“There are few authentic prophetic voices among us, guiding truth-seekers along the right path. Among them is Fr. Gordon MacRae, a mighty voice in the prison tradition of John the Baptist, Maximilian Kolbe, Alfred Delp, SJ, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.”
— Deacon David Jones
Knock and the Door Will Open: The Long Road to Bangkok Thailand
Thanks to Bill Donohue, “Pornchai’s Story” made its way around the world and was read to Catholics in Thailand. Pornchai’s Divine Mercy bridge to Thailand was built.
Thanks to Bill Donohue, “Pornchai’s Story” made its way around the world and was read to Catholics in Thailand. Pornchai’s Divine Mercy bridge to Thailand was built.
May 6, 2026 by Father Gordon MacRae
I wrote a post recently entitled “Book of Tobit: The Angel Raphael on the Road with Pornchai Moontri.” It was an allegory, like the Book of Tobit itself. An allegory is a sort of genre of Sacred Scripture in which a story is told more for its meaning than for its historical value. Every parable of Jesus falls into this same genre. A part of the story of Tobit, and his son Tobias and their interactions with the Archangel Raphael in disguise were all part of the allegory. That does not mean the allegory did not happen. It means only that the truth of the story does not depend upon someone believing it. There was one aspect of the Book of Tobit story that became a centerpiece of my blog linked above. At the beginning and the end of the Book of Tobit there is a mysterious dog whose presence, meaning and purpose remain a mystery.
My friend Pornchai Max and his grueling assimilation to his native Thailand after a forced absence of 36 years and all the torment he endured in that time, also included the presence of a mysterious dog named Hill. When that post was published on April 29 this year, a number of our readers wanted to know what became of Hill. So I went back this week and added an important addendum, which you can read for yourselves by clicking on it at the end of this post.
Now I want to back up about 19 years, in 2007 when Max learned that he would be deported to Thailand at the end of his sentence. He would be taken to Bangkok and left there. ICE would have no further responsibility for him.
Bangkok, the Capitol of the Kingdom of Thailand, is a massive city of about 9.5 million people. In Thai, the great city’s name is almost unpronounceable to the Western World, and the longest name of any city on Earth at 156 characters. I don’t expect you to memorize it, but in the Thai language Bangkok’s name is: Krungthepmahanakorn Amornrattanakosin Mahintrayuthaya Mahadilokpob Noparat Rajataniburirom Udomrajanivej Mahasatharn Amornpimarn Awatarnsat Sakatadtiya Wisanukamprasit. For daily use in Thai, the name is simply abbreviated to “Bangkok Krung Thep” which in English means “City of Angels.” When Max first told me of this in a phone call, he said, “I’m not kidding. They called it that even before I got here!”
This is a complicated but amazing story that meanders down a long and winding road. Our presentation of it begins in 2006 in a New Hampshire prison cell and threads its mysterious connections all the way around the globe. I n the end you may find any lingering doubts about Divine Mercy falling away. Divine Mercy has opened impenetrable doors for Pornchai Moontri, many of them in otherwise unreachable places.
If you have read my post, “The Parable of a Priest and the Parable of a Prisoner” then you know that Max had been in prison for 29 years, more than half his life, for a crime committed as a teenager, a crime that was set in motion by someone else. You also know that Max was moved from a maximum security solitary confinement unit in Maine to the New Hampshire Prison where we met and became friends late in 2006. That story is told powerfully at the link above.
I had another friend in this prison from Cambodia whom I had helped with the deportation process. He was brought to this country as a child of two, and committed a petty crime at age 18. After a long failed process of appeals, he was deported at age 25 to Cambodia, but spoke not a word of Khmer. One year after his deportation, I received a note from his sister telling me that he disappeared in the capital city of Phenom Penh. He had never been seen or heard from again.
We learned an important but scary lesson from what happened to my Cambodian friend. Since Max was brought to the U.S. as a young child, and has no known family or contacts in Thailand other than distance cousins, the experience of our friend in Cambodia chilled me to the core. I became determined that Max would be ready to live and cope somehow in the immense City of Bangkok when the time came. We had a few years to prepare, but I did not even know where to begin.
How could two men living in a prison cell in New Hampshire with no resources, no online access, and a severely limited budget find and connect with people on the other side of the world? How could I interest anyone in Thailand with the plight of a young man taken from there at age 11, his mother murdered, only to come to the United States to end up homeless and in prison as a teenager? This was not a good place from which to start.
THE SILENCE
“I don’t even know where to begin,” Max told me dismally. “I don’t even know how to learn about Thailand.” I knew I had to start writing, but this was two years before even the idea of this blog was conceived. A day in the prison library produced some addresses. First, I wrote of Max’s situation to Catholic Charities in the Diocese of Manchester (NH). They are, after all, a global network. No response, but no real surprise there. Then I wrote to the national office of Catholic Charities. No response. Then I wrote to the Office of Immigration and Refugee Assistance sponsored by my Diocese. No response. Then I wrote to the Catholic Legal Immigration Network at Boston College. No response. I knocked at the door of every official Catholic agency I could find. No one answered. I knocked, and I waited, and I knocked some more.
I cannot convey in words the utter frustration of writing repeatedly only to have my overtures met with silence. I decided that the problem was not Pornchai’s plight, but rather mine. I told Max that we will have to write all these letters again, but coming directly from him. So we redrafted all the letters under his name. More knocking; more waiting. More silence.
When all of our letters from prison were relegated to the netherworld without responses, I took it personally. I knew we needed a different approach. I asked Max to candidly write his life story — which is an amazing story in and of itself — in as few pages as possible, and let me send it to the few Catholic contacts I had who did not ignore our plight. One of them was Bill Donohue, President of the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights. Once he read “Pornchai’s Story,” he wrote back immediately asking if he could publish it on the Catholic League website. From there, it slowly made its way around the world. We knocked and knocked, and waited some more.
The late Father Richard John Neuhaus — a courageous Catholic writer and editor of First Things magazine — sent Max a personal letter to tell him how very important his story is, not only for Max, but for the Church. Father Neuhaus promised to pass the story along to others. This was a year before Father Neuhaus faced his own untimely death from cancer in January, 2009. More knocking, and more waiting.
Max started receiving letters from other important figures in the Church. One came from His Eminence Cardinal Kitbunchu, Archbishop Emeritus of Bangkok. Max was bowled over by that letter. Another came from the Rome Office of Ambassador Mary Ann Glendon, who had been appointed by President George W. Bush as U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See.
Bill Donohue extending to Max honorary membership in the Catholic League and promised to promised to promote his story. My article for Catalyst appeared at the same time, in the July/August 2009 issue. It was “Due Process for Accused Priests.” As an unintended consequence, Pornchai’s story and mine became linked together.
Pornchai’s Story
Here is Pornchai’s Story:
[From Dr. Bill Donohue: ] As we begin the New Year, we’d like to share with you this moving account of one young man’s conversion story.
My name is Pornchai Moontri, and as I write this I am prisoner #77948 in the New Hampshire State Prison. I come to the Catholic faith after a painful journey in darkness that my friend, Father Gordon MacRae, has asked me to write candidly. This is not something I do easily, but I trust my friend.
I was born in Bua Nong Lamphu, in a small village in the north of Thailand near Khon Kaen on September 10, 1973. At the age of two, I was abandoned by my mother and a stranger tried to sell me. A distant teenaged relative rescued me. He walked many miles to carry me away to his family farm where I worked throughout my childhood raising water buffalo, rice, and sugar cane. I never attended school, however, and never learned to read and write in Thai. Though my childhood involved hard work, I was safe and happy.
When I was 11 years old, my mother re-emerged in Thailand with a new husband — an American air traffic controller from Bangor, Maine. I was taken from Thailand by them against my will, and brought to the United States. This transition was a trauma to be endured. A month after my arrival in Bangor, my new stepfather’s motive for importing a ready-made Thai family became clear. I was forcibly raped by him at age 11, an event that was to be repeated with regularity over the next three years. I was a prisoner in his house, and resistance was only met with violence against me and against my mother. I was all of 100 pounds. I cannot describe this further. Welcome to America!
Being one of only three Asians in 1985 Bangor, and speaking little English, I did not readily comprehend my new names. “Gook,” “V.C.” and “Charlie” meant nothing to me, but I could sense the scorn with which such names were delivered. Because my English was poor, I was treated as though I was stupid. Part of my humiliation was that I had to get a paper route at age 12, and my earnings were taken from me to pay for the “privilege” of living in my captor’s house. Stephen King’s home was on my paper route. Mr. King once gave me a Christmas bonus of 25¢ for delivering his newspaper all year. The horror stories he wrote about Maine are all true. Remember the one with the evil clown? It’s true.
When I was 14, my English was better. I was a little bigger, and a lot stronger — and nothing but angry. Anger was all I had. So with it I fled that house and became a homeless teenager in and around Bangor. One day the Bangor police actually picked me up and forced me to go “home.” I would rather have gone to one of the ones Stephen King wrote about. I just fled again and again, and ended up at the Good Will Hinckley School for people like me. I was there for a year and got kicked out for fighting. I was always fighting. I fought everyone.
Back on the streets of Bangor, I began to carry a knife. At 17 and 18, a lot of people were after me. I lived under a bridge for a while and sometimes my mother would bring me things. I tried to climb out of the deep hole I was in by signing up for night classes at age 18 to finish my high school diploma. I was kicked out of Bangor High School for punching the principal.
One night, at age 18, something that lived in me got out. I got very drunk with friends, and we walked into a Bangor Shop & Save supermarket to buy cigarettes. I barely remember this. In my drunken state, I opened a bottle of beer from a case and started to drink it. The manager confronted me and ordered me to leave. I tried to flee the store, but the manager and other employees then tried to keep me there. I tried to fight them off to flee. When I got outside, a manager from another Shop & Save had witnessed the incident and pounced on me. I was 130 pounds and was pinned to the ground by this 190-pound man. I think something snapped in my mind. IT was happening again. I fought, but his dead weight was suffocating me. The newspapers would later tell a different story, but this was the truth, and it is all I remember.
In jail that night, I was questioned for three hours. I was told that I had stabbed a man and was charged with attempted murder. I have no memory, to this day, of stabbing the man. The next morning, I awoke in a jail cell and was told that I was charged with Class A murder. The man had died during the night. I was told that I blew a .25 on the Breathalyzer, but the result was so high it was discarded as an error.
My stepfather could have hired expert counsel, but it was clearly not in his best interest that my life be evaluated, so I was left in the care of a public defender who wanted this high profile case off his desk. There was talk about the Breathalyzer, and “level of culpability,” and things like “defensive vs. offensive wounds,” but in the end there were no theories, no experts and no defense. I was terrified of being abandoned. My mother came to me in jail and pleaded with me to protect her and “the family” by not revealing what happened in my life. So I remained silent. I offered no defense at all. My co-defendant told the truth of my being pinned down, but he was not believed. I was convicted of “Class A murder with deliberate indifference” and sentenced, at age 18, to 45 years in a Maine Prison. Maine has no parole.
I was also sentenced with the soul of the innocent man whose life I took — despite my being unable to remember taking it. The mix of remorse and anger was toxic in prison, and I gave up. Prison became just an extension of where I had already been. My anger raged on and on, and I spent 13 of my 15 years in prison in Maine’s “supermax” facility for those who can’t be trusted in the light of day.
Five years into my imprisonment, I learned one night in my supermax cell that my mother and stepfather had relocated to the Island of Guam where my mother was murdered. She was pushed from a cliff. [The story that was told to Pornchai, but it was false.] The only suspect was her husband but there was no evidence. I was now alone in my rage.
After 14 years of this, the Maine prison decided to send me to an out-of-state prison. I had no idea where I was to be sent. I arrived in the New Hampshire State Prison on October 18, 2005 dragging behind me the Titanic in which I stored all my anger and hurt and loss and loss and loss — and guilt.
