The Priest Fell at Mass and it Triggered My Trauma

This past week at Mass, something unexpected happened—something I haven’t stopped thinking about. Just before Communion, as the priest walked down the steps of the altar holding the bowl of consecrated hosts, he fell. Hard. The large Easter candle came crashing down beside him. There was a collective gasp, a shuffling from the pews. Several men from the congregation rushed to help him. People murmured, concerned, unsure of what to do. I couldn’t even look.

Hosts scattered everywhere. People knelt—not just in reverence, but in response—to gather them with uncertain and trembling hands. The priest, dazed and visibly in pain, was slowly helped up. He returned to his seat and remained there, clearly shaken, as his brother priest finished the rest of Mass.

And something in me panicked and froze.

I felt suddenly small, scared, and helpless. Like I was 5 years old again, with my hands over my eyes, holding my breath. It was a visceral, full-body feeling. One I recognized.

This wasn’t just about a priest falling. It was about someone I cared about collapsing in front of me. It was about not being able to stop it, not able to fix it. It brought up an ache I’ve carried for years—related to my younger brother's suffering.

I am the oldest of five. Three boys between myself and my younger sister. My middle brother, Joseph, was born with several special needs, both cognitive and physical. He had over 20 surgeries over the course of a short time when we were young. And to watch him endure them, time after time, took a toll.

The helplessness of being too young and too powerless was a chronic feeling around surgery time. Joseph would be in such pain and there would be nothing I could do about it. Thank God our mother was a nurse. Otherwise, I'm sure the trauma of that would have been greater than it is. But the trauma nonetheless is there—and it runs deep.

That moment when the priest fell, I was transported right back to Tempe, Arizona. Five years old. Little and helpless. Scared. And wanting to hide until Mom fixed it.

It took a minute to calm the system, but I was able to recover after a few minutes. It’s crazy how quickly we can get triggered. Crazier how our parts take over to protect us.

There was something almost too ironic about the parallel experience both the priest and I were having at that moment. The priest, going through his own trauma, and mine getting triggered—both of us brought to a painful moment.

But not alone. Jesus was there. The community was there.

Where better to fall? Where better to be in trauma? Where better for Jesus to be on the floor with us—holding us in our suffering and offering to walk us through it?

Later, before the final blessing, his brother priest made a light-hearted comment: “We thank God for our brother’s life.” It was well-meaning, but it didn’t quite land. The moment hadn’t passed yet. We were still in it—still feeling the aftershocks, still absorbing the jarring break in the sacred rhythm.

And maybe that’s the point.

Sometimes we need to sit with the rupture. Sometimes the places where everything falls apart become the most vulnerable moments of all—and opportunities to be saved by the Savior.

In leadership, in ministry, in life—we often try to keep things ordered, graceful, composed. But the real growth often comes when something breaks. When someone falls. When the trauma we thought we’d buried resurfaces. And we find ourselves kneeling again, scrambling to recover something holy in the mess.

It reminded me that healing doesn’t always look polished. Sometimes it looks like surviving. Sometimes it looks like remembering. And sometimes, it looks like realizing that the altar—the place of offering—is also the place where we’re allowed to break.

To anyone who’s ever felt helpless, scared, or triggered by something unexpected: You’re not alone. There’s space for all of it—even in church. Maybe especially in church.