I Am A Dead Man

Volume XXII, Number 5 – July 3, 2018

I Am a Dead Man

My longtime readers will recall that I was living on a large rural property in northern New Hampshire two decades ago. Our homestead on the outskirts of town was at the end of a long dirt road adjacent to tens of thousands of acres of forestland. Now picture the following true events in your mind's eye:

One freezing December afternoon I needed to make minor repair on a pump for our cistern (a large underground water tank the size of a bedroom) located on a remote hill of the property. In my Carhartt overalls, tools in hand, I trudged up there alone without telling anybody about my plans. Cellphone? Nope—and no coverage.

To access the cistern (buried several feet below the surface), there was a large round corrugated pipe leading directly downward; it was slightly less wide than a manhole. We had a small metal ladder nearby, but I did not need to enter the cistern, which was full. During the repair, I accidentally fumbled the top of a spray can cap into the cistern. This was a serious matter because that cap could block the valve which allowed the water to flow down to our house in the valley.

I spied the cap floating on the surface of the water below. Then, without thinking, I bent the top half of my body over into the opening to see if I could reach that blasted cap. It was well beyond my grasp, so I maneuvered my hips over the edge of the opening...

...and my whole body suddenly slipped down, headfirst, arms-first, into the pipe. I splayed my legs outward as I descended to keep from falling all the way into the tank, but my feet went past the top edge of the entrance.

Darkness.

When my momentum stopped, my shoulders were jutting out the bottom of the pipe and I could hear the gently lapping water a couple feet from my face as I hung upside down, my hands in the water. My rapidly tiring legs were pushing unnaturally against the interior sides; this was the only thing preventing me from falling all the way in.

“I am a dead man,” I horsely admitted out loud.

You see, that water was ice cold. The temperature outside was below freezing. I was (and remain) a big guy—over 250 pounds at the time. When my legs gave out, I was going to slip in, flip over, and then find myself standing in water up to my shoulders. There would be no way to climb out without that ladder on the surface.

Still hanging upside down, I quickly assessed my grim circumstances. Shimmy up backwards?—impossible. No one knew where I was. No one had seen me working on the cistern. Months could go by without anyone going near that part of the property. No one would hear my muffled cries for help coming out of the pipe.

I knew without any doubt I was going to die of hypothermia—literally freeze to death—probably in less than an hour. My sons, little boys and toddlers at the time, would go through life without their father...

I accepted my death with a solemn grace. I was serene, in fact, calmly planning my own pending demise. I prayed an Act of Contrition for my many sins—yet I felt a tinge of regret for all I would miss on this earth. Mostly, I felt for my sons. I resolved to pray until my last breath, offer up my final sufferings to Christ, while trying to last as long as I could after I finally slipped into the water.

The muscles in my thighs were screaming. The blood pressure in my skull from hanging upside down was pounding out every heart beat. I began to release the tension in my legs...

...and when I did I felt an invisible force gently “clamp” around the entire lower half of my body, from my hips to my ankles, like an enormous powerful hand, and this force rapidly dragged me up...until I was coming out of the pipe, my feet high up in the air, with my torso, then my outstretched arms, and finally my head exited the pipe. I was gently placed on the scrubby ground.

Alive. Alive, to this very day, as I type this for you.

I scrambled to my feet, hands on my knees, as I breathlessly shook my head with a wry smile. I threw my head back and cried out incoherently to God in thanks for such an astounding miracle!

Can an angel clasp an entire body? Or was it my heavenly Father's very own hand?

For His unfathomable reasons, the Father decided He did not want me to die on that wintry day, despite my ridiculously dumb decision to go after that cap. Perhaps so CatholiCity.com could help you? So I could bring your intentions to the holiest places on earth? Perhaps for the sake of my sons? For the sake of so many others whose love I have joyfully shared since? For some Future Good I have not yet encountered?

Or, for my own sake, because I consecrated my heart to Immaculate Mary?