I started my time in a new prison by getting into a fight and ended up in the same old place — the hole. When some months went by, I was given another chance. I was sent to H-Building where I met my friend JJ, an Indonesian who was waiting to be deported. JJ introduced me one day to Gordon, who he said was helping him and some others with appealing their INS removal orders or with preparing themselves to be deported. He seemed to be the only person who even cared. JJ trusted Gordon, so I had several conversations with him. A few months later, I was moved to the same unit in which he lives in this prison. We became friends.
By patience and especially by example, Gordon helped me change the course of my life. He is my best friend, and the person I trust most in this world. It is the strangest irony that he has been in prison for 13 years accused fictionally of the same behaviors visited upon me in the real world by the man who took me from Thailand. I read the articles about Gordon in The Wall Street Journal last year. I know him better, I think, than just about anyone. I know only too well the person who does what Gordon is wrongly accused of. Gordon is not that person. Far from it. It is hard for me to accept that laws and public sentiment allow men to demand and receive huge financial settlements from the Catholic Church years or decades after claimed abuse while all that happened to me has gone without even casual notice by anyone — except, ironically, Gordon MacRae.
On September 10, I will be 34 years old. I have been in prison now for nearly half of my life, but in the last year I have begun to know what freedom is. My anger is still with me and it always lurks just below the surface, but my friend is also with me. We both recently signed up for an intense 15-week course in personal violence. He is doing this for me. I spend my days in school instead of in lock-up now, and I will soon complete my High School diploma. Gordon helped me obtain a scholarship for a series of non-credit courses in Catholic studies at Catholic Distance University. In the last year, with help and understanding, I have completed programs offered in the New Hampshire prison. One day I felt strangely light so I looked behind me, and the Titanic was not there. I parked it somewhere along the way. I have put my childhood aside. Now I am a man.
In March of this year, after 15 years in prison, I was ordered by an INS court to be removed from the United States and deported to Thailand at the end of my sentence in 17 to 20 years or so. Gordon hopes that I can seek a sentence reduction so that I can return to Thailand at an age at which I may still build a life. There are many obstacles. The largest is that I do not speak Thai any longer and I never had an opportunity to learn and to read and write in Thai. We are working hard to prepare me for this. Though years away, it is a very frightening thing to go to a country only vaguely familiar. I have not heard Thai spoken since age 11, 23 years ago. There is no one I know there and no place for me to go. I have no home anywhere.
Along this steep path, I have made a decision to become Catholic. The priest in my friend has not been extinguished by 13 years in prison. It is still the part of him that shines the brightest. Gordon never asked me to become Catholic. He never even brought it up. I t is the path he is on and I was pulled to it by the force of grace, and the hope that one day I could do good for others. Gordon showed me a book, Jesus of Nazareth, in which Pope Benedict wrote: “The true ‘exodus’…consists in this: Among all the paths of history, the path to God is the true direction that we must seek and find.”
I am taking a correspondence course in Catholic studies through the Knights of Columbus and I look forward to the studies through Catholic Distance University. I go to Mass with Gordon when it is offered in the prison, and our faith is always a part of every day. When I return to the place I haven’t seen since age 11, I want to go there as a committed Catholic open to God’s call to live a life in service to others. It is what someone very special to me has done for me, and I must do the same.
My friend asked me to sit down today and type the story of my life and where I am now. He asked me to let him send this to a few friends who he says may play some role — directly or indirectly — in my life some day. The account is my own. What Father Gordon added was hope, and somehow faith has also taken root. In prison, hope and faith are everything. Everything!
[Written by Pornchai Moontri in 2008 and published by the Catholic League.]
Thanks to Bill Donohue and the Catholic League, “Pornchai’s Story” made its way around the world and was read to Catholics in Thailand. Pornchai Moontri’s Divine Mercy Bridge to Thailand was built despite many obstacles.
Note from Father Gordon MacRae: Pornchai’s story does not end here. There were other miracles yet to be told, but they are told in other posts here:
Book of Tobit: The Angel Raphael on the Road with Pornchai Moontri
The Parable of a Priest and the Parable of a Prisoner
Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam
A Catholic League White House Plea Set Pornchai Moontri Free
The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.
Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.
The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”
For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”
Book of Tobit: The Angel Raphael on the Road with Pornchai Moontri
The Old Testament Book of Tobit provides a setting for this story of a familiar wanderer and his dog and their angelic quest for healing from a traumatic past.
The Old Testament Book of Tobit provides a setting for this story of a familiar wanderer and his dog and their angelic quest for healing from a traumatic past.
April 22, 2026 by Father Gordon MacRae
The young man went out and the angel went with him, and a dog came along and journeyed with them.
— Tobit 6:1-2
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There are 46 books in the Old Testament of Sacred Scripture. Among them are 14 that are in the category of Historical Books. Each tells a story about the history of God’s people from the earliest times. The Historical Books of the Bible do not convey the Word of God in the same way as the Law and the Prophets, but in them we come to know God through the power of story. I wrote of one of these wonderful accounts in the category of Historical Books in “The Holy Spirit and the Book of Ruth at Pentecost.”
Also among these Historical Books are two that are set against the background of the time of exile in Eighth Century BC. They are the Books of Tobit and Esther, each presenting a story of exile far from the Holy Land.
Today’s post is about the Book of Tobit in which we found a modern-day version quite reminiscent of it, in which God’s fidelity in the midst of our suffering and hardship is revealed even in the far-off places. The Book of Tobit mirrors a chapter in the contemporary life of a good friend on the verge of the next chapter in his life.
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Up to now, I have written about only two of the named angels of Sacred Scripture. So as not to distract you from this post, I will link to those other accounts at the end of this one. In a most strange way, the Archangel Raphael has placed himself into the cast of characters at work on our behalf beyond these stone walls. It is a profound account with lots of twists and turns like the Book of Tobit itself, but I will try to straighten the curves a bit.
This is a Part Two of sorts to an earlier post about our friend, Pornchai Moontri and his return to his native Thailand after an absence of 36 years. Pornchai is now 52, and has been struggling to adjust to the land of the free in a country he had not seen since age eleven. Part One of this post was “For Pornchai Moontri, a Miracle Unfolds in Thailand.”
Before I continue that account, I have to comment on the photo atop this post. After the reunion with his family described in the post linked above, Pornchai left with Father John Le for the nine-hour drive back to the Bangkok area and the Society of the Divine Word home, where he had first been living upon his arrival in Thailand. While there, Pornchai learned of an annual Thai custom called, in English, the “Water Festival.” It occurs in mid-April to mark the Thai New Year. It is tradition that Thai citizens honor the dead — a tribute akin to All Souls Day — by cleaning and restoring their tombs. So Pornchai decided to return there for a month to clean and honor the tombs of his Mother and Grandmother. The Water Festival is from April 12 to 16.
In the weeks before the Festival began, Pornchai had been spending his time doing yard work around the unfinished home of his Mother, left vacant since the time of her death. You may recall that after her own return to Thailand, she left that home in 2000 not knowing that she was going to her own untimely death, a victim of an unsolved homicide on the Island of Guam. She was almost the same age Pornchai is now. Being there, and coming to terms with all that transpired before, is an essential part of a most painful journey.
While in the village of Phuwiang (pronounced poo-vee-ANG) Pornchai had been rebuilding his relationship with his distant extended family from which he had been estranged for 36 years. “You can’t go home again.” That was the title of an American novel by Thomas Wolfe. His title signifies that you cannot return to the past, childhood, or old places, as time, change, and memory make the original “home” impossible to truly revisit. They were a close-knit family when Pornchai was taken from them against his will at age eleven. I cannot begin to fathom the depth of alienation and pain behind these reunions. I had been talking with Pornchai daily during this time. I usually called him at 11 AM which is 10 PM for him. It was the month of April, the hottest time of the year in Thailand. One night when I called he was out walking on the street with his late mother’s elder sister. They were surrounded by a pack of loudly barking dogs.
The connections between humans and dogs is a little different in the rural north of Thailand than in the Western World. The dogs are pets only in a loose sense of the term. They bond with someone who feeds them so they are not left entirely to their own devices, but they otherwise roam free to rule the street, rarely if ever coming indoors. They are more or less feral dogs. When I called Pornchai a few nights later, he told me that one of the dogs, the “Alpha” dog who seemed to be the leader of the pack, started following Pornchai every place he went. If Pornchai entered a building, the dog would sit outside and patiently wait for him. He also kept all the other dogs away from Pornchai.
The dog’s name seemed to be “Hill.” No one knows where either the dog or the name came from. Perhaps it means something in Thai, the sole language that Hill had ever heard. Hill attached himself to no one, but over those few weeks, he and Pornchai had become the best of friends. I asked for a photograph of them together, and the one atop this post appeared on my GTL tablet the next day. It broke my heart. Hill, like Pornchai, had a very tough life. Hill exhibited all the wounds and scars of life on the outside that Pornchai bears on the inside. He has had to be a ferocious dog to survive, but in Pornchai’s presence he was as docile and gentle as a lamb.
Enter the Archangel Raphael
I’m not at all sure what prompted me to do this, but after meeting Hill from afar, I began to research the role of dogs in Sacred Scripture. There are 46 references to dogs, and all but two of them are negative. “Many dogs surround me; a pack of evil doers closes in upon me” (Psalm 22:16). But it was the two references that were positive that caught my attention. Both are in the Book of Tobit (6:1-2 and 11:4) and they refer to a single, mysterious dog who appears at the beginning and the end of Raphael’s healing mission with Tobias, the son of Tobit. The dog has no part in the story other than to be there.
The name, Raphael, comes from the Hebrew for “God heals.” Raphael is a prominent figure in the ancient traditions of both Judaism and Christianity. He is identified in Judaism as an “Angel of the Presence,” one of four (Michael, Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel) who surround God’s Throne and live in his eternal Presence. In the Hebrew Talmud, he was one of the three angels who visited Abraham (Genesis 18) setting in motion the birth of Salvation History. He appears in the Hebrew Shema before retiring: “In the name of the God of Israel, may Michael be on my right hand, Gabriel on my left hand, Uriel before me, Raphael behind me, and above my head, the Divine Presence.”
In Catholic tradition, Raphael is venerated as an angel of healing. Ancient Christian lore presents him as the head of the Guardian angels, the angel of knowledge, and an angel of science. In the Apocryphal Book of Enoch, Raphael binds the fallen angel, Azazel, and casts him into the desert darkness. In the Canon of Sacred Scripture, Raphael appears in only one place, the Book of Tobit and the Bible’s most memorable healing journey. Written up to eight centuries before Jesus walked the Earth, The Book of Tobit reflects the commission of Raphael in the more ancient Apocryphal Book of Enoch:
“Tobias remembered the words of Raphael ... and made a smoke. When the demon smelled the odor, he fled to the remotest parts of Egypt where the angel bound him.”
—Tobit 8:2-3
I wrote some years ago about my bout with Azazel, this demon of the desert, but it was long before I realized that Raphael is the angel who bound him. For a glimpse of who and what Azazel is, and his role in our misery, see “Christ in the Desert: A Devil of a Time,” also linked at the end of this post.
The Book of Tobit Is Pornchai’s Story
The Book of Tobit was originally written in Aramaic, the language of the Jews before the development of Hebrew and their settlement in the land of Canaan, the Promised Land. A version of the story was preserved in the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Jewish Scriptures. Fragments of it were also found among the Dead Sea Scrolls in Qumran.
The story of Tobit is brief but complex. Though written in Aramaic, most scholars date its origin in oral tradition in the Eighth Century BC and its written form at least two centuries before Christ. Among Jewish scholars, it was seen not as a historical book, but as Wisdom Literature. In the Canon of Sacred Scripture today the Book of Tobit is among the Historical Books for its focus on story, which is not a measure of historical accuracy, but of meaning. Its characters are historical persons, but its point is to convey a Scriptural truth. The story begins with Tobit, a devout and charitable Israelite who is deported into exile in Nineveh. Even there, he is an exemplary man who cares for his son, Tobias, his wife, and other captives in exile.
Then one day, due to an accident, Tobit loses his sight. About to lose everything else, he commissions his son, Tobias, to journey to far away Media to recover funds left in the care of a distant relative there. Tobit’s wife thinks Tobias is being sent to his doom, so Tobit issues a desperate plea to God to protect his son and recover his fortune. Meanwhile, in Media, Sarah, the daughter of the distant relative, is plagued by the presence of a demon named Asmodeus who has murdered everyone she loves. Sarah also prays a desperate plea to God for deliverance.
