One of the Ten

As I've ruminated upon all that occurred on our trip little nuggets of clarity appear mixed in with the chaos of being plunged into a medical event in the family, a new job for Jason, and the usual December calendar add ons.

For one, several months ago I was ordering something from a religious supply store on-line and at the last minute added a set of ten beautiful novena cards to my cart. The cover was in French. Novenas are one of my new favorite ways to pray. Sustained focus on a simple request or problem for nine days helps me reorder priorities. I thought I'd pass them along to others as the opportunity arose. I've since given away seven to friends that were going through a tough time. I recently passed by the remaining stack on my dresser and looked at it carefully. The translation on the cover reads, "Behold the heart that has loved mankind so much. It is pure love and mercy. Come to me, all of you who are tired and afflicted and I will comfort you." It is literally a novena to surrender to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. And for good measure, there's a quote from Padre Pio on the back, "The whole of paradise is in your soul." One of the ten was meant for me! Two to go.

The Sunday Gospel after we returned was the one from Matthew about separating the goats on the left from the sheep on the right by their corporal works, or lack. As we walked out of church Jason told me he'd had a St. Francis moment during that Gospel. Just as Francis wasn't supposed to re-build a physical church, Jason wasn't supposed to raise actual goats. He was meant to serve the "goats," he encounters. Feed my sheep, and herd the goats. That's some goat farming I can get behind.

The Sunday before Ben's surgery he received the sacrament of anointing of the sick after Mass. Father talked about our need for physical touch, which is why we lay hands on those receiving anointing. I thought about my healing, mine wasn't done by human touch. But then I recalled how Jason had spontaneously reached across and grabbed my hand in that moment when the heart shaped sun shone peace and joy and strength upon us. There was physical, human touch then too! Jason had unknowingly participated in my healing, by laying his hands upon me, just as I was restored. "Be my healer."

On the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, two weeks after our return, I happened across an enlarged image of the Miraculous Medal, the medal that I feel was a catalyst in this whole adventure. I studied it, always looking for the meaning in things. On the back below the symbol for Mary is a tiny engraved set of the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. How many bricks to the head does it take?

Catechesis Check-in: Obviously I value medals, rosaries, religious statues, and images. I do not believe they are magical or contain healing properties and I do not worship them. They are not God. They do convey a message about God and help me, a limited human with poor imagination, understand God a tiny bit better. God, of course, can use whatever means He wants to do His works, and I do believe some religious objects have had miraculous things happen to them or around them.

I keep a picture of my dad on a shelf in our family room. Sometimes I kiss it, because I miss him and I will always love him. I remember the lessons he taught me. I keep a statue of Padre Pio on that shelf too because I believe he's watching out for us and his message will help us. I do not think I will get to exchange my scapular for a free ticket to heaven. But my scapular does offer a daily physical reminder of the call to serve others. I do not think wearing the miraculous medal gives me grace, but it reminds me to ask for it. I need reminders.

Though I was feeling affirmations of clarity during those first days back, I also experienced doubt. A few days after I returned I went through a period of emotional turmoil.  I was having vivid memories of Ben's first cardiac arrest, when I felt my prayer for his return was answered. Did that desire somehow cause his lifetime of suffering? I felt guilty and sad and conflicted about being healed while my son was not, and yet, how could I be sad when God had done something so wonderful? Also, I just didn't know what to do with myself. I felt compelled to tell everyone what had happened to me. Yet, I wasn't looking forward to skepticism or people thinking I was crazy, or a liar. But everyone that knew me well that witnessed me now easily climbing the stairs had questions. Plus, I was giddy, bursting with amazement each time something that had been difficult came easily. There was also the paradox of standing in the presence of Jesus' beating heart last week and yelling at my kids in Target this week. And another thought: Have I been greedy, asking for miracles when I've already been granted so many? Others needed healing much more than I. Why was this unworthy request granted? And how dare I question it? If faith healed me, would doubt make me sick again? After a morning of tears, I made an appointment to talk with my pastor. Poor guy.

He wisely reminded me of Peter's struggle with coming down the mountain after the Transfiguration. It is hard to return to the day to day after experiencing that thin space between heaven and earth. But that is the lesson. I'm to carry that experience into the world, living the call God has given me. As for the guilt, I didn't cause Ben's suffering. I was obedient in accepting his illness, in loving the child we'd been given and in raising him to know, love, and serve God despite the struggles. Peace was restored, at least for the day.

And so I write, asking the Holy Spirit to guide these words, to use them as an instrument to be the hands and face of Christ. I pray these words adequately render honor to the One who inspired them. I ask Him to open the eyes and ears of you who read this. Not that you look for meaning in my little stories, but that you recognize God's message in your own life. Seek and you will find.

