The extraordinarily blue-collar life of a stigmatist and Servant of God

A few years ago, while at Thanksgiving dinner at my sister-in-law’s home, my wife and I were introduced to a guest who was joining us by the name of Peter Houle.

“That’s funny,” I told him, “There’s a man from Michigan that we prayed to, to ask for his intercession when our son was injured in a fall. His name was Irving Houle.”

“Yes, that was my father,” he responded.

Peter was very gracious that evening in speaking to me about his father, Servant of God Irving Houle. As we passed the turkey and mashed potatoes, he recounted some difficulties experienced by his mother, as well as him and his four siblings, with a father who was a reported stigmatist and healer. He mentioned that some days they would come home and there would be busloads of people parked at the house, having come from all over the region seeking out his father. And the time when Irving was sick and laid out in the bathroom “because he had taken on the effects of the chemotherapy of a cancer patient he prayed over.”

That cancer patient was Terry Saunders, a retired state police officer who is now a deacon. He was diagnosed with epitheliod sarcoma, at the age of 37, in 1992.

“I was expected to die by the following May,” Terry told me when I spoke with him by phone recently. He had experienced a reversion to the Catholic Faith in the late 1980s after a falling away, and some ladies from his parish were bringing him Holy Communion during his illness. “We want you to meet this holy man,” they said. Terry responded jokingly when they brought Irving in: “I know that old guy.” He also knew the Houle boys, the kids, and the grandkids. Escanaba, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, was a small town of 15,000 at the time, and 70% Catholic according to Peter.

“He obviously had compassion for me and my wife,” Terry relayed. “He actually cried, and felt so sad for my wife who was going to be left alone [should the cancer progress]. After that, he started bringing me Holy Communion each week. He had fought in World War II, in Belgium and France. He was thirty years older than me, a kind of father figure I never had, telling me that Jesus loved me. No one had ever told me that until Irving did.”

“Irving didn’t tell me about the locutions that he was having. But I did see him just before Easter in ’93 when he brought me Holy Communion, put his hands on my head and my chest, and prayed over me. When he came back the next week, Easter Monday, he looked like he had taken a beating. ‘I don’t know what has happened to me,’ Irving said, and when he held up his hands there were two small purple marks in his palms. I fell over—I guess what you would call ‘resting in the Spirit’—and all I could think was “Jesus died on the cross for me” because I recognized those wounds [of the stigmata] right away.”

Fr. Robert J. Fox, in his book A Man Called Francis (Fatima Family Apostolate, 2005), which recounts the life of Irving Houle (of whom Fr. Fox uses the pseudonym “Francis” to protect Irving’s identity at the time the book was published), notes the Church, in investigating miracles relative to supposedly holy persons who have left this world and whose cause for beatification or canonization is being studied, rejects a case as a certain miracle, even when reported as an amazing healing, if there were any professional medical treatments. It cannot be considered a supernatural miracle if there had been even one treatment by modern medicine or medical technology of today’s sciences.”

Deacon Terry, who serves as vice-postulator for Irving Houle’s cause of canonization, has collected hundreds of stories of miraculous healings and conversions through Irving’s prayers and intercession; however, not all would meet the Church’s qualification of a miracle because of the above stipulation.

Father Fox had also become a spiritual mentor for Irving. He instructed Irving that, as a married man and father, he had to be mindful of the privacy of his home life and his primary vocation. After Father Fox stepped in, he helped the family—including Irving’s wife Gayle—navigate Irving’s mission and balance it with the need for normalcy for his family as much as possible.

For those who encountered him, Irving was a humble and unassuming man. He came from a large and simple Catholic family, was devoted to the rosary and the Stations of the Cross, and had no formal theological training. And yet, our Lord chose Irving in our modern age to bear His wounds of crucifixion as a married father and grandfather. Irving was in his late sixties when the stigmata first appeared (he died on January 3, 2009 at the age of 83).

While many have experienced physical healings as a result of being touched or prayed over by Irving, his primary mission was for repentance and the healing of souls. He had set a goal for himself to bring back to the Church at least one non-practicing Catholic per month and encouraged others to do the same. In this way, he is a model for the “New Evangelization” proposed by Pope John Paul II and outlined in Catechesi Tradendae. Many people who had been away from the Church for decades recount returning to Confession and the sacraments after encountering Irving.

In a locution from the Blessed Mother to Irving on July 5, 1995, she encourages him: “You have touched so many of my children. Continue to use His hands. This is all in the Father’s plan”. Irving wrote these messages down word for word after he received them. On many occasions, after praying and touching the people for whom he was praying, a rose perfume scent would permeate the air. The use of Irving’s hands—the hands that bore the wounds of Christ—in his ministry is notable.

Irving was ministering at a time in which the dark clouds of abuse of minors at the hands of priests was beginning to make national headlines. It was as if Irving’s touch—the physical touch of a married father and grandfather called by God—was being used to heal the wounds inflicted by those in the Church who had betrayed trust and abused the vulnerable. Irving himself said that if he was told by his bishop not to touch people, he would obey.

“Irving was a normal guy,” Deacon Terry relayed in our phone conversation. “He never used bad language around his wife and family. But, you know, he worked in a factory and would use that “everyday man” language you might expect to hear in a factory, especially when he was trying to get these guys to work. But after he got the stigmata, he never used that coarse language again. And he made me promise, ‘Terry,’ he said, ‘promise me you’ll never say anything bad about a priest.’” One thing Deacon Terry mentioned in our conversation was that he had been complaining to Irving at one point about issues in the Church, including homosexuality in the seminaries. “After listening to me ranting for a few minutes, Irving simply replied, ‘Terry, we have to love everyone.’”

I’ve often wondered why I have been so drawn to him as a model of sanctity and evangelization. For married men with families like me, it can be hard to find models of sainthood to whom we can relate—especially those from the modern era. And as someone who never knew my grandparents, I find in Irving a gentle stand-in I can call upon when I need a “spiritual grandpa,” even though I never knew him personally.

When my son was young and fell and suffered a concussion, Irving was my go-to in my Rolodex of not-yet-canonized saints. When a friend’s son fell forty feet off an inflatable slide at a birthday party onto the concrete and had to be airlifted to a children’s hospital, I sent a text thread to all our friends to ask for Irving’s intercession; miraculously, his son healed from his injuries in record time and was back playing in no time.

While these two instances may not be verifiable miracles according to the strict requirements of the Church’s process for canonization, they have become important pillars in our family’s repository of graces.

Reminiscent of Mother Teresa’s admission that she is merely “a little pencil in His hand,” Irving once made a similar statement, albeit being true to his blue-collar vocation: “I am only a wrench,” he said. My hope is that in making known the life and ministry of this humble father and grandfather, other Catholics like me have a relatable friend to call upon in times of need, and an inspiration to do the work God calls us to for the Kingdom—to be the saints we are called to be.