God hears both their prayers, and assigns Archangel Raphael to be the instrument of His Divine Mercy. Raphael involves himself in the Great Tapestry of God to see to it that these desperate lives converge safely upon Media and their paths cross. In the form of a stranger named Azarias, Raphael shows up in Nineveh to accompany Tobias safely to Media, a journey that will bring about the healing of both Tobit and Sarah and the rebuilding of their lives.
Strangely, as the opening lines of this post suggest, on the day Tobias and the Archangel depart on their healing journey, a dog shows up and walks with them (Tobit 6:1-2). The dog has no part in the story other than to accompany them. In the footnotes of the Scripture scholars who analyze this story in the Revised Standard Version, the dog is referred to simply as “surprising.”
In the end, the balm made by Tobias under Raphael’s instruction for the ultimate healing of Tobit’s blindness also exposes the demon haunting Sarah. The demon Asmodeus flees into Egypt where the Archangel Raphael binds him and imprisons him in the desert. Then Raphael acquires the sum of money needed by Tobit, and they all commence the long journey back to Nineveh to heal Tobit’s blindness. And for the second time, the Book of Tobit mysteriously reports, “So they went their way, and the dog went along behind them” (Tobit 11:4).
In the end, Raphael revealed himself to Tobit, Tobias and Sarah. He told Tobit that God has seen all the good he has done even in exile:
“I am Raphael, one of the Seven Holy Angels who present the prayers of the saints and enter into the presence in the Glory of the Holy One ... Do not be afraid, for I did not come on my own part, but by the will of our God.”
— Tobit 12:15ff
To Be Reborn In the Land of Your Birth
I am writing this post on Divine Mercy Sunday, the day and date that Pornchai became a Catholic in prison in 2010. In a call to him this morning, he told me that he attended Mass at Saint Joseph Church, a small Catholic parish thriving in the Buddhist enclave of Nong Bua Lamphu Province in Northern Thailand where many have gathered for the Buddhist Water Festival to honor the tombs of their loved ones.
Among them is the tomb of Wannee, Pornchai’s Mother who was also murdered by the demon, Asmodeus. You may note from the photo with Hill atop this post that Pornchai has a large tattoo on his left shoulder. It is from a portrait of his Mother, etched masterfully on his arm by an artistic prisoner just days after Pornchai learned of her death. It was at the time his only means to memorialize and to mourn her.
Pornchai has felt lost in Thailand. After a 36-year absence, and five months in horrible ICE detention, he has been free for just over five years at this writing. How could he feel anything else but lost? One of our good friends, a young man whom Pornchai has helped much, said as I write this that “Pornchai’s mission right now is not to do, but simply to be.” That is a very wise young man.
Please join me in a petition to Our Father to send Raphael to accompany Pornchai on this long and arduous journey of healing from the wounds of the past. And perhaps even a prayer for Hill, a battered dog who now walks with Raphael. Pornchai dearly misses him and commends him to the Angel of Presence.
O Raphael the Archangel, lead us toward those we are waiting for, those who are waiting for us. Raphael, Angel of happy meeting, lead us by the hand toward those we are looking for. May all our movements be guided by your light and transfigured with your joy. Angel, guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you at the feet of Hirn whose unveiled face you are privileged to gaze. Lonely and tired, crushed in spirit by the separations and sorrows of life, we feel the need of calling to you and pleading for the protection of your wings so we may not be as strangers in the province of joy. Remember the weak, you who are so strong, you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder in a land that is always at peace, bright with the resplendent glory of God.
Addendum: Max Moontri and the Fate of Hill, the Dog
My post above about the Book of Tobit caused a stir among our readers who wanted to know the fate of Hill, the dog. Hill arrived in Max’s life in mystery and left the same way.
After I wrote “Book of Tobit: Angel Raphael on the Road with Pornchai Moontri,” I received a larger-than-usual number of messages from readers who all had one nagging question: “What happened to Hill, Pornchai’s dog? Did he die? That would be just awful!” I agree, but that outcome was by no means certain. It is likely that Hill has in fact died, but like the rest of that story it remains shrouded in mystery. Max had decided not to leave Hill on the streets in the Village of Phuwiang, Max’s place of birth. Instead, after talking with me, Max and I both decided that he should bring Hill to the home where Max was living in the City of Pak Chong. Hill was an older dog who, like Max in a darker time of his life, was forced to live on the streets. It was the only life Hill knew, and Max agonized over what to do. The stories told to him by cousins in Phuwiang, that every time Max went there and then left, Hill would linger in a lonely vigil outside the house of Max’s late Mother waiting for Max to return.
So we decided on a trial run. Max would bring Hill to Pak Chong, where he would be better cared for, and Max could always bring him back after a few days if Hill showed signs of distress. Getting Hill into the car was a challenge at first. Hill had never before been in a car. But with a little coaxing and a little food, Hill jumped in. He slept through most of the long ride and appeared to adjust quite well. He was well fed and cared for over several weeks and seemed to love Pak Chong. Max and Hill would run in the large, walled off front yard. Hill would stand guard while Max did some landscaping, and would snarl whenever another dog or unknown person would approach the wall. Then one night, Max was outside with Hill, and they were running together. Hill would run immediately behind Max. Then Max stepped into the house for just a moment. When he came out Hill was mysteriously gone without a trace. Max searched the entire property. Hill was nowhere to be found. The only conclusion was that he must have jumped over the wall. Max searched for days in every direction, but with no sign of Hill anywhere. That was about three years ago, and no trace of Hill ever showed up. Max was heartbroken and felt that he had let Hill down. I took the opposite view, that Max had given Hill his only human companion in life. Why and how he left remains a mystery.
I like to think that, like the mysterious dog in the Book of Tobit, Hill went with the Angel Raphael.
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Note from Father Gordon MacRae: After five years in his native Thailand, some of it on the verge of homelessness, my friend Pornchai Max is about to embark on another journey to which Divine Mercy has summoned him. This has developed only in the last few weeks, so I will have more information coming soon. In coming days Pornchai will relocate to the far northwestern corner of Thailand where he will undertake a mission in support of one of Thailand’s alienated hill tribes.
Thank you for reading and sharing this post, but don’t stop here. For more on this amazing and moving story please see:
For Pornchai Moontri, a Miracle Unfolds in Thailand
Christ in the Desert: A Devil of a Time
Michael, Gabriel, Raphael: Allies in Spiritual Battle
Getting Away with Murder on the Island of Guam
The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.
Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.
The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”
For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”
What Do John Wayne and Pornchai Moontri Have in Common?
Pornchai Moontri celebrates his 52nd birthday on September 10 this year. It is his 15th birthday as a Catholic, a conversion he shares with the great actor, John Wayne.
Pornchai Moontri celebrates his 52nd birthday on September 10 this year. It is his 15th birthday as a Catholic, a conversion he shares with the great actor, John Wayne.
September 10, 2025 by Father Gordon MacRae
I last wrote about our friend and my former roommate, Pornchai Max Moontri at a time of tragedy. That post was “A Devastating Earthquake Shook Thailand, Myanmar and Our Friends.” Ironically, I just noticed, it appeared on April 9, 2025, which was my 72nd birthday. I was recently talking with Pornchai in Thailand by telephone, and the subject of birthdays came up. He was absent from Thailand for 36 years, and it was 36 years of loss and tragedy. He spoke of his impression that what constitutes “family” for him is not only those with whom you share blood, but even more so those with whom you share and survive trials and tribulation. This is why those in the military who go through war together and survive form a bond that transcends all other bonds, including family. I readily agreed with that and mentioned the famous series, Band of Brothers as an example.
In an earlier post, “February Tales and a Corporal Work of Mercy in Thailand,” I described growing up on the Massachusetts North Shore — the stretch of seacoast just north of Boston. My family had a long tradition of being “Sacrament Catholics.”
I once heard my father joke that he would enter a church only twice in his lifetime, and would be carried both times. I was seven years old, squirming into a hand-me-down white suit for my First Communion when I first heard that excuse for staying home. I didn’t catch on right away that my father was referring to his Baptism and his funeral. I pictured him, a very large man, slung over my mother’s shoulder on his way into church for Sunday Mass, and I laughed.
We were the most nominal of Catholics. Prior to my First Communion at age seven, I was last in a Catholic church at age five for the priesthood ordination of my uncle, the late Father George W. MacRae, a Jesuit and renowned Scripture scholar. My father and “Uncle Winsor,” as we called him, were brothers — just two years apart in age but light years apart in their experience of faith. I was often bewildered, as a boy, at this vast difference between the two brothers.
But my father’s blustering about his abstention from faith eventually collapsed under the weight of his own cross. It was a cross that was partly borne by me as well, and carried in equal measure by every member of my family. By the time I was ten — at the very start of that decade of social upheaval, life in our home had disintegrated. My father’s alcoholism raged beyond control, nearly destroying him and the very bonds of our family. We became children of the city streets as home and family faded away.
I have no doubt that many readers can relate to the story of a home torn asunder by alcoholism, and some day I hope to write more about this cross. But for now I want to write about conversion, so I’ll skip ahead.
The Long and Winding Road Home
As a young teenager, I had a friend whose family attended a small Methodist church. I stayed with them from time to time. They knew I was estranged from my Catholic faith and Church, so one Sunday morning they invited me to theirs. As I sat through the Methodist service, I just felt empty inside. There was something crucial missing. So a week later, I attended Catholic Mass — secretly and alone — with a sense that I was making up for some vague betrayal. At some point sitting in this Mass alone at age 15 in 1968, I discovered that I was home.
My father wasn’t far behind me. Two years later, when just about everyone we knew had given up any hope for him, my father underwent a radical conversion that changed his very core. He admitted himself to a treatment program, climbed the steep and arduous mountain of recovery, and became our father again after a long, turbulent absence. A high school dropout and machine shop laborer, my father’s transformation was miraculous. He went back to school, completed a college degree, earned a masters degree in social work, and became instrumental in transforming the lives of many other broken men. He also embraced his Catholic faith with love and devotion, and it embraced him in return. That, of course, is all a much longer story for another day.
My father died suddenly at the age of 52 just a few months after my ordination to priesthood in 1982. I remember lying prostrate on the floor before the altar during the Litany of the Saints at my ordination as I described in “The Power and the Glory if the Heart of a Priest Grows Cold.” I was conscious that my father stood on the aisle just a few feet away, and I was struck by the nature of the man whose impact on my life had so miraculously changed. Underneath the millstones of addiction and despair that once plagued him was a singular power that trumped all. It was the sheer courage necessary to be open to the grace of conversion and radical change. The most formative years of my young adulthood and priesthood were spent as a witness to the immensity of that courage. In time, I grew far less scarred by my father’s road to perdition, and far more inspired by his arduous and dogged pursuit of the road back. I have seen other such miracles, and learned long ago to never give up hope for another human being.
The Conversion of the Duke
I once wrote that John Wayne is one of my life-long movie heroes and a man I have long admired. But all that I really ever knew of him was through the roles he played in great westerns like “The Searchers,” “The Comancheros,” “Rio Bravo,” and my all-time favorite historical war epic, “The Longest Day.”
In his lifetime, John Wayne was awarded three Oscars and the Congressional Gold Medal. After his death from cancer in 1979, he was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. But, for me, the most monumental and courageous of all of John Wayne’s achievements was his 1978 conversion to the Catholic faith.
Not many in Hollywood escape the life it promotes, and John Wayne was no exception. The best part of this story is that it was first told by Father Matthew Muñoz, a priest of the Diocese of Orange, California, and John Wayne’s grandson.
Early in his film career in 1933, John Wayne married Josephine Saenz, a devout Catholic who had an enormous influence on his life. They gave birth to four children, the youngest of whom, Melinda, was the mother of Father Matthew Muñoz. John Wayne and Josephine Saenz civilly divorced in 1945 as Hollywood absorbed more and more of the life and values of its denizens.
