The following is an excerpt from, The Dog Story: How Faith, Family, and a Puppy Helped Me Rediscover Hope by Matt Cavallo. This side-by-side photo compilation is from my sister Nicole’s First Communion. It features the altar at Resurrection of the Lord Parish in Hingham, MA, Nicole at 5 years old, Father Mooney, and me at 10 years old.
As I struggle to stand, my legs nearly give out. I clutch the counter for support. “Joci?” I call weakly.
She’s at my side in an instant, helping me back to bed. The short trip has left me completely wiped out. I collapse onto the mattress, my body heavy with exhaustion and doubt. She hands me the cane again. I stare at it for a moment, the weight of it settling in my palm, not just metal and foam, but everything it represents. Weakness. Dependence. Failure. This time, I take it without protest, but not without resentment.
My mind is restless, replaying the chaplain’s words over and over: Sometimes our pain becomes part of a bigger story—one we can’t see yet. God is with you, even if it doesn’t feel that way.
I want to believe him. I really do. But how am I supposed to see a bigger story when all I feel is broken?
I close my eyes, exhaustion finally dragging me under.
As sleep overtakes me, I drift into a dream.
I’m ten years old again, standing at the altar of Resurrection Church. It’s Christmas morning 1986, and the scent of pine and melted wax fills the air. My hands shake as I light the candles for the 7 AM Mass. My mind is anywhere but here—on the presents waiting for me at home, the laughter and warmth of my family gathered around the tree.
In my distraction, I knock over a candle. Time slows as it falls, the flame catching the edge of the white altar cloth. Fire blooms quickly, orange and angry, devouring the pristine fabric.
“Fire!” someone shouts, their voice echoing in the cavernous church.
The priests rush in, their robes billowing as they douse the flames, but the damage is done. Smoke lingers in the air, a bitter reminder of my mistake. My chest tightens with shame as I hear the murmurs of the congregation.
I’ve ruined Christmas.
The weight of my failure crushes me. I see my mom’s face in the pews, her eyes wide with concern. She tries to comfort me later, telling me it was an accident, that God would understand. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve failed Him, and my family.
That day, I quit being an altar boy. I told myself it was for the best, that I wasn’t cut out for this. Deep down, I believed I’d broken something irreparable in my relationship with God.
The dream shifts, and now I’m twelve, standing in Immaculate Conception Church in Weymouth. The air is heavy, filled with the somber hum of organ music. Pa’s casket rests at the front, draped in white.
I’d refused at first when my mom asked me to be an altar boy for the funeral. The memory of the fire was still raw, the shame too much to bear. But when I thought about my grandfather and his kind smile, the way he always made me feel like I could do anything—I couldn’t say no.
I stand at the altar, my hands steady this time as I light the candles. My heart pounds, but not from fear. As I look out at my family—my mom, my dad, my siblings—I feel at peace.
I don’t feel God’s anger. I don’t feel like I’ve failed Him. I feel … held. Like even in my mistakes, He’s still here.
I wake with a startle, my heart pounding. The dream clings to me, vivid and alive, the emotions as fresh as if I’d just lived them.
I sit up slowly, my body aching with the effort, and stare at the IV pole by my bed. The chaplain’s words come back to me, merging with the dream: God is with you, even if it doesn’t feel that way.
I see Jocelyn and think about her unwavering presence. I think about the nurses, Shelly and Kristen, the way they keep nudging me forward, even when I want to give up. And I think about the fire on that altar all those years ago, how it felt like the end of everything, but it wasn’t.
Maybe this isn’t, either.
I take a deep breath, my chest still tight but my heart a little lighter. The bigger story still feels out of reach, blurry and uncertain. But maybe, just maybe, I’m not as alone in this as I think.