife’s name.
But I’ll never forget the events of the evening of February 3rd, 2008.
It was Super Bowl Sunday, the final minute ticking away. After years of praying and losing and praying… and losing, it looked like my beloved Giants were about to submit again—to Tom Brady and the New England Patriots.
But there was hope.
This year my friends insisted I root for the Patriots. And there was good reason: since forever, every team I’ve ever supported has gone down in flames. Yet another reason I’m such a “huge” football fan.
But I’m a good sport.
So I swallowed my pride and threw myself fully into my new identity as a die-hard Bostonian. I cheered for the Patriots with theatrical passion, in everyone’s face with every Brady success, rubbing noses in every Giants failure. I’d shout “GO PATRIOTS!!” anytime the room went quiet, which wasn’t often, because this was a full-blown Super Bowl party packed with rabid fans.
Like me.
Then, with the Giants trailing 14–10, and about sixty seconds left, the Patriots’ perfect season looked inevitable.
But then came the miracle.
Eli Manning escaped a sure sack, scrambled for his life, and launched a prayer toward David Tyree… who pinned the ball to his helmet with a defender draped all over him. Time stopped.
Moments later, Manning lofted a strike to Plaxico Burress for the go-ahead touchdown.
17–14. Giants!
The room detonated. People screamed, cried, jumped, hugged. I got the hero treatment for “taking one for the team,” and honestly, it was worth it.
Now, for the record, I’m not superstitious or anything…
but team I’m rooting for? Pick the other.
Later that night, still riding the high of the win, my family and I got home. The phone rang. My wife picked up. Her face changed instantly.
“What?” she mouthed, staring at me.
Then aloud: “...Chuck was killed in a motorcycle accident…”
Chuck, one of my dearest friends. A man I walked with into the Catholic faith. A man I stood behind with my hand on his shoulder the day he was confirmed. A man I served beside at the Barnegat Light Fire Department. And a man I’d talked off the ledge more than once.
In an instant, the tears of celebration turned into tears of raw, unthinkable grief.
No words.
Only pain.
In the week that followed, I was asked to write and deliver his eulogy. Remembering him, writing for him, standing there to speak his name aloud. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
He was given a firefighter’s send-off: ladder trucks at full extension, massive American flags hanging over the route, the whole town honoring him. He was laid to rest only a few miles from my home. So close. And yet impossibly far.
Years passed. Life moved on, as it does. The sharp edge of grief softened, but I carried his memory with me as a friend loved and lost. His name regularly on my lips in my prayers for those who’d passed. His memory became something bittersweet, a presence and an absence both.
Then one morning at Mass, years later, I heard a homily about the gift of a plenary indulgence, this incredible grace where God wipes away the spiritual consequences of sins, drawing a soul closer to Heaven. And not only for ourselves… we can offer it for someone who has died.
All these years I’d been praying for Chuck, but this felt different, like being handed a key I didn’t know existed.
I’m going to do that for Chuck, I thought.
This year, the Church is celebrating a Jubilee, a time when God seems to fling the doors of mercy wide open. Literally. Holy Doors in cathedrals and basilicas around the world are unlocked so anyone can walk through as an act of pilgrimage.
One of the Graces of a Jubilee is the chance to receive a plenary indulgence, a complete cleansing of the soul. To obtain this spiritual gift, a person must foster a spirit of detachment from all sin, even venial; go to confession; receive Holy Communion; pray for the intentions of the Holy Father; and make a profession of faith. Finally, the pilgrimage through a designated Holy Door, or the sincere performance of an act of charity or mercy, completes the steps as outlined in the official norms.
And you can offer that Grace for someone who has died.
A friend.
A loved one.
The doors of mercy are open this year. We’d be foolish not to walk through them, for ourselves, and for the ones we love who may only need one last prayer to enter the Beatific Vision forever.
Recently, on an early morning run found myself thinking about him again. I looked up toward the sky and whispered…”I hope you made it…”
And suddenly, chills tore through my entire body.
I saw his face, radiant, smiling.
“I did,” he said. “And it’s amazing.”
Staggered and of guard, I whispered, “I can’t wait to see you again.”
He laughed. “Not too soon!”
I stumbled forward, shaken to the core. Was I imagining this? Was it a memory? A Grace? A miracle?
My eyes returning to the sky…“Lord… is this real?” I asked.
And as clear as the sunrise ahead of me, I heard…
It is.
"It is, I am." The Lord loved your prayers for your friend so much, he answered them and removed all doubt.
Extraordinary! And believable because it’s you, Jeff.