But Josephine never ceased to pray for John Wayne and his conversion, and she never married again until after his death. In 1978, a year before John Wayne died, her prayer was answered and he was received into the Catholic Church. His conversion came late in his life, but John Wayne stood before Hollywood and declared that the secular Hollywood portrayal of the Catholic Church and faith is a lie, and the truth is to be found in conversion.
That conversion had many repercussions. Not least among them was the depth to which it inspired John Wayne’s 14-year old grandson, Matthew, who today presents the story of his grandfather’s conversion as one of the proudest events of his life and the beginning of his vocation as a priest.
If John Wayne had lived to see what his conversion inspired, I imagine that he, too, would have stood on the aisle, a monument to the courage of conversion, as Matthew lay prostrate on the Cathedral floor praying the Litany of the Saints at priesthood ordination. The courage of conversion is John Wayne’s most enduring legacy.
Pornchai Moontri Takes a Road Less Traveled
The Japanese Catholic novelist, Shusaku Endo, wrote a novel entitled Silence (Monumenta Nipponica, 1969), a devastating historical account of the cost of discipleship. It is a story of 17th Century Catholic priests who faced torture and torment for spreading the Gospel in Japan. The great Catholic writer, Graham Greene, wrote that Silence is “in my opinion, one of the finest novels of our time.”
Silence is the story of Father Sebastian Rodriguez, one of those priests, and the story is told through a series of his letters. Perhaps the most troubling part of the book was the courage of Father Rodriguez, a courage difficult to relate to in our world. Because of the fear of capture and torture, and the martyrdom of every priest who went before him, Father Rodriguez had to arrive in Japan for the first time by rowing a small boat alone in the pitch blackness of night from the comfort and safety of a Spanish ship to an isolated Japanese beach in 1638 — just 18 years after the Puritan Pilgrims landed the Mayflower at Squanto’s Pawtuxet, half a world away as I describe in “The True Story of Thanksgiving.”
In Japan, however, Father Rodriguez was a pilgrim alone. Choosing to be left on a Japanese beach in the middle of the night, he had no idea where he was, where he would go, or how he would survive. He had only the clothes on his back, and a small traveler’s pouch containing food for a day. I cannot fathom such courage. I don’t know that I could match it if it came down to it.
But I witness it every single day. Most of our readers are very familiar with “Pornchai’s Story,” and with his conversion to Catholicism on Divine Mercy Sunday in 2010. Most know the struggles and special challenges he has faced as I wrote in “Pornchai Moontri, Bangkok to Bangor, Survivor of the Night.”
But the greatest challenge of Pornchai’s life was yet to come. After serving more than half his life in prison in a sentence imposed when he was a teenager, Pornchai faced forced deportation from the United States to his native Thailand. Like Father Sebastian Rodriguez in Silence, Pornchai would be stepping onto the shores of a foreign land in darkness, a land he no longer knew and in which he knew no one.
This was a time of great turmoil for both of us. I have told much of this story before, but it is worth repeating now. I asked Pornchai to write his life story. He was lost for words and did not know how or where to begin. So I asked him to just talk. He sat on the floor of our prison cell and the words came cautiously at first, but then they began to flow as I took notes. Neither of us knew what to expect but in the end I typed the four pages from my notes and titled it simply “Pornchai’s Story.” We had no way to know that this short story would become known all over the world. I sent a copy to Catholic League President Bill Donohue, a Catholic leader with a heart of pure gold. Dr. Donohue published it on the Catholic League website and he wrote that it was “remarkable.” Then the letters came addressed to Pornchai. One was from Ambassador Mary Ann Glendon, who was then U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See. Another was from the late Father Richard John Neuhaus, Editor of First Things magazine, who told Pornchai that his powerful story would turn many souls back to God. Yet another was from Cardinal Kitbunchu, the Archbishop Emeritus of Bangkok. Yet another was from Yela Roongruangchai, Founder and President of Divine Mercy Thailand.
Also in Thailand at the time “Pornchai’s Story” arrived was Father Seraphim Michalenko, MIC, who also happened to be the Vatican’s Postulator for the Cause of Sainthood of Saint Maria Faustina Kowalska, the Saint of Divine Mercy. Father Seraphim read “Pornchai’s Story” aloud during a Divine Mercy Retreat in Bangkok. Ten years before all of this happened, I boldly told Pornchai during a night of near despair, that we would have to build a bridge from a prison in Concord, New Hampshire to Thailand. Pornchai scoffed, but it was the only hope we had to hold onto. Then the bridge was built right before our very eyes. What we once faced with terror in the darkness of a future unseen, we now face with the gift of hope. Happy Birthday, Max!
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Note from Father Gordon MacRae: Thank you for reading and sharing this post. Don’t stop here. Learn a bit more of this story through the following related posts:
Pornchai Moontri and the Long Road to Freedom
The Shawshank Redemption and Its Grace Rebounding
Thailand’s Once-Lost Son Was Flag Bearer for the Asian Apostolic Congress
A Catholic League White House Plea Set Pornchai Moontri Free
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A Further Note from Father Gordon MacRae: While writing the above post I received a note from my friend Sheryl Collmer in Tyler, Texas. Along with it was an article Sheryl had written for Crisis Magazine. The article is about the magnificent new film, Triumph of the Heart, telling the story of our Patron Saint Maximilian Kolbe. Sheryl’s article is magnificent in its own right and it casts a light into a very dark place in our world. But her article does not leave us there. There is not much in this world that makes me want to shout from the rooftops, but Sheryl Collmer’s article is one of them. You must not miss “The Tenebrae of Maximilian Kolbe” and I hope you will share it.
The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.
Click or tap here to proceed to the Adoration Chapel.
The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”
For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”
For Pornchai Moontri, Hope and Hard Work Build a Future
After his ascension beyond these stone walls, starting life over in Thailand was not easy for Pornchai Moontri but Divine Mercy and hard work are building a future.
After his ascension beyond these stone walls, starting life over in Thailand was not easy for Pornchai Moontri but Divine Mercy and hard work are building a future.
July 26, 2023 by Fr. Gordon MacRae
The heroic true story of former Homeland Security Agent Tim Ballard captured international attention around Independence Day in the United States this year. It is told in the inspiring and unforgettable film, Sound of Freedom. Jim Caviezel is cast in the role of Tim Ballard, a U.S. federal agent who launched a real-life search and rescue mission to save kidnapped children from human traffickers in Central America and Colombia.
Sound of Freedom is being shown in over 2,600 movie theaters across the U.S. this summer. Some of our readers hesitated to view it thinking it may be too depressing. Its subject is dark, but the film is an outstanding and true inspirational triumph that should not be missed.
The film’s topic and its aftermath have also been prominent in recent years here at Beyond These Stone Walls. It was at the center of an article published by the Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, and republished here this week. That article is “Pornchai’s Story.”
The real story of Sound of Freedom is the triumph of Divine Mercy manifested in one man’s path of sacrifice and human courage. Though on a smaller scale, Pornchai Moontri’s story has taken a similar turn. The most amazing part of it also involves a pathway — one that seems a metaphor for the life he once lived and now lives very differently. The scene atop this post captured that pathway to a remarkable transformation.
But first, it requires some background. If you are new to this story, visit my 2021 post, “Pornchai Moontri and the Long Road to Freedom.” His story reads a lot like the plight of some of the children the heroic Tim Ballard set out to rescue. I do not claim to have rescued Pornchai, but he may tell this story differently. Pornchai arrived in my life in 2005 an angry, depressed, sometimes volatile young man wholly committed to a singular, all encompassing goal: to never again be someone’s victim.
Pornchai spent the previous 14 years in and out of the cruel torment of solitary confinement. The path we were on over the succeeding years was not easy, but through Divine Mercy we built trust and became each other’s family. Fifteen years later, Pornchai left my presence a committed Catholic convert and a gifted young man. His new path in life was not to flee from his past, but to be empowered by it in the service of others.
On the morning of September 8, 2020, as we walked in the dark outside awaiting the dawn and his departure after fifteen years together, he left me in tears when he shook my hand and said with simple sincerity, “Thank you for my future.” When ICE agents arrived to take him away, I watched from afar as Pornchai walked through a distant gate. I knew I may never see him again in this life.
I had to hand him over to face his life’s next chapter alone, but like the father of the Prodigal Son cast off to a distant land (Luke 15), I worried about him. Pornchai knew so many wounds in life that even from a great distance I still had a mission to accomplish and no time to grieve. I wrote in a post for September 23, 2020 of the day he left. It was the Memorial of Saint Padre Pio and the 26th anniversary of my own unjust imprisonment. You should not miss that story either. It was “Padre Pio: Witness for the Defense of Wounded Souls.”
When I Was a Stranger ... (Matthew 25:35)
I am incredulous at the newest developments in Pornchai’s life since then, and just as incredulous to find myself still so much a part of them even from a great distance. Pornchai arrived in Thailand on February 24, 2021, free for the first time in 29 years. The photos above depict his first moments and his first meal in freedom with friends you will meet below, friends who would become key elements to a then unknown future for Pornchai.
There were many challenges. I learned that the housing plan we developed for Pornchai fell apart just before ICE agents placed him aboard a flight. Before his plane landed in Bangkok 24 hours later, Yela Smit, the facilitator of Divine Mercy Thailand, contacted me with an emergency plan to support Pornchai’s return to a country he had not seen and a language he had not heard since age eleven 36 years earlier.
Yela told me by telephone that Fr. John Hung Le, a Divine Word Missionary and head of a Vietnamese refugee project in Thailand, offered shelter for Pornchai. Father John knew this would be a difficult and traumatic adjustment. His sudden presence in this story seemed an intervention by Divine Mercy. When Pornchai’s required two-week pandemic quarantine ended on February 24, 2021 — his final stint in solitary confinement — Yela and Father John arrived to meet him. Left to right in the left photo above are Pornchai, Chalathip, Yela and Fr. John.
Pornchai came to call Chalathip “Mae Thim” (Thai for “Mother Thim.”) She lived alone in the home pictured above near the Society of the Divine Word Mission where Pornchai was to stay with Father John and two other priests. Chalathip, a devoted supporter of Father John’s refugee project, has been Catholic since birth which is unusual in Thailand, a country that is 98-percent Theravada Buddhist.
Bangkok, a city of 9.5 million, is massive and intimidating. After 29 years in a U.S. prison coupled with the traumatic events that led up to it, acclimating to Bangkok was a mountain of a challenge. “Mae Thim,” widowed with an adult daughter living in the U.K., knew that Pornchai lost his mother early in life and then was taken against his will from his homeland. So she proposed to Father John that Pornchai needs to immerse himself in Thai language and culture, but cannot do this while living with three Vietnamese priests who do not speak Thai. She offered to give Pornchai a second floor apartment in her home in close proximity to Father John.
Father John conferred with me, and I agreed with him that this would be in Pornchai’s best interest. As readers know from our “Special Events” page, I had been trying to raise funds to help me to support Pornchai as much as possible. He could have found work as a laborer in Bangkok, but at a rate of pay equivalent to just a few dollars per day for ten-hour workdays. I feared that this would delay his needed adjustment, which was massive and daunting, and that his language barrier would then frustrate and overwhelm him.
Generous readers began to assist in supporting me in this effort. It did not require a lot of money. For just a few hundred dollars a month I could support Pornchai and also assist Father John. He and Chalathip and Pornchai became somewhat of a family filling in a large gap from the wounds of life imposed upon each of them. I am grateful to Father John and Chalathip.
Pornchai was not idle. Over the coming months he volunteered for Father John’s food outreach to Vietnamese refugee families rendered without work in Thailand during the pandemic. Pornchai also worked to repair and restore Mae Thim’s home in the city of Nonthaburi just a few kilometers from Bangkok. Armed with only hand tools he devoted himself to repairs inside and out. While Bangkok’s tropical temperature soared to 46 degrees Celsius (114 degrees Fahrenheit) Pornchai restored the home and property. Despite toil and sweat, the property is beautiful, as the photos attest.
