By Mike Foster

I have been many things in my lifetime— solider in Vietnam, firefighter, emergency medical technician, to name just a few—and unquestionably, being a father has been the most meaningful, challenging and life-changing.

I would like to share a father’s story of fear, faith, community and miracles. It is based on events and experiences that happened 24 years ago, and although much time has passed, I believe it is never too late to thank all who were part of this saga. Without each of them, the ending may have been very different.

In January 1986, our son Todd, a high school sophomore, was at the Butte Civic Center to play basketball for Helena High School. After the game, he and his teammates watched the varsity action at the Civic Center gymnasium. Some older Butte High School boys began harassing them, then were ordered out of the gym. After the game, the sophomore team left to board the bus and await the varsity players, who were showering. Upon leaving the gym, the ousted boys attacked. One grabbed Todd and drove him headfirst into one of the Civic Center’s concrete pillars. Todd fell unconscious, but the young man continued to slam his head into the pillar, over and over.

A Helena High senior who came out of the building jumped on the attacker and some other Helena players moved Todd, still unconscious, into the gym. An ambulance was called and a Butte physician at the Civic Center for the game began assessing Todd’s condition, then rode with him in the ambulance and assisted the physician who provided emergency-room care.

The doctors found Todd had life-threatening head injuries, with cerebrospinal fluid coming out of his nose and one ear. He was briefly semiconscious after arriving at the hospital. All he remembers of the entire experience is that the physician in the ambulance said, “I see that you are Catholic because of the St. Christopher medal that you are wearing. Pray with me, hang on and don’t give up.”

Shortly after this, Todd lapsed back into unconsciousness. Doctors knew that he was going downhill, and that a neurosurgeon was needed. With the Butte neurosurgeon out of town that night, Todd needed to go to Missoula.

As the emergency room physicians awaited the helicopter that would transport him, one of them called Todd’s mother, Margaret, in Helena to tell her what had happened. A doctor then called me at the fire department. Margaret had said that with my training as an EMT, I would better understand the explanation of Todd’s condition. The doctor who called her was so upset that he asked his colleague to call me. I knew we would be going to Missoula for a long stay while Todd recovered, or we would be making arrangements to bring his body home for burial.

Margaret, my sister Callie and I began the 120-mile drive to St. Patrick Hospital. We did not know that Mike, one of the firemen with whom I worked, had been at the basketball game, learned what had happened and remained in the locker room with Todd until he went to the emergency room. Mike then called his brother-in-law and my friend, Jim, in Helena to let tell him what had happened and to request that Jim ask people to pray. Mike later told me that he and his wife did not ordinarily pray often, but they prayed throughout the drive from Butte to Helena. They did not think Todd would make it.

Margaret, Callie and I traveled quietly, each deep in thought and prayer. We had been on the road for about half an hour when I suddenly knew in my heart that Todd had died. I prayed, “Lord, I know that you gave up your Son for us, but I’m not strong enough and can’t give up my son for you.” Immediately, I knew that Todd was alive again, and I felt great peace. A few minutes later, I again felt Todd had died. I prayed the same prayer, and again I knew he was alive.

A short time later, I felt coldness and unrest enter the car. It was coldness that went to my core and I felt it was going to destroy me emotionally. It was a feeling of evil. Even Satan doubters would have no uncertainty about the existence of Satan and evil if they felt what I felt. I was in such an emotional state that all I remember saying is, “Lord, I’m too weak to deal with him right now. Please get him out of here!” I’d no sooner finished that prayer than I felt the coldness leaving the car, and warmth entering. That warmth–and a wonderful peace–remained in the car the rest of the way to Missoula.

At St. Patrick we were met by a nurse who had been on the helicopter with Todd. She told us he was lost twice during the flight but rallied inexplicably. As best we could tell, the losses in flight happened almost exactly at the times I had felt Todd was dead.

The neurosurgeon at St. Patrick said Todd was stable, unconscious and unlikely to need surgery. He had suffered a severe concussion. The doctor also said he wasn’t seeing cerebrospinal fluid nor decorticate posturing, a sign of severe brain damage. There had been indications of it in Butte. It was questionable why Todd had been sent to Missoula, the neurosurgeon said.

While at the hospital I received a call from Jim, who had been contacted earlier by my fire colleague. Jim told us he and others had contacted people in the Cursillo spiritual community and they were praying for Todd, and for us. It was about 2:30 a.m. Later we learned that hundreds of people in Butte prayed, as well.

We were in Todd’s room in the St. Patrick Critical Care Unit when he was brought in. Considering all he had been through, he didn’t look bad. Sheriff’s investigators in Butte had kept his clothes for processing in what they figured could end up as a homicide case. But when he arrived in Missoula, Todd still had the St. Christopher medal that he always wore around his neck.

It was sometime in the morning that he began regaining consciousness. His hospital bed faced a window providing a view of a mountain. “Dad, do you see that?” Todd said. “See what?” I replied. He continued to gaze through the window and said, “There, don’t you see her?” Still I did not see anything. “Right there, Dad,” Todd said. “Mary–don’t you see her?”

I thought of Todd having been in Butte, where the Our Lady of the Rockies statue had been erected the previous month. I figured Todd thought he was in Butte and was seeing the statue.

“You’re in Missoula and the statue of Mary is in Butte,” I told him. “There isn’t anything out there.”

He still was looking through the window when the look on his face turned blank. “Oh, you’re right Dad—she’s gone now,” he said. Then he fell asleep.

I continued to think, for a brief time, that he had been confused and saw an illusion of the Blessed Mother because of the statue seen the day before in Butte. But the more I thought about his facial expressions, I knew he had seen something not easily explained.

I had not yet joined the Catholic Church, and I had no belief in Mary. But as I had time to reflect, it became clear that Todd had seen something supernatural. Today, I believe it was the Blessed Virgin Mary and that she interceded with her son Jesus to spare my son’s life.

I will forever live in thanksgiving for the gift of a son, and the knowledge that a community of believers coming together in prayer can sometimes bring about a miracle. Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.


Mike Foster is a parishioner at the Cathedral of St. Helena.


Published in The Montana Catholic Online, Volume 26, No. 6, June 18, 2010.