From the Archives | Michelle Smith

It’s surprising how often the smallest objects hold the heaviest stories. A small metal pyx once moved through the world, carried urgently toward someone in need. Now it sits motionless in the Archives, cool and silent. Between its swift journey and its settled rest lies a story of love that didn’t arrive where it intended, but it arrived all the same.

On June 30, 1865, Rev. Xavier Donald MacLeod set out to bring Communion to a woman who had fallen ill. He carried the Eucharist with him in that pyx, tucked close as he traveled. While crossing the train tracks on his way to the sick call, he was struck and killed. The woman survived her illness, but he did not survive his journey to her. What was meant as Christ’s presence in her suffering became Christ’s own mercy for him instead, a quiet grace that found him at the moment he needed it most.

Before going to the small parish of St. Vincent de Paul in Sedamsville, Rev. MacLeod had spent years shaping minds as a seminary professor. But it was in the field, walking alongside people, that his heart truly showed. One writer recalled that “hundreds of section men on the two roads between Cincinnati and Lawrenceburg” knew him and were known by him, and they held deep respect for the “positive yet good-natured priest.” Obituaries spoke of his “excellent qualities of the heart” and “restless and vigorous intellect,” but it was the quiet consistency of his care, his willingness to answer every call no matter how small, that left the most lasting impression. It is no surprise, then, that he “died on an errand of duty and mercy,” living out in his final moments the devotion that had defined his ministry.

As one of his own verses suggests, he understood generosity not as sentiment but as the shape of a life:

He is dead, whose hand is not opened wide,
to help the need of human brother,
He doubles the life of his life-long ride,
who gives his fortunate place to another.
And a thousand millions of lives are his
who carries the world in his sympathies.
To deny is to die!

I wasn’t there, of course. I learned the story long after. And yet, every time I hold that little pyx, I feel the weight of it. Not the metal, but the love inside the act it represents. It’s a love expressed not in grand gestures but in willingness—the willingness to go, to serve, to show up for someone else’s need.

The Archives are full of objects whose stories have settled into silence. But every so often, one unsettles the dust and reminds us of what truly holds the Church together. We talk about building communities, ministries, families, and hope, but beneath all our plans and efforts, it is love that gives all else its purpose.

This pyx doesn’t just tell the story of one priest’s final journey; it tells the story of a life built on a love offered without hesitation. His story reminds us that love’s paths aren’t always straight, but Christ meets us all the same—often in places we never expected and always exactly where we need Him most.

This article appeared in the February 2026 edition of The Catholic Telegraph Magazine. For your complimentary subscription, click here.