God on the Golden Gate

Cecilia O’Connell

I was lucky to win a trip to America in 2007. We stayed with friends in Los Angeles, and they suggested a visit to San Diego Zoo four days into our four week holiday. As we were on a travelator someone said, ‘Look at the pink flamingos to our left.’ Unfortunately, as I twisted around, I injured my right knee. As something was planned for us each day we were on the move, and I could not fit in a visit to a doctor.

After a week we took the train to San Francisco. My husband wanted to walk the Golden Gate Bridge, along with my daughter who was visiting with us. As my maiden name was Hilton, my daughter suggested beginning the day with breakfast at the Hilton Hotel (no relation). After breakfast we bussed to the Golden Gate.

My injured knee was very painful and as I didn’t want to spoil my husband’s birthday plan we proceeded to walk across the bridge. Numerous people had jumped from the bridge so there was a police launch below keeping watch. There were also lots of phones for people to use to ring for help if needed.

As every step I took caused me much pain, I kept stopping, pretending I was looking down at the police launch, but was praying to God for help to get me to a hospital or a doctor.

When we finally go to the other side there were no busses as we had been told there would be. Suddenly, out of nowhere it seems, standing in front of us were three policemen, looking for a lady who had rung for help from the last phone on the bridge.

As no one but us was there, two of the policemen took off to look for the lady. We asked the one remaining where the busses were and he pointed across to the other side saying, ‘You have to go down these steep stairs then go under the bridge to the busses.’ He then asked, ‘Can you do that?’ When I said that I couldn’t because I had injured my knee he asked, ‘On the bridge?’ I replied, ‘No.’ As I like to say a person’s name when speaking to them I asked him his name as he was not wearing a badge. He humbly replied, ‘I am the lowest of the low, I don’t deserve one.’ Then he added, ‘I am Francis Christopher Hall, of Irish Catholic descent.’ My daughter told him that we too had Irish Catholic ancestry, adding that this was why mum couldn’t tell a lie about her injury not happening on the bridge.

He sat me on a seat in a police car, gave both my husband and I a holy picture each with the miracle of Lanciano, the story about the priest who at the celebration of the Eucharist doubted that the bread and wine became the Body and Blood of Christ. Then suddenly before us was a big red American ambulance. They had a look at my swollen knee, strapped me on a stretcher, and drove with police escort back across the bridge to a hospital where were seen by a doctor, x-rayed, fitted with a leg brace from ankle to above my knee, and given a walking stick, all a no cost.

So, I ask, ‘Did God hear and answer my prayer for help while on the Golden Gate bridge?’

At the Eucharist at Mass, I always say, ‘Welcome Body and Blood of Christ, and bless Francis Christopher Hall.’