In my last article, I explored the first of three truths God revealed to me surrounding the darkest day of my life. On December 27, 2022, in the hour of divine mercy, I held and prayed over my dear friend, Greg Pierzchala, as he breathed his last breaths after he was shot six times in a premeditated ambush. My words can do little to express the utter ache that struck my soul that day and many days thereafter. I pray that for those of you reading this, God will spare you from this grief. But should he not, or in the chance your life has already taken a similar path, then I pray our good and merciful God will arm you with the strength to persevere. In fact, if you ask him, I am certain he will.
I say this with complete confidence that has been born out of this tragedy. What’s been made so wonderfully evident to me is that wrapped around every cross, no matter how burdensome it may be, is beauty, hope, and the promise of redemption. And though my frail humanity is prone to discouragement, I have learned to embrace and love the crosses Christ has given me, for it is through his eternal sacrifice and delightful grace alone that our yoke is made easy, even as we walk through the valley of darkness and the shadow of death.
I will now cover the second of the three truths: The veil is thin between heaven and earth.
At 4:30 a.m. on December 27, 2022, my alarm sounded at the start of a new day. While I had no inkling what would transpire that afternoon, something about that morning was different. I woke up with a strange and unshakeable image burning fervently in my mind: St. John the apostle standing at the foot of the cross. It was vivid, relentless, and oddly somber. It was as though John was staring at me as if to come closer, only before refocusing his gaze on the cross. While initially I shrugged it off, through the course of my day as I went about my duties, the image remained—each time with greater intensity. I saw myself standing there with John, silent and watching.
Shortly after 2:40 p.m. the afternoon silence was shattered when dispatch crackling over the radio reported Greg had been shot.
For a brief moment, I stood in disbelief, my brain trying to comprehend what it had just heard. Then calmly I responded, “6C091—I’m on my way.” Having come off my lunch break, I sprinted out of the station to my cruiser as I called my wife in panicked breath.
“Greg’s been shot—that’s all I know right now. I’m heading there. I love you. Please pray.”
Wrapped around every cross, no matter how burdensome it may be, is beauty, hope, and the promise of redemption.
I threw my cruiser in drive and raced toward the scene, my heart pounding in redlined rhythm with the roaring engine. But this was not the time for fear to set in. Beckoning the heavens, I cried, “Give me clarity, give me strength, O Lord. . . . I need to perform well,” as I focused on controlling my breathing while reciting the Act of Contrition in my head. Finally, approaching the scene, I prayed, “Should this be my last day, welcome me with open arms.” And as I stepped out of my cruiser, a peace that surpasses my own understanding descended upon me.
Running toward him, I saw Greg lying on his back, barely responsive, bleeding profusely in the middle of the road. Moving to his side after having assessed his injuries, as I placed my hands on his wounds to control the bleeding, so too, in the most tangible form, did I feel a pair of hands come to rest on me—hands that only the eyes of my soul could see. Hands that I knew with complete confidence belonged to the beloved apostle.
In that moment, the unprovoked meditation of the morning clicked into place. St. John, knowing I would be called to stand witness to the wicked death of a dear friend, had been preparing me all day. I was no longer simply a police officer performing first aid but rather a character in a cosmic drama where heaven meets earth. And so, leaning into his intercession, I begged St. John for strength—strength for me to keep working, and strength for Greg to hold on.
We moved Greg into the back of the ambulance. As the reality of his injuries became clear, my prayers shifted. I stopped asking for a miracle of the body and started asking God to welcome his faithful servant into his kingdom. I cried, “Even to the thief you said, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.’ Let my friend see your face, Father.” Greg died in the back of that ambulance on our way to the hospital as I prayed unceasingly over him.
I arrived home the next morning clouded by a haze of shock and grief, walking through the front door only to collapse to the ground a few steps later, uncontrollably weeping. When I told my wife about the persistent image of St. John and the ineffably surreal feeling of his hands on my shoulders, she stopped me, her eyes wide open.
“Evan,” she said, “Yesterday was December 27. It was the feast day of St. John the apostle. That was him. He was with you.”
A few days later, Greg’s family shared another detail that sent chills through me: Greg had chosen St. John the apostle as his confirmation name.
In the darkest hour of my life, God provided a companion who knew exactly what it felt like to watch someone you love be viciously destroyed by the hands of wicked men. He showed me that the saints are not simply distant figures in stained glass; they are in fact our brothers-in-arms, at the ready to be called upon to stand with us—I mean truly stand with us—at our own personal Calvaries. And in the spirit of St. John, who bore sight to his friend’s most brutal execution, did I see that evil never bears the final word. Though I walk in the valley of darkness I shall not fear, for the veil between heaven and earth is thin indeed. I know that Christ and his army of angels and saints walk with me. They assure me that the cross is victory. It is the resounding and triumphant song of the Father’s glory.