Basic Information
Name: John
Age: 67
Sex: Male
Location: New York
Life Before Faith Commitment
I was born and raised in Corning, NY, the middle child of five. My siblings and I were spread out—my older sister was four years older than me, and my younger brother was five years younger. Faith was a constant in our home. We all attended Catholic school, and my family structured Sundays around Mass. Sometimes we went in shifts—Dad and I to 10:00 am, and Mom with my sisters to 11:30. It wasn’t until later that I realized the sacrifice my parents made to send us to St. Patrick’s School —paying tuition, working the Fall Bazaar, and taking on extra roles just to make it work. By third grade, I was an altar server. I served at funerals, which meant I could leave school for 90 minutes and even earned a 50-cent piece from Father Davis. It felt like a reward, but I didn’t grasp the weight of the role, or the meaning of death.
Fourth grade brought my first real confrontation with death. Our teacher, Mrs. Lynch, lived just a block and a half from my house. One afternoon while delivering newspapers with my friend Tom, we saw police cars at her house. Tom tried to deliver the paper, but an officer stopped him. He came running back across the street to tell me that Mrs. Lynch had died. I didn’t even know what ‘died’ really meant. I asked my mom, and she brought me to the funeral home a few days later. Seeing Mrs. Lynch in her casket, with flowers everywhere, shook me. I didn’t understand how to ‘say goodbye.’ Mom told me to kneel and pray an Our Father and a couple Hail Marys for her soul. That was my first experience with the mystery of death.
The Turning Point
Death came again in 1982 when Dad passed away from stomach cancer at just 54. His father had died from the same illness shortly after I was born. We tried to be hopeful, but back then, a cancer diagnosis felt like a death sentence. A few days before he died, I told Dad it was okay to stop fighting—I believed he’d go to heaven. He cried and thanked me. That night, I didn’t pray the Our Father with him before leaving for a party in Elmira. At 4 a.m., I got the call—Dad had died. I raced back to Corning. When I arrived, Father Phil had already anointed him. He led me to Dad’s body, lying half off the bed. I knelt beside him, held his hand, and prayed. I adjusted his body to make him more comfortable, not realizing it would upset my sister because the coroner hadn’t yet arrived. But I was numb and at peace—he wasn’t in pain anymore.
Years passed. Many aunts, uncles, and family friends died. Mom remained resilient despite her emphysema, living with oxygen and the constant care of my sister Rosemary. I loved our talks. She offered wise advice—even on my work challenges—and it amazed me how often her suggestions worked. Toward the end, she spoke of Sam Houston and Julio visiting by helicopter. My sisters dismissed it as confusion. Mom died in 2004. We believed Dad had waited long enough for her.
In January of the following year, our Right to Life group held a prayer service before the March for Life. After the service, as we gathered materials, a homeless man entered the church. Rosemary kindly told him to try the rectory for food. As we were leaving the Church, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the homeless man again,
he said, ‘No one answered and I’m still really hungry.’
I couldn’t walk away!
I told him to come with me, and I’d take him for a burger. On the drive, I reached out and said, “Hi, my name is John,” but before I could finish, he laughed and said, “I know—John. Your mom says hi. My name is Julio.” I froze. Julio was the name my mom had spoken about in her final years, claiming he visited her with Sam Houston in a helicopter—something we all dismissed as a symptom of her illness. But this man knew details he couldn’t have known. At McDonald’s, he ate a full meal and said he had to head to Pittsburgh. As he walked away, I was hit with the sudden realization that I shouldn’t have let him go. I rushed outside to find him, but he was gone. That night, I became certain Julio wasn’t just a stranger—he was a messenger. Somehow, God had sent him to let me know that my mom was with Him, and that He was still guiding my story.
Life After Transformation
After this I became more and more drawn to the Catholic faith. I used frequent flyer miles to visit sacred sites—the Holy Land, Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico, shrines in Europe, and churches across the U.S. But the biggest miracles came closer to home.
During the COVID pandemic, at 4 a.m., I received a call from my son Andy: ‘Dad, I’m on the floor. I need help.’ He lived nearby, and I rushed over, calling 911 en route. Paramedics suspected heart issues and took him to the Hospital. The ER doctor diagnosed a massive pulmonary embolism, and the only doctor who could perform the emergency procedure was out on cancer leave. I gave consent anyway, and miraculously, that doctor came in to do it. He saved Andy’s life.
Three months later, it was my turn. Out of nowhere, I could barely breathe. My wife Theresa rushed to help and got me to the hospital. The doctors first suspected a heart attack, but my test results didn’t match. I told them about Andy’s recent pulmonary embolism, and they quickly sent me for a CT scan. It confirmed the diagnosis: I had a massive saddle pulmonary embolism—the same life-threatening condition my son had barely survived. The room turned quiet as the doctors explained that I likely had less than two hours to live. The only specialist authorized to perform the catheter-based procedure was out with COVID, and all nearby hospitals were overwhelmed. I told them to administer the tPa directly through my IV and prayed it would reach the clots in time.
One of the doctors came back and asked, “Mr. Brennan, do you understand that we told you that you only have two hours to live?” I nodded. He studied me for a moment and said, “You don’t seem worried or nervous.” I looked at him and replied, “I’m a Roman Catholic Christian. I believe that God has a plan for us. If it’s His will that I live, then I’ll live. If not, I’ll be in heaven soon.” He tilted his head slightly, said, “Hmm…” and quietly walked away.
God wasn’t done with me yet. I recovered and have since welcomed three more grandchildren. I’ve written 12 faith-based books and sold nearly 900 copies. I help lead two local Catholic men’s groups and have played a key role in organizing two transformative parish retreats. Every part of my life—every loss, encounter, and miracle—was part of God’s plan. And I’m still living it.
Scriptural Reflection
Romans 8:28 – ‘We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.’
From childhood funerals to near-death experiences, from my dad’s goodbye to a mysterious visit from Julio, God has been threading redemption into my life’s story. Every piece matters. And now, I know that I’m still here because He’s not done yet.
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