The Diocese of Toledo’s newest priest, Fr. Scott Carroll, died in the early hours of May 10.

Fr. Carroll had been battling cancer for some time. He looked forward to joining four 
classmates for ordination on June 22, 2013. However, it became clear this week that an 
earlier ordination might be prudent.
Bishop Leonard Blair ordained Fr. Scott Carroll on Wednesday, May 8, 2013. The ordination 
took place at his parents’ home with immediate family members present. It was a beautiful 
occasion. In addition to his ordination, Fr. Scott had been named Associate Pastor of St. 
Joseph Parish, Maumee, Ohio.
Fr. Scott is the son of Robert and the late Patricia Carroll, step-son of Connie, and brother of
Patrick and Tim. His home parish is St. Joseph in Maumee. 
Fr. Scott attended Holy Spirit Seminary until its closing and graduated from St. John’s Jesuit 
High School in Toledo. He holds a Bachelor’s Degree in Education and a Master’s in History 
from the University of Toledo, as well as a Master’s in Educational Administration from the 
University of Dayton and a Master’s in Divinity from St. Meinrad Seminary. 
Before entering the seminary, Fr. Scott taught middle school Social Studies in Swanton local 
schools. As a seminarian, he served his Pastoral Internship Year at Norwalk St. Paul, as well 
as summer ministries at St. Paul and at St. Joseph in Maumee.
Requiescat in pace.
Rev. Scott R. Carroll 

Born August 5, 1966
Ordained to the 
Order of Presbyter
May 8, 2013
Died May 10, 2013


Anonymous said…
He lies among that
Corpus of frozen stones,
Morbid body of stones,
Locked in frost like the walls of time,
Marking the span of men,
Overwhelmingly innocent,
Like the shyest evening fog
As pale and sacramental as moonlight,
Rising up in frantic shapes,
Clawing to the surface
With torment like fingernails,
And ecstasy like flesh.
Not knowing where to go,
Or where to return,
Seeking those merciful winds
That tear away the layers of earth,
That cover those desires now buried
Before flowering.
Their great blossom,
Like a waking child.
With lips thirsting for nectar,
Whose face, kissed by the night,
Opens the doors of oblivion
Sepulchre by sepulchre
Anonymous said…
His memory is soon forgotten in plain sight,
They are yet already restless shapes, ghosts
They drift and turn in the mind for a time
From place to place
With no purpose
Always reaching for an unfulfilled end.

His dreams are soon long forgotten, long ago.
Stepped past, passed over,
Draped and wrapped in a pall of honor,
To be hidden, class-defined, dismissed, archived in dust,
Caged by shadows
Stronger than his merits.

He lies now in the darkness for an eternity
He sleeps until the evening with the fatigue of eons
Evicted from the past
Exiled from a future
From the only dream he'd ever known.

He dwells within that sanctuary of dust,
Along with that dream,
Without that gift of accomplishment,
Which makes men grateful to have lived,
Grateful to have died,
Fated only to fade and languish in all of time.
Anonymous said…
He found himself in darkness
thick as night and still as death
and gazing upward fell
only starlight
through a high church window
and fumbling about that holy space
He found an old, dusty and flameless pillar candle
faint as a shadow on its stand
and he lit and raised it high
and then the glow diffused
from this solitary beacon
and in the receding darkness he saw
in finest garments arrayed
so proudly propped in pew
a sea of the faithful,
so proper in their postures
so careful in appearance
so adorned in regal status
clearly sitting as to be seen
in their places of honor
the chosen,
the blessed,
the redeemed
the elect,
the elite,
the body,
the bride
the church
and there in that holy space
silent they sat
and fixed
eyes sunken,
mouths agape,
skin ashen,
each one
a corpse,
rotting all
and then he knew that the light was in vain
for darkness always
always better suits the dead
Anonymous said…
Like darkness,
Faith comes over us,
It subsumes the children we were,
It gives birth to the adults we will become,
Trading toys for terrors,
Simplicity for sin,
Memories for mistrusts,
Nostalgias for nightmares,
We are both parent and offspring,
We are the authors of this dark nursery rhyme,
For we pass the monster on