The cold wintry night stung, and as usual, the late train into New York City from my hometown in Connecticut was several minutes late. I longed for the train car’s warmth but dreaded its arrival.
For more than a year, I had endured a two-hour commute, one way, for a job at a media company, working on a national morning television show. It had been a great opportunity, and I’m proud to have worked there. But, at the same time, the pay was low, I rarely saw family and friends, I gained nearly 50 pounds, and sleep deprivation was the norm.
That evening, however, I never felt more alone. No one else was around on the platform. Darkness enveloped me.
Then, a creeping, sinister whisper echoed in my mind: There is no hope. Why not leap in front of the train?
This shocked me. I had regularly attended Mass all my life and served as an altar boy from third grade to high school. I argued for God’s existence in philosophy classes and even paid lip service to Christ in college. But, like many in those formative, young adult years, my soul drifted away — despite fulfilling the Mass obligation — and the deaths of two prominent family members left me reeling. Prayer became more remote.
Yet my parents always taught me that despair is the greatest sin, and reaching that point seemed unfathomable. But it had happened. As the train rolled in, blaring its horn, a force urged me to pray. And I did. I prayed for help. For a way out. For something better. That night, I boarded the train and went to work instead of surrendering to the tragic alternative.
In the weeks that followed, that prayer lingered, nudging me to seek a path aligned with my faith. Providentially, the Knights of Columbus (K of C) was hiring content writers in its communications department. I’d known of the Knights through my local parish. Seeking a career rooted in faith, I applied for the job, and by God’s grace, my application was accepted.
In the ensuing years, from 2018 to 2022, I saw the transformative beauty of faith in action — from Eucharistic processions in New Haven, Connecticut, to disaster relief in hurricane-stricken areas in North Carolina and Florida, to jubilant fervor at World Youth Day 2019 in Panama, to pilgrimages in South Dakota and Lourdes, France. The charity, both grand and humble, left an indelible mark on my heart. One in particular was a man who crafted caskets for stillborn and miscarried children. (He has since passed away, and I pray he is now in God’s embrace.)
Yet these examples of Christian witness flow from the charism of the K of C’s founder, Father Michael J. McGivney.
Born and raised in Waterbury, Connecticut, Father McGivney humbly served as a parish priest at St. Mary’s Church in New Haven, where he founded the K of C, and as pastor at St. Thomas in Thomaston until his death on Aug. 14, 1890, at 38 years old. His feast day in the Archdiocese of Hartford is Aug. 13.
Few of his personal effects have survived. However, his actions speak volumes. During his short life, he ingratiated himself with the community, diligently attending to the marginalized Irish-immigrant population. He was involved in the St. Joseph’s Young Men’s Total Abstinence and Literary Society, and organized theater productions and even baseball games.
As a priest, Father McGivney also ministered to 21-year-old James “Chip” Smith, a death row inmate who had killed a police officer. He visited the young man daily, providing him with spiritual guidance until the end. Indeed, according to Kevin Coyne, a professor at the Columbia School of Journalism, Father McGivney felt the “crushing weight” of the ordeal, yet he compassionately persisted. According to Parish Priest: Father Michael McGivney and American Catholicism, Smith met death with spiritual clarity and peace, which is a testament to the priest’s tireless devotion to his flock.
Father McGivney, at heart, was also an inspiring organizer. Recognizing the era’s social challenges and the lure of secret societies, the priest gathered nearly 80 men in St. Mary’s basement on Oct. 2, 1881, with the intent of establishing a Catholic fraternal group. Several months later, on Feb. 6, 1882, the K of C was officially formed, then incorporated on March 29 after Connecticut’s General Assembly formally recognized its charter. For the rest of his ministry, the Connecticut priest nurtured and guided the growth of the K of C.
He lived a heroically virtuous life. And if Christ judges by the fruit we bear, then Father McGivney’s legacy has unquestionably impacted millions of lives — including mine — in the century-plus since he entered his eternal reward.
He is a powerful intercessor — and still hard at work as reported favors through his intercession suggest. This was solidified when, on May 27, 2020, the Vatican recognized Father McGivney’s intercession in the miraculous healing of an unborn child in 2015. When my colleague, the late Andrew Walther, told me the news that morning, I was ecstatic.
Covering the beatification later that October — a day so many Knights and faithful prayed for — is one of the highlights of my career. Moreover, I had the privilege of meeting Mike “Mikey” Schachle, the miracle child. Then 5 years old, the boy held my hand and introduced me to his parents and numerous siblings as “his friend.” To take the hand of someone whose life was preserved through a confirmed miracle was — and still is — truly otherworldly.
Ultimately, while working at the K of C, my love for Christ grew. My prayer life deepened. And I forged true friendships — where “iron sharpens iron” (Proverbs 27:17). Even my career has led to many surprising blessings, such as writing for the Register. I attribute this, in part, to Father McGivney’s tenacious stewardship — a conduit of grace directing my eyes toward heaven. Indeed, his prayer cards adorn my desk and mantle, serving as a constant reminder of his guidance.
And I am convinced, on that lonely winter night, Father McGivney — along with the Holy Spirit — was a friend when I needed it most, pulling me from the depths of despair. He saved my life and my soul — and it’s my hope, like many, that he will one day be canonized.
Until that joyous day: Father McGivney, pray for us!