An Amazing Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

Day 18 Wednesday, Nov 22 San Giovanni in Rotundo - Pietrcelcina - Rome

I began walking up to the square while Jason and the kids finished breakfast. I passed the gate for the hospital, The Home for the Relief of Suffering and laughed to myself that we'd only gone in there to use the free restroom, relieving a suffering of a different sort, then wondered soberly if maybe we should have made an appointment.

Breakfast in San Giovanni in Rotundo

Returning to the church, I looked at the mosaic with fresh eyes. Padre Pio didn't seem to be running anymore, just standing there, urging us to see what he saw. The Lady of Grace mosaic was there when Padre Pio lived here (his image was added when he was canonized in 2002). He said his final Mass before it. In the icon image, Jesus is reaching for his mother's breast, his nourishment, and a symbol of grace. But Jesus doesn't appear as a baby wanting to nurse, instead he's offering his mother's milk, her graces, to us. Behold, your mother. More foreshadowing. I lit a candle at the statue of Grace and blew one last kiss to Fatima.

Our Lady of Grace in the old church

Pio's loft

The others met up with me in the church for a farewell moment before we headed down the mountain for Pietrelcina, the home town of Padre Pio.

Pietrelcina is an idyllic hill town chiseled out of the stone surrounded by pastureland. Padre Pio had said that while he lived he favored San Giovanni, but after he died, he would devote his attention to Pietrcelcina, offering spiritual protection to his terra. I had some concern that Jason would find that goat farm, and we'd never leave.

The first soul we met beneath this mantel was the director of the museum, a priest who studied under Padre Pio. He travels regularly to America to bring relics for visits. Father Fortunato gave us his card and a family blessing. After we explored the museum, we entered the church. Padre Pio wanted it built here, next to the convent. It was modeled after Santa Maria delle Grazie in San Giovanni. There was even a Fatima statue placed in the same location, in honor of the centennial anniversary year. Jason, Ben, and I sat quietly to pray while Alex explained all he could discern about the items and images they found around the church.

Pio's loft recreated

Realizing no one else was in the church and seeing that this statue was reachable. I stood, intending to kiss her feet. But as I approached I noticed the camera trained on the statue, and again lost my resolve. Another blown kiss.

Here, Jason felt as if he had a little conversation with Mary.
What should I do now?
Go home. You have what you need.
What did we need? Why did we need to come here?
For Peace.

Before obeying we found the area of town that had the parish church of Mary of the Angels where Padre Pio celebrated his first Mass. It contains a very old and storied statue of Our Lady of Liberty, not to be confused with Lady Liberty of New York. This statue was made in honor of Mary who was said to have saved the entire region from military occupation 1400 years ago. In 1854 the 200 year old statue was placed on a litter and carried around asking for Mary's intercession to save the town from a Cholera epidemic. After that night no one else got the disease or died from it. They've repeated this procession every December 2nd since.

Saint Mary of the Angels

Our Lady of Liberty

We were searching for the home of Padre Pio and had become a little lost in the narrow winding paths, when Anna appeared. She was on her way to a funeral and her brother was the keeper of the keys for all the Padre Pio sights in town. She walked with us and showed us the way. Eyeing Ben and I, she warned us not to climb the treacherous and uneven steps to Padre Pio's tower room. We did it anyway, gingerly, and it was worth the effort to give sight to the stories we've read. We referred to our guide as Santa Anna for her help, but she corrected us sternly, not yet! Then she showed us the real Santa Anna, the little ancient church where Pio was baptized as Francesco Forgione, and received his early sacraments.

Pio's Tower

His room

Saint Anna

Padre Pio's Baptismal Font

There is a stone path that leads from the town to the Forgione farm in Piano Romano located 5 km outside of town. Padre Pio used to travel this path each day praying the rosary. It is now named Cammino del Rosario. We drove. There, we found a new pilgrim church and a little chapel that was built over the place where Padre Pio first received the invisible stigmata. The Elm tree where this happened is preserved. We saw the farm house where ten year old Padre Pio ate a bowl full of hot peppers, curing his respiratory illness.

Rosary Walk

Piano Romano Church

Our Lady of Grace and the Elm

We noticed that as we explored Pietrelcina, an obviously vibrant and lived in place, it seemed that we were nearly the only people around with the exception of a few that were helpful to us, like Fortunato and Anna, a shop keeper who made us sandwiches of prosciutto and pecorino and his young, joy filled friend or relative in the wheelchair, and a gelato stand that opened just as the kids were asking for the treat. Alex and Gigi love animals and were very fond of watching the stray cats and dogs along the way. We met a woman that told us the names of the towns' pets that belonged to no one and everyone. Every door was opened to us. Every want or need addressed without fail. For everything else, we enjoyed a private audience with Padre Pio. Sacred Silence on holy ground,  for he will command his angels concerning you and guard you in all your ways. 