Or, perhaps, to save me from the fires of hell? I went to Confession as soon as possible later that week. I rededicated my life to inviting people to go to Confession.

How many times have our angels dissuaded us from making decisions that could have led to your own or my death, without us knowing?

Oddly, perhaps because I never told anyone about it, fifteen years passed without my dwelling upon God's supernatural intervention that day—until a few years ago, when I it leapt into my mind during a party in Phoenix while visiting my oldest son Jude.

Last Thursday, when I came within inches of falling to my death into the Grand Canyon, I thought about it again.

Grand Canyon Sons

I have four sons. Xavier, my third, is working for CatholiCity this summer as a computer programmer. He is twenty years old, a brilliant student, and a state champion rugby player. As you can see below, he is Size Extra Large: an imposing, muscular 6 feet 5 inches, belying a sweet and gentle disposition.

Last week Xavier and I flew to Arizona to join my oldest son, Jude, who, after attending college and teaching out west, needed to move back to Ohio to begin graduate school in Theology at the Franciscan University of Steubenville this fall. Our plan was to see the Grand Canyon for the first time and drive through the Rocky Mountains.

In a family of intellectually gifted kids, Jude has always been the acknowledged bonafide genius. (He is memorizing the entire New Testament as part of his preparation for grad school.) He has many amazing friends, including several converts to Catholicism.

Our five-day sojourn was an adventure fathers and sons dream about. Breathtaking landscapes. Meals in little towns with names like “Leadville” at elevations of 11,000 feet. We enjoyed extended theological, cultural, meandering, often hilarious, discussions in the minivan as the 2,300 miles ebbed and flowed. The highlight, of course, was the Grand Canyon.

(Xavey, black shirt. Jude, green shirt. Me, cheap Hawaiian shirt.)

They say it is uniquely impossible for the Grand Canyon to be a letdown because it is actually more spectacular in person than photographs or words can depict. I don't know who “they” are, but they are absolutely correct.

Jude marches to the beat of his own drummer, however, and he “disappeared” while Xavier and I strolled along the wide stretches of safe, railed walkways that protect sightseers from all over the world.

Eventually, Xavier spotted Jude far away on an unprotected ledge jutting out over the canyon, his legs dangling over the side! Xavier left me to climb out to join him. (They're circled in the next photo.)

Echoing my idiotic decision to half-dive into that cistern pipe, it took me a long time to crawl, climb, and slowly make my way out to them, bum knee ready to betray me. I was terrified in an exciting way. On my hands and knees along two-foot wide paths with thousand foot drops, my death was one ill-chosen hand-grasp or foot-slip away. Oh yeah, I also have suffered from nasty vertigo since childhood!

Crumbly rocks cut into my knees and elbows. Don't look down! Between the multiple adrenaline hits and the elevation, my heart was beating wildly by the time I carefully lowered myself onto the ledge to be with my two budding theologian-mountain goats.

Then I prayed. What else is there to do in God's most staggeringly awesome cathedral? What else to do so physically near to instant death (and immortality)? I prayed for the people I love most. I prayed for you.

Obviously, I made it out alive, terrified the whole crawl-hike back. My ill-advised visit to the Canyon ledge was the closest I have come to actual death since God saved me from certain death in the cistern, which crossed my mind on those harrowing ledges.

My two noble sons and I spent a while on that ledge, mostly not talking. I wish you could have been there—this Message and the photos are as close as I could get you.

Big Things Coming

I have been dropping hints about upcoming big projects for a few months now. These are progressing quickly and we still need your financial support.

(You can donate here.)

I will have more details soon—later this month, in fact. One involves our annual CatholiCity “miracle” pilgrimage wherein I bring your written prayer intentions with me. Hint, two words: Holy Land.

Actually, that's not a hint: we are flat out taking your intentions to Israel and all the holy places there! (There will also be an opportunity for those of you blessed with the financial wherewithal to join me on this mission, which also involves a ground-breaking Catholic television project.)

