ON THE DEATH OF HEROIC FATHER MICHAEL CARCERANO

"I'm not afraid of dying, actually I can't wait," said Fr. Michael, the last time we met. He looked so indescribably peaceful and in a place beyond joy.  But this was hard to fathom...

He could barely stand, he looked like a skeleton, and was about to be put on oxygen full-time. Inflamed lungs surrounding a heart of solid gold. 

Father Michael was in his mid-70s. Despite the ravages of old age, the closely cropped white bristles of hair and the sunken posture, he still retained that look of celebrity.

In his youth, he could have become an A-Lister. Tall, great bearing yet never imposing. He looked like Paul Newman, lustrous blue eyes of cornflower, and that habit in photos of making less of them by way of turning his head down or making his eyes hooded. But his commitment to his vows was absolute. No woman who crossed the faintest line was scolded or then put at total distance.

For close to 10 years he guided me, first when I was on an extended trip to L.A., and then when I came here for good. When I knelt in the musty confessional, I confessed, and asked him if he'd like me to pray for anything. He said he was a canonical hermit and had a particular devotion to St Romuald, the patron saint of hermits. "Oh, but then especially to Padre Pio." 

Without having any intention to do so, I divulged there and then, that Pio had appeared to me twice as a teen, and Father listened intently and was able to give expert advice and that confidence to put them on paper. 

Some things can never be "coincidence". Father knew a lot about Ballingeary, the tiny village of my birth because he'd been the chauffeur to Ireland's Cardinal Timothy Manning, who was born there and then had his ministry here in L.A.

In life, Father Michael asked me to be so discrete as to near silence as to his role in my soul growing in grace, something only to be revealed after his passing. 

Father was very strong-minded and could be blunt; he did, however, restrain his strength and gave only the reprimand needed. In later life, his health weakening, being a hermit was his true calling because it meant he kept his strength for the sacraments and not keeping people at bay.

A hermit, never a recluse. Faithfully, he came every Sunday to hear confessions and offer the Traditional Latin Mass at St. Anthony's, El Segundo. 

Father had authority and great kindness. There wasn't always the usual "Trad problems" that can beset the congregation of a Latin Mass where busybodies are make uncharitable criticisms; they didn't because Father Michael would not broke such nonsense. It meant genuine serenity in the pews.

I gave him requests and offerings for Masses by way of letter, and he'd reply by e-mail. Many of the posts where I've invited prayer in tandem with a Mass to be offered were said by Father Michael in his hermitage. One was for Abby Johnson. 

He could surprise you. After moving here, a religious back in Europe was bothering me for a recommendation, that I could not in good conscience give, and I told them never to contact me again, and when I confessed this, Father looked at me and said, "That was a grace."  He wasn't one to indulge those who wanted to take advantage of someone under the guise of fake charity. 

The last time I met him, he heard my confession for the last time and when I tried to give him a donation, he refused, "you need it more." He knew he was going to the Place that those pieces of tender have no value. 

You may not assist at Father's Mass in this life, but Christina Kohfield took footage of his last two Masses.