Climb Every Mountain
The rest of this story could be told in pictures, and there are lots of them. Over the coming months, a wonderful bond grew between Chalathip and Pornchai. However, Bangkok’s air quality was raising havoc with his allergies. So Chalathip brought him to another property she owns in the small city of Pak Chong in the mountainous region of Thailand about 240 kilometers north of Bangkok. The air is cleaner and substantially cooler there.
Chalathip’s property in Pak Chong has two homes, one a two bedroom cottage where Pornchai now lives, and the other a large three bedroom, two-bath home, with an adjacent one bedroom one bath apartment attached. Together they are on almost an acre of what in Thailand would be luxury property. At first, Pornchai decided to remain there to make several repairs to the two homes and property. Thailand’s rainy season can be hard on a home so he set out to repair several roof leaks.
The floors, walls, and roofs in most modern Thai homes are made of concrete which endures humidity and high tropical heat. There is no winter ice to crack it, but natural settling can produce small cracks and relentless leaks. To assist him, our friend Claire Dion in Maine ordered a case of Flex Seal products not readily available in Thailand, and shipped them to him. It is a great product and its website has videos for every application. Pornchai fixed every leaks and even those of some neighbors. At one point I thought he was starting up a new “Leaks-r-Us” business.
Then he turned his attention to the property. The result was remarkable. Using only a spade, a pickax, and lots of muscle, Pornchai transformed the overgrown property into the magnificent park-like setting pictured atop this post. Armed only with a pickax, he dug through 4-5 inches of hardened clay for a distance of over 240 yards to create a pathway across the entire property. With an ax, he chopped away a large stump that no one had been able to remove. He built or repaired yard furnishings, painted both homes inside and out, repaired a gazebo, added outdoor lights, and restored everything in sight. He removed dying trees and used the wood to line his new walkway. Then he transplanted new trees.
Mae Thim was in awe of what he had accomplished. Retired without a steady income available to her, she and Pornchai then devised a plan to use the property as a small business. Pornchai would live in the smaller home while renting out the larger one and managing the property. Pak Chong is convenient to Khao Yai National Park, Thailand’s oldest and largest park and game preserve where wild elephants still roam free.
In recent weeks I have also learned that China is extending a high-speed railway from Kunming in its southernmost province to Vientiane, the capital of Laos, which is on the northern border of Thailand. China plans to extend the railway the entire length of Thailand to Bangkok and then extend it all the way to Singapore. Pak Chong, where Pornchai now lives, is designated to become a major depot by 2026. This promises to create a large economic change in the region bringing trade and tourists and a higher demand for housing.
Even before learning of the above, Chalathip decided to also rent her property pictured above in Nonthaburi just north of Bangkok. She has designated Pornchai as her official Property Manager. With the help of a friend, we have been building a Linkedln page for Pornchai and will link to it at the end of this post. This endeavor is not yet up and running or producing any income, but it has the potential to support them both for years to come.
For a Buddhist nation, Catholicism has an oversized footprint in Thailand. There are two Catholic universities, hospitals, and multiple orphanages and specialized residential schools under the auspices of the Fr. Ray Foundation. Pak Chong has two Catholic parishes. Pornchai attends Mass at St. Nicholas Parish where he lights a weekly candle for me and another for the readers of Beyond These Stone Walls.
Pak Chong’s location in central Thailand is midway on Father John’s route to Nong Bua Lamphu, the Thai headquarters of his order and the place of Pornchai’s birth. So Pornchai and Chalathip have made Pak Chong an overnight stopover for Father John so he does not have to drive the entire nine+ hours each way from Bangkok to the Laos border, the route he takes in his ministry to Vietnamese refugee communities. On a recent visit, Father John took Pornchai fishing. They caught a 155 pound Mekong River catfish which they mercifully released after a one-hour battle. The fish swam happily away. Freedom now means a lot to Pornchai, and apparently to his fish as well.
My role in Pornchai’s life and the salvation of his freedom and his soul is the most important thing I have ever done as a man and as a priest. It is the story of Saint Maximilian Kolbe and his sacrifice to restore life to another prisoner. I have experienced first hand the grace of the sound of freedom, and it is glorious.
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Here are some additional photos of Pornchai’s hard work.
The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.
Click or tap the image for live access to the Adoration Chapel.
The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”
For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”
Are You Suffering a Great Deal?
As this blog by a priest unjustly in prison began in 2009, Fr Gordon MacRae had to write 12 brief posts to send to an editor. Here are three of these early gems.
As this blog by a priest unjustly in prison began in 2009, Fr Gordon MacRae had to write 12 brief posts to send to an editor. Here are three of these early gems.
July 19, 2023 by Fr Gordon MacRae
A lot has been going on here this summer. Even in this place where time often seems to stand still, finding blocks of time to write has suddenly become a challenge. Nonetheless, I am enthused by a new development. Gloria.tv is an international Catholic video and news sharing venue launched in Switzerland in 2005. It is known for its high degree of fidelity. I cannot see it, of course, but on rare occasions over the years it has reported on one of my posts.
After reviewing and then reposting “Convicted for Cash,” the 44-minute video documentary about my trial by Frank X. Panico, Gloria.tv invited me to establish a page and submit selected past posts on the site. The result has been a huge increase in visits to this blog from around the world. Please visit our presence there at Gloria.tv/FrGordonJMacrae.
A flood of activity this July, along with some technical difficulties where I live, has temporarily slowed my ability to write. So this week, and again two weeks from now, we are returning to July, 2009 and the first days of this blog. As it was beginning, I was asked to quickly write and submit 12 short posts to launch it. I am told today that a few of them are “gems,” so I want to share them with you anew.
Our first entry today is “Are You Suffering a Great Deal?” It’s from a laminated card that fell into my lap from a book in 2009 just as I was beginning to write. At the time, I was in fact suffering a great deal.
Pornchai Moontri was here with me then and was very much a part of this beginning. It was Pornchai who named this blog, “These Stone Walls,” then in 2020 I renamed it “Beyond These Stone Walls” as he was returning to Thailand. Pornchai has contributed many posts to this site, some more popular than my own, but please don’t tell him I said that. So the second of our three short selections is “Bunkies: Pornchai’s Story.” Next week in these pages, we will have some exciting news about developments in Pornchai’s new life in Thailand.
My last entry this week is “Contentious Convicts.” I will let that one speak for itself. You might think it seems a little fishy.
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Are You Suffering a Great Deal?
Are you suffering a great deal? No, the question isn’t from Oprah or Dr. Phil. It is on a bookmark kept in my breviary. It was asked by Our Lady of Fatima on June 13, 1917:
“Are you suffering a great deal? Don’t lose heart. I will never forsake you. My Immaculate Heart will be your refuge, and the way that will lead you to God.”
There is immense power in that promise, and for someone who has lost everything, it is like a lifeboat at sea. There is sometimes nothing else to cling to. Even when I feel that my faith dangles from a thread — which is often, in prison — I cling to that promise.
I don’t know where the bookmark came from. Like most of the things I cling to for spiritual support, it just sort of showed up one day. I like to think it was handed down to me — in the way important things are handed down by brothers — by Maximilian Kolbe whose reverence for the Immaculate Heart of Mary guided him through life, and death, at Auschwitz.
Even when my faith is so diminished and darkened by the prison around me that I believe in little, I believe that promise. Sometimes I can only believe that Maximilian believed — with the very fabric of his life.
It’s often hard to pray in prison. It’s not just the noise, the harshness, the lack of privacy, the relentless obstacles. It’s just hard to raise my mind and heart beyond these stone walls at times. In that, at least, I am not alone.
The Vietnamese Cardinal Nguyen Van Thuan wrote that there were long periods during his years in a Communist prison when he was unable to pray. I guess any Catholic who ever looks inward has a dark night of the soul. If not, why would the Blessed Mother ever ask such a question in her appearance at Fatima? It’s not the usual question a mother would ask when she comes a long way for a brief visit.
Are you suffering a great deal? When Saint Maximilian’s life was finally snuffed out after days of starvation chained to the corpses of those who could not endure, he was heard gasping a hymn of praise. I wish I had his heart! I don’t, but I wish I did. I have to learn how to suffer, and I am a slow learner.
In Spe Salvi, his Encyclical on Christian Hope, our Holy Father Pope Benedict wrote the most masterful prose on suffering that I have ever read. I cling to it like I do my bookmark with Our Lady of Fatima’s Promise:
“Christ descended into ‘Hell,’ and is therefore close to those cast into it, transforming their darkness into light. Suffering and torment is still terrible and well-nigh unbearable. Yet the star of hope has risen — the anchor of the heart reaches the very throne of God. Instead of evil being unleashed within man, the light shines victorious: suffering — without ceasing to be suffering — becomes, despite everything, a hymn of praise.”
Spe Salvi, ¶37
Brilliant! Simply brilliant! There’s something hopeful in that, and I should listen.
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Bunkies: Pornchai’s Story
In prisons all over the world, the most crucial issue for prisoners is where one has to live, and with whom. Confined to a 60 square foot cell with another human being can be a nightmare. Most of us have no say in the choice of “Bunkies,” as cell mates are called here. If a bunky is moved — even after two or three years with the same person — sometimes a total stranger is living in the cell within minutes.
Having a good roommate seems to be everyone’s goal, but I tried another approach years ago. Being a good roommate is a goal I have more control over. The result has been that in 10 years since being moved from the torturous 8-man cells in which I spent my first seven years in prison, I have never had a roommate (we prefer to call our cells “rooms”) request a move.
The downside of that is that I have had some very dysfunctional roommates who have no wish to move elsewhere. My assigned roommates here have ranged in age from 19 to 67 or so, and have included men convicted of murder, rape, armed robbery, various drug crimes, and gang-related crimes. Everyone here knows all the details of why everyone else is here. Rumor and gossip fill in what the facts leave out.
My roommate of the last two years was also a good friend for several more. It was the first time I have been assigned to live with someone I know well, so it feels more like living with a family member than a felon.
Pornchai (his name is Thai, and the “r” is silent, as in “Paunch-eye”) is 35 years old and has been in prison since the age of 18.
He is about to convert to the Catholic faith and currently he is a scholarship student in theology in the Catholic Distance University’s excellent Distance Learning Program for prisoners.
Pornchai caused a minor sensation last year when he wrote a very brief autobiographical sketch that ended up being published as “The Conversion Story of 2008” by The Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights. I hope you will take a moment to read it.
A year after publication, Pornchai still receives occasional mail about his life story. The most recent being a personal letter from Cardinal Kitbunchu, Archbishop Emeritus of Bangkok, Thailand, and a note from Mary Ann Glendon, former U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See. Oh, and there was also a letter from the late Father Richard John Neuhaus.
Pornchai takes his new notoriety in stride, though one letter had a profound impact. It was from a young man who wrote that he turned his life around, dropped out of his gang, swore off drugs, and returned to faith after reading “Pornchai’s Story” online.
Pornchai mistakenly credits me with some small role in his extraordinary life of late. He has fallen under the power of grace and cannot escape it now even if he tried. Now, he creates. Here is a photo of one of his creations, “The Olde Baldy” (named after me) which he carved piece by piece (over 600 of them) from scratch.
Pornchai Moontri — Master Craftsman
Pornchai was designated a master craftsman in wood and model shipbuilding. One of his first ships was a circa 1800 British warship from the Napoleonic era which he named after Father MacRae. He dubbed it “The Olde Baldy,” which is now docked in the home of our friend, Bill Wendell in Stow, Ohio.
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Contentious Convicts
There was little I could do to stop the fighting. Convicts are so territorial; they do not hesitate to take on intruders twice their size. They just can’t be reasoned with. It’s even worse when the convicts are mating. What drama!
No, no, no! I’m not talking about bizarre behavior among my fellow prisoners — though they do have their moments. I’m referring to Herichthys (Archocentrus) Nigrofasciatus, a fish of the cichlidae family native to the tropical river basins of Central America. They are popularly known as convict cichlids, or just convicts because of their characteristic black stripes.
Oh, go ahead and yawn! Whenever I would recite the scientific nomenclature for the fish in my aquarium, my friends would always yawn! Aquarium buffs are used to it! The more serious among us always felt duty-bound to learn the scientific names of the residents of our aquatic neighborhoods. Hey, we don’t talk that way by choice, you know!