Later this summer? Our first new CD recording in a long time. Hint: the most amazing modern conversion story since Scott Hahn!

Free Confession Booklet This month's featured tool for evangelization is “Going Back to Confession” by yours truly. It has helped tens of thousands of souls return to friendship in Christ by focusing on the "How To" and theology of absolution rather than listing sins. Have you read it? How long has it been since you went to Confession? It will help you and help others in your parish. Order Your Booklet Now

Quotations About Death

If we were required to die twice, we could jettison one death. But man dies once only, and upon this death depends his eternity. Where the tree falls, there it shall lie. If, at the hour of death, someone is living in bad habit, the poor soul will fall on the side of hell. If, on the other hand, he is in the state of grace, it will take the road for heaven. Oh, happy road!
Saint John Vianney

Death is no phantom, no horrible specter, as presented in pictures. In the catechism it is stated that death is the separation of soul and body, that is all! Well, I am not afraid of a separation which will unite me to the good God forever.
Saint Therese of Lisieux

How consoling it is to see a just man die! His death is good, because it ends his miseries; it is better still, because he begins a new life; it is excellent, because it places him in sweet security. From this bed of mourning, where he leaves a precious cargo of virtues, he goes to take possession of the true land of the living, where Jesus acknowledges him as His brother and as His friend.
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux

The more one longs for a thing, the more painful deprivation of it becomes. And because... the desire for God, the Supreme Good, is intense in the souls of the just... the soul suffers enormously from the delay.
Saint Thomas Aquinas

Join Tens of Thousands in Prayer

Let's all 60,000+ CatholiCity Citizens pray with each other today for the poorest of the poor, who, according to Saint Teresa of Calcutta, are those who do not know God. Let us pray for the fallen away and the unbelievers among our families and friends, to Our Lady, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit...

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, we fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins our Mother! To thee do we come, before thee we stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not our petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer us! Amen.

Thank you for praying with me. Don't forget to order your Confession booklets and Marianne Collins' amazing conversion story! Souls are at stake.

I have decided to add a disturbing yet weirdly funny "Bonus" true story, fittingly starring my son Xavier, from my 2002 CatholiCity Message, below. Peace, out.

With Immaculate Mary,

Bud Macfarlane Founder

Blast from the Past:
War on the Rumor Weeds

In our house, we call them Rumor Weeds, inspired by a VeggieTale video, but the official name for these nasty thorn-covered plants is thistle or bull thistle. They had infested our property by the thousands; it made going barefoot impossible.

So our children have been waging an all-out war to eradicate our enemy for over two years. The key is to get the suckers before they go to seed.

Seasoned rumor weed hunters, we are now able to spot them from great distances. We know their favorite hiding places. We track them; we engage them in mortal combat by spraying them with poison. Or we yank them out with gloved hands. Sometimes we rip them out using weed tools and a gas-engined weedwacker (mechanized warfare).

We are relentless, as our forebears are Scottish and therefore we were born to conduct war. For we are Irish and therefore we were born to write poetically about the heroic deeds of war. (And yes, we are Italian, and therefore were born to enjoy excellent meals after engaging in war.)

Mercy is for the weak when it comes to the hated rumor weed. After returning from a recent trip, our four-year-old, let us call him "Agent Spartan," called his father over to see a particularly large and ugly rumor weed. He and his older brothers had not ripped it by the roots from the dark soil; this surprised me.

When I bent over to take a closer look, however, I noticed that it was already dying, decaying in place, its formerly thorny-green leafs had turned a satisfying brown and gray. Dead on the battlefield.

"How did you kill it?" I asked my son, as I was confused. "You're not allowed to use the poison spray."

"No, we knew we aren't allowed to use the spray," he replied, looking up, a hard-bitten squint in his eye. "So I kept going pee-pee on it until it was dead."

Our little Braveheart.