Our short day trip had taken longer than anticipated and we were cutting it close to getting the rental car back to Rome on time, so we lifted up our final prayers of thanks and thy will be dones and loaded up again. Our mischievous navigation device sent us an obscure route back to the highway through very narrow and unpaved farm paths. We realized we were doing that Rosary Cammino after all and going by way of many goat farms. Only, they weren't actually goat farms, all were sheep.

After some quiet contemplation along the way, we all began talking about our Padre Pio experience and sharing what we'd gained. We agreed that we were coming away with a sense of peace and a new resolve to seek and do God's will in our lives. I said that God must have a purpose for my loss of strength and we'd take it as it comes. Then I remarked with a little laugh, 'But Padre Pio, we came all this way, I kind of thought you might heal us."

Some time passed and we became quiet again, lulled by the gentle landscape, dotted with hill towns topped with castles and/or cathedrals. Suddenly Alex exclaimed, "Look at the sun!" To the west was a long line of mountains, though it was a clear day, dark storm clouds had descended over the ridge. Peeking through a perfectly formed heart shaped cutout of the clouds was the sun. But, more like a beating heart, fiery sun that danced and pulsated with flame. As I attempt to describe this it sounds ominous, but there was nothing dark or foreboding about the moment. All was light. All was love. Intense love of God for us! Jason and I both felt so peace filled and remarked in unison, "It looks like the Sacred Heart!" We were so content and supremely satisfied. Jason reached for my hand. That's what peace tastes like.
Now, we can go home.

But before we did, we still had one more day to enjoy in Rome, Thanksgiving Day. As we approached the town center we realized we didn't have much time to get the car back to the rental place, so Jason was going to have to drop the kids and I and all the luggage and the disassembled wheelchair off outside the hotel to avoid late fees. I remember praying for assistance in completing this task and for Jason to get to the Termini in time. I turned my focus to navigating to the hotel through the suffocated swarm in an unfamiliar part of town.

We arrived and what I felt should have been a stressful or chaotic experience was all happening very smoothly. I don't remember struggling with the wheelchair. Maybe Jason somehow put it together? The kids were rather quickly all sitting in the lobby with the luggage accounted for while I checked in. Without being asked, a porter went over to the kids to help and loaded the elevator with Ben in his chair, Gigi, and most of the bags. That left just Alex and I each with a suitcase. I had the key to the second floor room and the elevator had departed, so Alex and I took the stairs since it was only one flight and the others would be waiting for the key. I felt lucky to have landed with the lightest suitcase. We climbed the stairs to floor one. Ah, lobby is a zero. More stairs to go, but the cane or my meds or all that resting in the car or maybe my prayer for help or tasting peace propelled me. I didn't take the time to mull it over, I was in mama-duck-in-a-new-nest mode. I set up house for the evening and began to work on the evening's plan for when Jason arrived so we'd be ready to go.

Jason arrived, pleased to have returned the car in time, and we hit the pavement, Colosseum bound. As we walked, I noticed an odd sensation in my legs, like a bubbling stretching and the cane felt strange and cumbersome in my hand. I switched hands and it was still wrong. Then I looked down and noticed I was half-way up a pretty steep hill and I hadn't felt it at all. Normally, I'm very aware of even slight inclines in the road. I gave voice to this, wondering aloud what was going on with my legs. There was a stone wall along the road, bench high. I sat on it and stood up without leaning on the cane. I did it again. Then I walked the rest of the way up that hill, without placing the cane on the ground. It was easy!

It began to dawn on me that maybe something else had happened to me in that moment of heart-shaped peace. I desired strongly to be in a church. We arrived in the square of the Basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore. That'll do. Only, the guards turned us away because it was closing.

Saint Mary Major

Luckily, churches are pretty easy to find in Rome, so we walked on and found an open church a block or so away. I guess Mary wanted us to pay her parents a visit, because this church was dedicated to Sts Joachim and Ann of the Hills, Jesus' grandparents. Alex, Gigi and I climbed the stairs-still easy! Jason and Ben went around back to a ramp. Only a priest was inside, celebrating Mass alone. I knelt to be present in whatever came next and gratitude poured from my heart. We stayed for the Liturgy of the Word. There was a suffering mother in the first reading, unfaltering feet on a steadfast path in the responsorial, and another parable about talents in the Gospel.

We continued on to the Colosseum and the reality of the physical change in my body was becoming more clear, though I still felt like I was dreaming. We came to an open space and asked Ben to test his strength. He stood and tried to jump, stand on one foot, and run. No change. His body was still weak. The giddiness I had been feeling soured to guilt in an instant and a wave of sadness arose in my throat. I apologized to Ben through tears, why me? If only one, choose him! Ben hugged me and said, "It's okay, Mom. I didn't pray to be healed."
"Why not?" I asked incredulously.
"I don't know. It's not God's way for me. I'm supposed to pray for people who have nobody to pray for them and for the souls in purgatory."