My 100 gallon cichlid aquarium was my spare-time-consuming hobby for most of my life as a priest until I was sent to prison at age 41. It was an oasis of life, light, and aquatic drama that kept me mesmerized for hours at the end of each day. Only one other priest in my diocese had an aquarium, and we had an instant bond of shared knowledge and interest.
I had a breeding pair of convict cichlids who shared their home — perhaps “shared” is too strong a word — with a pair of Astronotus Ocellatus, or red oscars native to the Amazon Basin. I also had a single Herichthys (Archocentrus) Octofasciatus known otherwise as a “Jack Dempsey,” and for good reason. He ended up in a smaller aquarium of his own. Couldn’t play well with others.
Convicts typically excavate a cave when preparing to breed, so an old clay flower-pot in the corner sufficed. I named my convicts Bonnie and Clyde (at the time, I had limited knowledge of suitable convict names. Today I’d go with Bubba and Bella.) The other denizens, the Oscars, were named Oscar Madison and Oscar Wilde. (I’m glad I only had two!)
The Oscars gave their testy neighbors a wide berth once eggs were laid in the cave. Oscar Madison, twice the size of the convicts, sometimes paid a price for lumbering over to eat the convicts’ food. He had the nips in his fins to remember them by.
I once tried to use a mirrored barrier to keep everyone happy, but Clyde kept launching himself furiously at his own reflection. In time, everyone learned to respect some boundaries. My current convict friends could learn a lot from that. “The Aquarium is Gone.” That’s actually a line from a poem by Robert Spence Lowell (“For the Union Dead.” 1964)
Its absence from my world is still deeply felt. It is one of the three recurring dreams I have in prison. (I’ll write of the other two later.) It haunts me a bit. I often dream that my aquarium is on the concrete shelf of my cell, and Oscar Wilde is staring at me with his bulging eyes willing me to bring food.
I miss them. There is nothing with water and life here.
“And the fish of the sea will declare to you. In His hand is the life of every living thing.”
— Job 12:8,10
The Eucharistic Adoration Chapel established by Saint Maximilian Kolbe was inaugurated at the outbreak of World War II. It was restored as a Chapel of Adoration in September, 2018, the commemoration of the date that the war began. It is now part of the World Center of Prayer for Peace. The live internet feed of the Adoration Chapel at Niepokalanow — sponsored by EWTN — was established just a few weeks before we discovered it and began to include in at Beyond These Stone Walls. Click “Watch on YouTube” in the lower left corner to see how many people around the world are present there with you. The number appears below the symbol for EWTN.
Click or tap the image for live access to the Adoration Chapel.
The following is a translation from the Polish in the image above: “Eighth Star in the Crown of Mary Queen of Peace” “Chapel of Perpetual Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament at Niepokalanow. World Center of Prayer for Peace.” “On September 1, 2018, the World Center of Prayer for Peace in Niepokalanow was opened. It would be difficult to find a more expressive reference to the need for constant prayer for peace than the anniversary of the outbreak of World War II.”
For the Catholic theology behind this image, visit my post, “The Ark of the Covenant and the Mother of God.”
Tragedy at Uvalde, Texas: When God and Men Were Missing
Facing the truth about the tragedy in Uvalde, Texas will require courage. Something has gone terribly wrong in our culture and Pornchai Moontri knows it firsthand.
Facing the truth about the tragedy in Uvalde, Texas will require courage. Something has gone terribly wrong in our culture and Pornchai Moontri knows it firsthand.
June 15, 2022 by Fr. Gordon MacRae and Pornchai Moontri
Note to readers: Fr. Gordon MacRae interviewed Pornchai Moontri in Thailand for this post. Pornchai’s most recent post was “A Night in Bangkok, a Year in Freedom.”
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A dense, dark cloud has been hanging over America since the recent inexplicable and shocking murders of 19 elementary school children and two of their teachers by 18-year-old Salvatore Ramos in Uvalde, Texas. The close knit community will feel the effects of this trauma for decades to come. A lot of soul searching has gone on about what could have triggered such an event, about how it developed, how it might have been prevented, and what could have been done differently by responding police.
The tragedy at Uvalde was devastating, and was preceded just a week earlier by the racially charged rampage of another 18-year-old shooter brandishing the same sort of weapon. He killed 12 people — ten of them targeted for being African American — at a grocery store in Buffalo, New York.
After the shocking but unrelated stories unfolded, half the nation went immediately for the guns and political talking points. President Biden’s loudest and most immediate response was, “When in God’s name are we going to stand up to the gun lobby? Where in God’s name is our backbone?” They were not exactly the words of consolation the nation and the people of Uvalde needed in the moment. The politics should have waited.
Texas Governor Greg Abbott explained rationally that 18-year-olds in Texas have been able to own long guns (not hand guns) since frontier days while only in recent years have these mass shootings occurred in schools. That is true, but it is also true, as Governor Abbott added, that there are currently many reports of a burgeoning mental health crisis among young people that did not exist a hundred years ago. Why does it exist now?
After both stories dominated the news media, I reached out to our friend, Pornchai Moontri in Thailand. I knew that when he learned of these accounts, he might relate them to his own offense at age 18 at a supermarket in Bangor, Maine 30 years ago. During a parking lot struggle with a much larger man, 18-year-old Pornchai killed him. It happened on March 21, 1992. Pornchai never saw freedom again until almost 30 years later.
The major difference between that incident and the two young assailants in Buffalo and Uvalde is that Pornchai never set out to harm anyone that day or on any day. He carried a knife for self-protection. Having been torn from a rural village in Thailand at age 11, Pornchai was abused and tormented in Bangor, Maine until he escaped into homelessness on the streets of a foreign country. As the only Asian in town, he was often the subject of racial hatred, hunted by a Bangor street gang.
Most people who read this blog know Pornchai’s story. It is told in multiple places, but the best source is a widely read article at Linkedin. If you read it, you may wonder, as many already have, how one young man could endure so much and ever trust life again. The article is “Human Trafficking: Thailand to America and a Cold Case in Guam.”
In the Absence of Fathers
When I asked Pornchai for his thoughts about what might have driven 18-year-old Salvatore Ramos to this end, he put his response in the first person:
“I didn’t care about anyone; and then someone cared about me. If I did not find God, and you, and acceptance, and Divine Mercy, I might have stayed on a road to destruction. It was all I knew or expected. Hatred left me when something came along to replace it. Do you remember your Elephants post? It makes total sense. The one thing missing from my life and the lives of those two kids in America was a father. Without one, a decent one, a kid is at the mercy of dark forces and his mind just breaks.”
The “Elephants post” that Pornchai referred to was a Fathers Day post I wrote in this same week in 2012. It was a huge eye-opener for many people and began a serious discussion about the crisis of father absence in our time and the retreat of good men from engagement in the public square. The post was “In the Absence of Fathers: A Story of Elephants and Men.”
It is interesting that, ten years after writing it, that post began appearing in search engines all over the United States just hours after news struck about the horror in Uvalde, Texas. I had also made the same connection and decided that I would share that post anew on Facebook, Linkedin and Twitter. When our editor looked at traffic reports that day, even before we shared it, the post was showing up everywhere.
Despite the story and research covered in that post being suppressed in our agenda-driven mainstream ne ws media, people instinctively know the truth of it. There are two factors, both speaking loudly and clearly, about the burgeoning mental health crisis among the young that is now clearly evident in our culture. Those two factors are the growing and spreading of fathers from the lives of struggling young men and the diminishment of faith and hope as our culture separates itself from God. Along with this, incidents of violence and other criminal behavior among young men have increased 1,000 fold in two decades, and deaths by suicide and accidental opioid overdose are now the number one killers of young men ages 15 to 30.
I live with many who live without hope. For year after year, this prison sees a steady stream of lost, fatherless young men trapped in adolescence and unable to developmentally move on. They are 35 going on 12 emotionally, they suffer from panic attacks and other critical anxiety states, and they are subject to fits of overwhelming emotion. Over ninety percent of them grew up in the care of single mothers with absent fathers. The steady stream of social weapons aimed at men in recent decades — such as the #MeToo movement — has further diminished manhood and, by extension, fatherhood.
In the Name of the Father
Once God and Fatherhood are cast aside, only the feminine remains. That may sound great for the causes of radical feminism, but in the psyches of young men it wreaks havoc and chaos when coupled with the diminishment of fatherhood. The results are all around us: a marked increase in transgender ideology and great political pressure to embrace it, chronic gender confusion, identity confusion, self-medicating drug abuse, and the breakdown of identity and self-awareness. The great psychoanalyst, Erik Erikson predicted that adolescence cannot end until the crisis of identity is resolved. Our culture has extended that crisis to engulf a lifetime.
Before the election of 2020, then nominee Joe Biden said in a news conference “if an eight-year-old boy wakes up one morning and wants to be a girl, he should be given all the tools and medical support necessary and parents should have no say in it.”
That is not verbatim, but it is the context and content of what was said. Media heads were bobbing as they took notes.
Dr. Paul McHugh, Distinguished Professor of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University Medical Center and a widely recognized expert in this field, has stated that most transgender people suffer from a mental disorder and the idea of sex reassignment is simply mistaken — and leaves much psychological damage in its wake. Meanwhile, the Biden administration is now finalizing plans to require transgender treatment under healthcare plans. Catholic League President Bill Donohue recently addressed this in “Transgender Mania Grips the White House.”
These developments have all come about as a natural result of removing God from the public square. One of the last bastions of faithful witness has been the Catholic Church, but the sexual abuse crisis, though in too many ways real, was also hyped and manipulated to remove a Catholic voice from public discourse on moral issues. Gone also are the Boys Scouts of America. It is actually a hopeful sign that pro-abortion groups are attacking Catholic churches right now. It’s a sign that the Church is still perceived as being on the front line in the defense of life. Still, the eradication of God has made inroads that deeply affect young people and their ability to hope through hard times.
In a fine commentary by Peggy Noonan in The Wall Street Journal, she added the obvious, that it is one thing for an 18-year-old to have a gun to shoot rattlers in the 18th Century. It is quite another to allow an 18-year-old to buy a military grade assault rifle in the middle of a mental health crisis. Some common sense and compromise are likely to eventually prevail, even in an election year. Ms. Noonan went on, however, to point to a far deeper crisis and contributing factor to such tragedy in a recent column, “Let Not Our Hearts Grow Numb,” (WSJ, May 28, 2022):
“I continue in a kind of puzzled awe at my friends who proceed through life without faith, who get up and go forward without it ... I tell the young, I have been alive for some years and this is the only true thing, that there is a God and he is good and you are here to know him, love him, and show your feeling through your work and how you live. That is the whole mysterious point. And the ridiculous story, the father, the virgin, the husband, the baby — it is all, amazingly, true, and the only true thing ... Consolation is not why you believe, but is a fact of belief and helps all who have it live in the world and withstand it.”
I share with Peggy Noonan the consolation that the good people of Uvalde, Texas at least have that. This is part of our collective crisis. Too many have been robbed of the consolation of faith because of the relentless progressive assault on faith over the last few decades.
And she is also right about the crisis of mental health among the young. Signs of it are reported everywhere, and it is much exacerbated by the government enforced Covid lockdowns of the last two years.
I admire Peggy Noonan also for her unapologetic faith the absence of which is also a crisis among the young. It is the most common prayer request I receive from parents — a hope that their teen and young adult children will return to faith. As mentioned a week ago in these pages, Saint Paul famously wrote that only three gifts have lasting value, Faith, Hope, and Love. To impart Love without also imparting Faith and Hope diminishes love as a shallow and empty affair.
Among the Refugees of Thailand
What happened in Uvalde deeply impacted me. It made me double down on my own commitment as a father to Pornchai Moontri — even as he now lives many thousands of miles from me. When I asked him if he could explain Salvatore Ramos, he said, “I didn't care about anyone either; then someone cared about me.” He talked at length about my post, “In the Absence of Fathers: A Story of Elephants and Men.” Pornchai never knew his biological father, and then ended up in the hands of a sadistic abuser who did great harm to him mentally, spiritually and physically.
