St. André Bessette is the first saint from the Congregation of Holy Cross, the religious community that founded the University of Notre Dame. His devotion to St. Joseph (whose feast day is today) helped to cure many sick and disabled people.

Alfred Bessette was born in Quebec in 1845, and was made an orphan by the age of 12. He had little formal education, but from an early age he had a lively faith and a strong devotion to St. Joseph. As he grew, his pastor encouraged him to consider a vocation to religious life. He sent Alfred to the Holy Cross Brothers with a note that said, “I am sending you a saint.”

Upon entering Holy Cross, Alfred took the name André and was assigned as doorkeeper of Notre Dame College in Montreal. Among his many duties, he greeted visitors and tended to their needs. Eventually many people began to experience physical healings after praying with Brother André.

His reputation began to spread, the crowds got larger, more cures were reported, and Brother André became increasingly well-known. Through it all he remained humble, often seeming confused that people would lavish such praise on him. He knew that the real source of these miraculous cures was St. Joseph’s intercession.

Read more about St. Andrè Bessette here, and learn about the enormous oratory he built in Montreal. The oratory is a pilgrimage site for more than 2 million people every year, and its side chapels are filled with the crutches of those who have been healed with his prayers.

What the Disease Didn’t Steal

By Jan Mathew

“I met with Dr. Paula today, and after doing further nerve and muscle tests on my arms and legs, she concluded that ALS is the only remaining explanation. That’s a bummer, but it doesn’t surprise me. I reached that conclusion on my own a couple of months ago. There will be bumps ahead, but Mom and I can handle them—as you know.“

Dad sent me this e-mail message on Monday, March 11, 2013—the day he was officially diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), or Lou Gehrig’s disease. While I couldn’t stem my tears that afternoon, I also remember managing a small, sad smile. How like my dad to use euphemisms such as “bummer” to describe a disease that is 100 percent fatal. And, in true character, to also reassure me that he and Mom could handle any “bumps.”

Their navigation was mercifully brief. Dad died exactly seven months after his diagnosis at age 78. He was blessed to die peacefully at home, surrounded by his family.

ALS is a disease that relentlessly and systematically robs its victims of speech, swallowing, movement and, ultimately, of breath. In cruel irony, ALS does not steal the mind.

As I journeyed with Dad through his progressive weaknesses and struggles, I sometimes felt robbed, too. ALS denied me the sound of Dad’s gentle voice, his laugh and corny jokes, his hugs. But this disease never stole God’s gifts to my dad—intelligence, courage, optimism, and inexhaustible spirit.

And ALS never stole my faith.

Instead, conviction was fortified through the actions of every home healthcare “angel” that cared for my dad. Angie: A sweet, gentle soul who came for at least an hour every morning and evening to help transfer Dad to and from bed; she always stayed to scratch “Mr. Roger’s” perpetually itchy back for as long as he wanted. Bridget: The nurse who fielded my dad’s toughest questions with honesty, compassion, and reassurance—no, he would not choke as he drew his last breaths; yes, he could request only comfort care, and his wishes would be honored.

In faith, my mom, sisters, and I turned to God and received the energy and fortitude to help care for Dad in ways we never dreamt possible. Some nights, Dad would wake more than a dozen times, whispering for Mom to please move his arm, or his hand, just a few inches. Mom also mastered more Herculean tasks: navigating his motorized wheelchair; operating a Hoyer lift; driving an oversized handicapped accessible van.

Running was among Dad’s passions, and I always loved jogging by his side—happy to simply match his pace and distance. Over our many miles together, I never could have imagined that someday I would feed Dad spoonsful of cereal; place his hand on the throttle of his wheelchair; hold a water bottle to his mouth; or scratch his nose. God gave me the grace to unflinchingly perform these small acts of caretaking, and God gave Dad the humility to accept them.

Measured in a physical sense, and relative to the colossus that is ALS, my acts of care and comfort were indeed miniscule. Stepping into Dad’s journey in small ways, however, encouraged me to volunteer with the Care Connection Network, which links me to families in my area affected by ALS. I meet courageous men and women as they navigate the course of this disease. Sometimes I help with small household chores; often, I simply sit and keep company. I always feel I gain much more than I give.

There’s a slice of my life that will always echo with Dad’s “bummer,” and I know that bumps lie ahead, too. But I’m assured—thanks to Dad’s example and God’s grace—that I can handle them.

Jan’s father, Roger Schmitz, joined the University of Notre Dame faculty in 1979 as Keating-Crawford Professor. He was named Chairman of Chemical Engineering Department at Notre Dame in 1979; McCloskey Dean of Engineering in 1981; and Vice President and Associate Provost in 1987. He returned to teaching and full time research as Keating-Crawford Professor of Chemical Engineering at the University of Notre Dame in 1995 and was Keating-Crawford Professor Emeritus from 2005 to 2013.