“Then he who sat on the throne said, ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ And he said to me, ‘Write, for these words are true and faithful.’”  Revelation 21:5

God-incidences I like to call them.

Just a few days ago, as I was drifting off to sleep I had thoughts of a story I had written almost 15 years ago about a 90-year-old Capuchin priest, Father Hyacinth Dabrowski.

Then, yesterday, as a co-worker mentioned the amazing life of a diocesan priest who had recently passed away, I shared with her the similarly remarkable life of Father Hyacinth, who, I had written, experienced “more of the divine and the profane in life than those of lesser faith could handle.”

Later that evening, as I opened a desk drawer at home, I noticed a yellowing slip of paper protruding from a folder. I pulled it out to find the story of Father Hyacinth written April 16, 1998.

I couldn’t help but smile and wonder why Father Hyacinth was making a reappearance in my life.

I decided to re-read the story I had written to find out.

There on the page were three photographs, one of Father Hyacinth as he appeared that day when we shared a delightful lunch of Polish foods, him dressed in his Capuchin robes, one arm resting comfortably on a nearby table. Another photo, with him already a priest, wearing a suit coat and tie, and large round glasses, portrayed a distinguished, handsome man of 32, teaching underground in Lublin, Poland, in 1940. The third photo, just a year later, shows Father Hyacinth with a clean shaven head, wearing an unusual striped shirt and a hard-to-distinguish number – 20362 – written across the front, capturing a moment in his faith journey most would never experience – arrival at Auschwitz, Sept. 5, 1941.

From Auschwitz, Father Hyacinth was sent to Dachau, marking the beginning of a four-year struggle for survival to which many others succumbed.  He shared with me, “There, in the concentration camp, as a priest, I was unable to express my religion. I was not allowed to teach religion to people but we tried to show our religion in hidden ways – underground. We would be persecuted and killed for that, but nevertheless people asked me to say Mass and give them Communion. We did everything possible to satisfy the prisoners,” Father Hyacinth remembered of the more than 2,000 Polish priests in Block 28.

Of those 2,000, Father Hyacinth estimated only 800 survived to be liberated by American forces in 1945. When I asked him why he thought he was among them, he offered two reasons: his fluency in several languages which made him a valuable interpreter, and most importantly, his faith. “It was 100 percent important for me to stay a Catholic priest with religious convictions at this time,” he stressed, certain that it was his vocation and his faith in the God “who was always looking at us when we were beaten, persecuted” which helped in his struggle “to survive Nazi law which condemned prisoners to die.”

When I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance and the privilege of having him share pieces of his life which he could have easily buried away to be forgotten, Father Hyacinth had been 65 years a priest, with 45 of those years in parish ministry. At the spry age of 90 he had just given up his 4:30 a.m. visits to the hospital to minister to those who were suffering, and remained a popular confessor who drew many to the sacrament.

One thing I clearly remember of our visit was Father Hyacinth’s advice to young priests, born of his life’s passion: “Love your God, our Savior, Jesus Christ. He gave all of us the example of how to live the true Christian life. Being united to Christ we have hope that we will survive everything,” he said simply.

Why am I recalling all of this now? I’m not sure, but perhaps, being among the Communion of Saints, Father Hyacinth has heard some of my prayers lately, or perhaps he has heard the prayers of someone else who may benefit from his Godly wisdom, and I’m just the pen.