He vowed that he would never again be anyone’s victim and would never trust anyone again. When he finally took that chance, life fell back into place. Divine Providence steered the circumstances of our lives until they were on a collision course, and Pornchai courageously let me in.
Some readers have asked me what Pornchai is doing for work to support himself in Thailand. We are simply not there yet. American money goes a long way in Thailand so I manage to support Pornchai for just a small amount of money each month. A few good friends who understand that effort help me with it. I believe it is a necessity and I have dissuaded him from finding a menial job just to support himself right now. This is because I have a fully informed sense of what Pornchai has been through in life, of what others took from him.
So I have asked him to spend his time restoring his life by facing openly the traumas of his past without having to worry about where his next meal is coming from. He spends his days in learning, and when the need arises he spends whatever time is left assisting Father John Hung Le in caring for the Vietnamese refugees in Thailand.
This is of great importance. By caring for others, Pornchai is caring for himself just as the Father in his life taught him. That is why the photo below is so very special to me. In his last sixteen years here with me, at my urging, Pornchai sought the help of a therapist in the prison system to work through a lifetime of trauma and grief and loss. When the therapist saw the photo below, she said, “No one could have accomplished this but Gordon. No one else!”
I had little to do with it. It is God who directed this path. It required only sacrifice from me, and men need to be reminded that sacrifice is at the very heart of fatherhood.
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Note from Fr. Gordon MacRae: Thank you for reading this post with an open mind and heart, and for sharing it. It can only accomplish some good if others see it.
Please visit our SPECIAL EVENTS page and these related posts from Beyond These Stone Walls:
In the Absence of Fathers: A Story of Elephants and Men
Human Trafficking: Thailand to America and a Cold Case in Guam
The Parable of a Priest and the Parable of a Prisoner
No Child Left Behind — Except in Afghanistan
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De Profundis: Pornchai Moontri and the Raising of Lazarus
The raising of Lazarus, the sixth of seven signs in the Gospel of St. John, is told “so that you may believe.” The raising of Pornchai Moontri is that story retold.
The raising of Lazarus, the sixth of seven signs in the Gospel of St. John, is told “so that you may believe.” The raising of Pornchai Moontri is that story retold.
Some very important things occurred on the day before I sat down to type this post. The day began for me at about 5:00 AM. I was alone in the dark, walking in silent solitude through the dew laden grass of the New Hampshire State Prison Ballfield. There was not another soul in sight. The day’s first light was but a hint of gray barely visible above the walls and razor wire. A few birds were stirring with the dawn’s early light, their song one of hope and serenity. I could smell the grass and the early morning air. All was beautiful. Succumbing to the hypnotic scene, I lay down in the beckoning grass and fell into a deep sleep.
And then I suddenly awoke from that dream to the harsh reality that ushers in my real day. The soft grass instantly transformed into cold concrete, the melody of songbirds into the snores of grown men, the smell of grass and the morning air into the stale and crowded confinement of what sometimes feels like a tomb.
I longed to drift back into my dream, but it was a luxury I could not afford that day. So I rolled over to the edge of my bunk, reached down to the floor, and plugged in a pot of water for coffee. Then I lay in the dark and placed before the Lord the important things of the day that lay before us.
A few minutes later, Pornchai-Max Moontri jumped down from his upper bunk and silently poured hot water into two cups of instant coffee. The other six denizens of our cell still slept as we prepared for a momentous day in prison. At 6:00 AM, Pornchai walked from our cell to a small bank of three telephones to place a long awaited call. For the first time since he was taken from his home and country at age 11 — 32 years ago — Pornchai placed a call to someone in Thailand. And it was not just ANY someone.
It was 6:00 PM in Thailand, and his first call to his homeland was to Yela Smit, a founding member of “Divine Mercy Thailand,” a group that reached across the world to embrace Pornchai with something he had once given up all hope for: a life beyond this long sleep of death in prison. This moment had its origin in one of the most compelling accounts of faith written at These Stone Walls, “Knock and the Door Will Open: Divine Mercy in Bangkok, Thailand.” Just how miraculous is that gift might be clearer below, but first, the story of Lazarus.
“I Have Come To Believe!”
Pornchai himself seemed to provide a prelude to the story of Lazarus. At Mass on the Fourth Sunday of Lent, he stood at the lectern to proclaim the Second Reading from the Letter of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. I found it difficult to distinguish the words from the life’s reality of the man proclaiming them:
“You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth. Try to learn what is pleasing to the Lord. Take no part in the fruitless works of darkness, rather expose them, for it is shameful even to mention the things done by them in secret, but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light. Therefore, it says ‘Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.’”
It amazes me how much those very words proclaimed by Pornchai-Max at Mass on the Fourth Sunday of Lent are both a summation of his life and a prelude to the raising of Lazarus in John 11:1-45. Pay special attention to this Gospel passage for the Fifth Sunday of Lent. Before we tell more, it needs a little background.
It was Winter in Jerusalem, and the Feast of the Dedication, the event known to us as Hanukkah. We began Lent at These Stone Walls this year with the background story of this Feast in “Semper Fi! Forty Days of Lent Giving Up Giving Up.” When Jesus went to the Temple at the time of this Feast (described in John 10:22-42), He was walking in the Portico of Solomon on the eastern side of the Temple mentioned in Acts of the Apostles 3:11.
Some of the Jews surrounded him, and challenged him about a circulating rumor that he is the Christ. They wanted him to claim it plainly, and they had taken up stones to execute him for blasphemy if he did. Storm clouds were gathering, and rumbling calls for his death were growing in Jerusalem.
Some Pharisees had been investigating his healing of a blind man on the Sabbath. They first thought the man had been faking his blindness, but witnesses attested that he had been blind from birth. They questioned the formerly blind man about the “sinner” who had healed him, but the man shot back, “Would God listen to a sinner?”
Now, at the Portico of Solomon in the Temple, Jesus spoke of his sheep hearing his voice. He challenged the Pharisees’ spiritual blindness, “If I am not doing the works of my Father, then do not believe me.” They took up stones and tried to arrest him, “but he escaped from their hands” (John 10:39). “The Hour of the Son of God” (the Seventh sign) had not yet come.
But then Jesus received word that Lazarus, the brother of Martha and Mary of Bethany, was ill. When Jesus heard this, he said, “This illness is not unto death; it is for the greater glory of God, so that the Son of Man may be glorified because of it.” Then he simply took his time, inexplicably letting two more days pass before departing to complete this sixth of seven signs in the Fourth Gospel’s “Book of Signs,” the raising of Lazarus from his tomb, the Gospel for the Fifth Sunday of Lent.
But first, what does the Fourth Gospel mean by its “Book of Signs?” Written in Greek, Saint John’s Gospel uses an interchangeable term – Sêmeion – for both “signs” and “miracles.” The Greek word is used sixty times through the New Testament, seventeen of them in the Fourth Gospel. Since the first six of the Gospel’s seven signs are found in Chapters one through twelve, this part of the Gospel is called “The Book of Signs.”
For this Evangelist, the signs of Jesus are mighty works, but they are also miracles told for a specific purpose. They are “signs” that lift a corner of the veil to point the readers’ gaze to the glory of God working through Christ. The signs of Jesus echo the signs of Moses during the Exodus from Egypt:
“And there has not arisen a prophet since in Israel like Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face, none like him for all the signs and wonders… and for all the mighty wonder and all the great and terrible deeds which Moses wrought in the sight of all Israel.”
The Sixth Sign, the raising of Lazarus, concludes the Book of Signs, and makes way for the rest of the Gospel and the Seventh Sign, the final and climactic sign — the Resurrection of Jesus — which Jesus elsewhere calls “The Sign of Jonah” (Matthew 12:39).
It is for this reason that the Church permanently chooses the Passion account from the Gospel According to Saint John for the proclamation of the Gospel on Good Friday. It is very different from the other three Gospel accounts. Here, the death of Christ is not just sacrifice and the path to redemption. It is also the moment of the enthronement of Christ the King upon the Cross. As the Seventh Sign, it is the fulfillment of the purpose of all the signs, in just the way that the Evangelist has Jesus presenting the illness of Lazarus: “To bring glory to God.” Martha, the sister of Lazarus, bridges the Sixth and Seventh signs in a dialogue with Jesus about the death of her brother:
“I am the resurrection and the life; he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live; and whoever believes in me shall never die. Do you believe this?’ She said to him, ‘Yes, Lord, I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, he who is coming into the world.’”
The Raising of Lazarus
Almost inexplicably in this Gospel account, once Jesus learns of the illness of Lazarus, he “stayed two days longer in the place where he was” (11:7). The account takes great pains to present that by the time Jesus arrives, Lazarus is not asleep or in a coma, but is dead, wrapped and bound in a burial shroud, and sealed in a tomb for four days. There can be no doubt.
The disciples are incredulous that Jesus would even think of going to Bethany in Judea where many of the Jews who had been in Jerusalem have now also gone. “Rabbi, the Jews were but now seeking to stone you, and you are going there again?” (John 11:8) The disciples totally misunderstand his reply — “If anyone walks in the day, he does not stumble.” Throughout the Fourth Gospel, Jesus is aware that until his “hour” comes, he can walk through all of Judea in safety. (We mined the depths of this “hour” in the Fourth Gospel in a Holy Week post, “Now Comes the Hour of the Son of God.”)
I found the response of Martha (above) to be perplexing at first: “I believe that you are the Christ, the Son of God, he who is coming into the world.” What could Martha mean by “coming into the world?” Jesus is already in the world. It’s a sort of presage of the events to come. Upon the cross, in sight of His mother and the Beloved Disciple, Jesus Himself becomes the Gate of Heaven. The raising of Lazarus is a preface to that event, and with the entire scene set, it is told in the simplest terms:
“‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’”
With those few words, the Fourth Gospel ends the Sixth Sign by ascribing to Jesus what was once for Israel the sole purview of Yahweh: the power over death, and life. From this point on in the Gospel of John, the Seventh Sign commences as the plot to put Jesus to death gets underway.
Another Chapter in Pornchai’s Story
There were chapters after this one awaiting in the future of Lazarus, but we will never know what they are. But this account echoes across the centuries, and still reverberates in countless lives of those called from death to life. Though Lazarus was physically dead, there is a parallel for those summoned forth from the tombs of spiritual death. One of them is our friend, Pornchai Maximilian Moontri, and his story is also told to unveil the glory of God.
I cannot tell all of it yet for some important chapters are still being written. But I can tell you this: the full account, when told, will be one of the most important Divine Mercy stories of our time. In the coming months, we hope to tell more of it, for the odds against any of it unfolding as they did are astronomical.
Pornchai’s recent telephone call to Thailand was but the latest step out of darkness into the light, and like Lazarus it leads only to his unbinding and new life. In 2009 when These Stone Walls began, we did not see this as even possible. Somehow, while buried in a prison cell in Concord, New Hampshire, we managed to tell a tale that circled the world, and when it came back around to us, it carried with it a multitude of good will and bonds of connection. For Pornchai, this tapestry of grace is still being woven, replacing the threads of only vague dreams and little hope with the powerful weaving of Divine Mercy. All has changed.
Among the instruments of that change is Viktor Weyand who is pictured in the photograph below with Pornchai Moontri. Viktor, an Austrian living in the United States, is a member of Divine Mercy Thailand and a founder of Divine Mercy School in Bangkok. During one of his many visits to Bangkok three years ago, he was asked to investigate the story of a young Thai man in an American prison in New Hampshire. That story drifted around the world from These Stone Walls. As happens among the hidden threads behind every tapestry of grace, Divine Mercy created bonds of connection that gathered strength and then rolled back the stone of Pornchai’s spiritual tomb. And as he put it, “I woke up one day with a future when up to then all I ever had was a past.”
The story of this other Lazarus is coming, and like the first, it will knock your socks off! For, now I can only give you once again the very words from Saint Paul that Pornchai read at Mass on the Fourth Sunday of Lent to open our hearts to the story of Lazarus:
“Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead. Christ will be your light.”
Editor’s Note: You might like these other journeys into the deeper threads of the Tapestry of God in Sacred Scripture from These Stone Walls:
Joseph’s Dream and the Birth of the Messiah
A Transfiguration Before Our Very Eyes
Casting the First Stone: What Jesus Wrote in the Sand
On the Road to Jericho: A Parable for the Year of Mercy
Upon the Dung Heap of Job: God’s Answer to Suffering
St Gabriel the Archangel: When the Dawn from On High Broke Upon Us
Angelic Justice: St Michael the Archangel and the Scales of Hesed
“I Am a Mystery to Myself.” The Last Days of Padre Pio
For half the 20th Century, Saint Padre Pio suffered the wounds of Christ. All of them, including the cynicism of doubt and the tyranny of false witness.
For half the 20th Century, Saint Padre Pio suffered the wounds of Christ. All of them, including the cynicism of doubt and the tyranny of false witness.
In the August-September 2012 issue of Inside the Vatican magazine, Australian journalist Paul MacLeod has a fascinating article reviewing two books by Paul Badde, The Face of God (Ignatius Press 2010) and The True Icon (Ignatius Press 2012). The two books “read like detective stories,” MacLeod wrote, as they examine in great depth two of the Church’s most revered treasures, the Shroud of Turin and the “Volto Santo,” the image of the Holy Face hidden for 400 years and believed to be the second burial cloth of Jesus, the sudarium.
The origin of the veil can be one of two sources, or a combination of both. Though the story never appears in Sacred Scripture, there is an ancient legend that a woman offered her head-cloth to wipe the face of Jesus on the way to Golgotha. When he gave it back to her, as the story has it, an impression of his face remained on the veil. What is now the Sixth Station of the Cross was legendary in Rome since the 8th Century. The name tradition has given to that woman is Veronica, a name that appears nowhere in the Gospel narrative of the Passion of Christ. The name comes from “Vera Icon,” Latin for “True Image,” a great treasure of the Church now preserved at the Shrine of the Holy Face at Manoppello in the Abruzzi region of Italy.
The veil is believed to be one of two burial cloths of Jesus, though it’s possible that both accounts are behind this treasure. On the morning of the resurrection, the Gospel of John (20:7) reports, the smaller burial cloth of Jesus — the veil covering his face — was rolled up in a place by itself as witnessed by Saint Peter and Saint John. In Jewish custom in the time of Jesus, such a veil covered the faces of dignitaries, such as the high priest, in death before being entombed. It is this veil that many now believe is enshrined at Manoppello. In contrast to that other, larger burial cloth — believed by many to be the Shroud of Turin — the image on the veil is not that of a dead man, however, but of a man very much alive, his eyes wide open. It is Jesus the Christ, having conquered death. In Inside the Vatican, Paul MacLeod described the Veil of Manoppello as:
“. . . a delicate, transparent piece of expensive material, measuring just 28 cm by 17 cm, in which the face of Jesus seems to float in light, even to store light.”
Paul MacLeod reported in the article that Capuchin priest, Father Domenico de Cese, formerly custodian of the shrine, was killed in an accident while visiting the Shroud of Turin in 1978. A decade earlier, however, Father Domenico wrote of a rather strange occurrence. On the morning of September 22, 1968, Father Domenico opened the doors of the shrine, and was startled to find Padre Pio kneeling in prayer before the image of the Holy Face. Padre Pio was at the same time 200 kilometers away at San Giovanni Rotondo, gravely ill, and near death.
“With My Body or Without It”
It was his last known occurrence of bilocation, a phenomenon that, like his visible wounds, became a source of skepticism about Padre Pio both in and outside of the Church. At 2:30 AM on the next morning — September 23, 1968 — Padre Pio died.
The two stories placed together — Padre Pio’s death and his prayer before the Veil of Manoppello — make perfect sense to me. In the hours before his death, Padre Pio contemplated the burial cloth of Christ. After fifty years of bearing the visible wounds of Christ, Padre Pio’s own soul sought out this visible link to Jesus beyond death; not Jesus crucified — a reality Padre Pio himself had lived for fifty years — but the image of the face of the risen Christ.
Padre Pio seemed most hesitant to discuss either his wounds or the reported incidents of bilocation. He seemed hesitant because in life he did not understand them at all. In fact, a Vatican investigator learned that all the events of bilocation were reported by others, and never by Padre Pio himself. It wasn’t until he was directly asked by the investigator that he described bilocation:
“I don’t know how it is or the nature of this phenomenon — and I certainly don’t give it much thought — but it did happen to me to be in the presence of this or that person, to be in this or that place; but I do not know whether I was there with my body or without it . . . Usually it has happened while I was praying . . . This is the first time I talk about this.”
— Padre Pio Under Investigation, Ignatius Press, 2008, p. 208
Those September days preceding Padre Pio’s death in 1968 must have been the strangest of his life. The visible wounds became so central to his sense of self for a half century that I imagine he had difficulty even remembering a time when the wounds were not present. Even a great burden carried for years upon years — I have learned the hard way — can become a part of who and what we are. We cannot imagine Padre Pio without these wounds. We would have never even heard of Padre Pio without these wounds. So in that sense, the wounds were not for him. They were for us.
But in the days before Padre Pio died, the wounds on his hands and feet and in his side began to close. He received those wounds on the morning of September 20, 1918. Fifty years later, on September 20, 1968, after a few days of the wounds slowly diminishing, all traces of them were gone. The wounds were then only within Padre Pio. Visible or not, they were a part of his very self.
In a previous post about Padre Pio I wrote of the day those wounds were given to him. I told the story of how this saint among us struggled with what had happened to him, and the lifelong trials that were set in motion by those visible wounds. It is a moving account of the Stigmata in Padre Pio’s own words in a letter to his Capuchin spiritual advisor, Padre Benedeto, a month after receiving the wounds.
“On the morning of the 20th of last month, in the choir, after I had celebrated Mass . . . I saw before me a mysterious person similar to the one I had seen on the evening of 5 August. The only difference was that his hands and feet and side were dripping blood. The sight terrified me and what I felt at that moment is indescribable. I thought I should die and really should have died if the Lord had not intervened and strengthened my heart which was about to burst out of my chest.
“The vision disappeared and I became aware that my hands and feet and side were dripping blood. Imagine the agony I experienced and continue to experience almost every day. The heart wound bleeds continually, especially from Thursday evening until Saturday.
“Dear Father, I am dying of pain because of the wounds and the resulting embarrassment I feel in my soul. I am afraid I shall bleed to death if the Lord does not hear my heartfelt supplication to relieve me of this condition.
“Will Jesus, who is so good, grant me this grace? Will he at least free me from the embarrassment caused by these outward signs? I will raise my voice and will not stop imploring him until in his mercy he takes away . . . these outward signs which cause me such embarrassment and unbearable humiliation.”
— Letters 1, No. 511
But it was the stories of bilocation that caused so much skeptical doubt. In May of 1921, the Vatican commenced its first of several investigations into Padre Pio’s life. The investigator, Monsignor Raffaelo Carlo Rossi, tried to refuse the assignment because he admittedly went into it with a “prejudice against Padre Pio.” After months of interrogations, depositions, interviews with other friars, and testimony by many laypeople, Bishop Rossi’s file was ordered sealed, and it remained sealed as a secret Vatican file for decades. The investigator concluded his file: “The future will reveal what today cannot be read in the life of Padre Pio of Pietrelcina.”
That investigator, we now know, left San Giovanni Rotondo with no doubt whatsoever about the true nature of Padre Pio, but it wasn’t enough to curtail years of further suspicion and persecution from within the Church. The story of Padre Pio’s treatment is best summed up by Father Paolo Rossi, former Postulator General of the Capuchin Order, and it seems a bit familiar:
“People would better understand the virtue of the man if they knew the degree of hostility he experienced from the Church… The Order itself was told to act in a certain way toward Padre Pio. So the hostility went all the way up to the Holy Office and the Vatican Secretariat of State. Faulty information was being given to Church authorities, and they acted on that information.”
— Making Saints, Simon and Schuster, 1990 p. 188
A Face on My Wall
If you look at the end of the “About” page at Beyond These Stone Walls, you may notice that this blog is published under the patronage of Saint Maximilian Kolbe and Saint Padre Pio, champions of truth, justice, and fidelity to the Risen Lord. The impact of Saint Maximilian on these prison walls is easy to see. How Saint Padre Pio insinuated himself here is a bit more mysterious.
It started with an awareness that we share an important date. The day I was convicted and taken to prison was September 23, Saint Padre Pio’s feast day and the last day of his earthly life. Only 26 years passed between those two events. Padre Pio just showed up here again, but that story needs a little background.
Despite its small size, the typical prison cell can seem a barren place. Like every prison this one has rows upon rows of cells, tiers upon tiers of them, all perfectly uniform, none with any evidence of human individualism. The whole point of prison is that its inhabitants are forced to view themselves as humans in degraded form, living a day to day existence that is entirely uniform, and devoid of any sense of the self.
The inside of these 6-by-10-foot walled and barred cells is composed of nothing but concrete. The four walls, the floor and the ceiling are bare concrete. The bunks upon which we sleep are concrete (and they hurt if I sleep too long), and so is the small counter upon which this prisoner is writing at this moment. Prison cells are distinguishable from other prison cells solely by the number above each solid steel door.
There is one small exception to the absence of human evidence, and I’ve written of it before. In “Angelic Justice: Saint Michael the Archangel and the Scales of Hesed,” I described the sole evidence of individualism in a prison cell. There are two rectangles, exactly 24 inches by 36 inches, painted on one wall with 12 inches of space in between them. Within these dark green rectangles, the two prisoners living in each cell may post a calendar, photos of their families and friends, and religious items. Nothing else.
You can learn a lot about a man from what is posted within this rectangle on his cell wall. In my first years in prison, commencing 28 years ago, I had lots of photos of family and friends, evidence of the life I once knew beyond these stone walls. Like every prisoner over time, that evidence slowly diminished. In my first five years in prison, I was moved 17 times, often with just minutes notice. Each time, I would take down all my evidence of a life, and then put it back on the wall in another cell on another tier in another building with other people. Each time, something of myself would be lost forever. Then the day came that I was moved, and nothing went back up onto the wall. The wall remained an empty space for many years.
This was true of my friend, Pornchai Moontri, as well. After 21 years in prison, beginning when he was barely 18 years old, Pornchai only vaguely recalls a life beyond and the people in it, but he no longer possesses any evidence of it. His uprootings were much more severe than mine. As you know from reading “Pornchai’s Story” he was ripped from a culture, a country, and a continent. Much was taken from him, and then, finally, so was his freedom. You know of that story which I wrote of in “Pornchai Moontri and the Long Road to Freedom.”
When we were moved to the same cell many years ago, Pornchai and I both stared each day at two green rectangles with nothing in them. Then Beyond These Stone Walls began a year later, and ever so slowly our wall became filled with images sent to us from readers. (Alas, such images are no longer allowed in mail, but the ones already on our wall can stay). Every square inch of Pornchai’s rectangle, even after he has left prison, is still filled with evidence of his very much alive Catholic faith.
But one day, I noticed that a very nice photograph of Saint Padre Pio that was in my rectangle on the wall somehow migrated over to Pornchai’s wall. On the day I noticed that my treasured image of Padre Pio “defected,” I also mentioned that I didn’t have another one and wished that someone would send me one. An hour after voicing that, the mail arrived. I opened an envelope from my friend, John Warwick, a reader in Pittsburgh.
I opened John’s envelope to find a beautiful card enrolling me and my intentions in a novena to Saint Padre Pio, and the image on the card was the very same one that took up residence over on Pornchai’s wall. It is my first experience of this great Patron Saint’s bilocation, and I treasure it. Thank you, John!
“Stay with me, Lord, for it is getting late: the day is ending, life is passing; death, judgment, eternity are coming soon … I have great need of you on this journey. It is getting late and death is approaching. Darkness, temptations, crosses and troubles beset me in this night of exile.”
— Saint Padre Pio’s Communion Prayer