I was astounded by his words, but I understood them entirely. Long ago, when infant Ben was caught in the prism between life and death, I demanded God return him to us. God asked if I was sure, would I help carry his cross? I said yes.
Now, in the shadow of ancient Roman ruins my fifteen year old son was standing before me, saying yes for himself. Without using those words, Ben chose the path of redemptive suffering.
Had God made me strong again so I could continue to carry the cross?

Surely, this was a dream.

We wanted to take the kids to our favorite restaurant, the place we celebrated our engagement, Taverna di Mercanti in Trastevere. On the way, Gigi got tired and asked Jason to carry her. Instead, I reached down and tested what it felt like to lift her. She rose right up! I swung her around on my back and carried her for a long time, hiding my tears of joy. I had not picked her up for at least three years.

Our food arrived and I had the fresh surprise of realizing my swallow had improved. It happened naturally and painlessly, effortlessly. We ate dinner in a bit of a stupor. I didn't know how to act or what to say. I was grateful, sad, and unsure it would last, but I knew something big had happened and that God was the author.

Me helping Ben up the stairs

It was the feast day of Saint Cecilia, the patron of music and we were located right next to the church that was built over her home. She is buried there. We walked over and found it open. A music concert had just ended. We venerated her tomb and said some more thank yous, still mulling all that had occurred.

San Cecilia

Her tomb

All that evening I continued to try things out. I stood repeatedly from a low seat. I did jumping jacks. I stood on one foot without falling. I pushed Ben's wheelchair up hills. As I walked I felt my tight heel cords releasing, stretching, and nowhere in my body did I feel achy or tight or sore. I did not recognize this body as my own.

I had been healed.

We walked back to our hotel and I had a very hard time falling asleep that night. I wondered if it would still be true tomorrow.

Beneath Her Feet

Day 17 Tuesday, November 21, San Giovanni in Rotundo Italy

A little over two years ago Ben happened to have a surgery scheduled on the feast day of Padre Pio, a saint that was pretty new to us. We decided to pray a novena asking for his intercession for a good outcome, specifically to protect Ben’s brain that was at risk. The surgery went very well, we’d go so far as to say, miraculously well. And we’ve felt gratitude to God and Padre Pio’s efforts ever since. 

Things went so well, that Jason decided to go on his scheduled four day retreat through our parish the day after Ben's surgery. He was amazed that Padre Pio kept “showing up” at his retreat through shared prayers, stories, table names, and quotes. During the retreat, Jason spent some time in adoration before the Blessed Sacrament. At first, he felt annoyed that there were no kneelers. He wondered how long he'd have to endure the hard floor, but then recalled the scripture, “Could you not keep watch with me for one hour?” He was convicted and surrendered to the moment. He turned to his prayers with Ben heavy on his mind. 

Why must my son suffer so? Give it to me! I surrender myself to You, give me his cross, I’ll carry it. Soon after, Jason felt pressure in the palms of both hands as if someone had taken a pen and was pressing into the center of his hands. Then the words, “Be my healer,” and “pellegrino” resonated within from someplace other. The message was unclear to Jason, but it felt deeply important, a command to heed. 

When Jason shared this with me, I felt that this was an experience that seemed likely to have been influenced one way or another by Padre Pio of Pietrelcina, even suggesting Jason had mixed up Pietrelcina for pellegrino, but he insisted, "Like the water brand." Pellegrino means, pilgrim  in Italian. Many people go on Padre Pio Pilgrimages to walk in his footsteps, but surely he didn’t expect our complicated little family to fly across the ocean seeking meaning in a dream-like nudge? And healer? Jason is a nurse, and the literal translation of his first name is “healer.” 

Still, this nudge lingered on and we often discussed what it meant and whether God’s will was in it. A strong desire to show our gratitude for Ben’s surgical outcome also lent fuel to this fire of being open to action.

Some may wonder why we were so quick to accept supernatural influence as a given. I can only say that in the fifteen years that we have been blessed to be Ben’s parents, God has shown up for us in real and tangible ways many, many, many, times. We don’t question it any more. We see it as grace, gifts unearned and freely given because He loves us so, not just us us, of course, all of the usses, YOU. And God answers prayers. I have prayed for eyes to see and ears to hear His voice in this life, and He has turned up the volume and sharpened my vision to see more than I did before. 

It took a Ben for me to want that. Those hard early days of intense suffering could have broken us, but God didn’t allow that. He gave us the grace to see the good, to accept the cross, and to offer it all back to Him. Well, mostly. Sometimes Often we are grumpy and lazy and venting about bills and pharmacies and all the hard things. Somedays we close our eyes to God's way. 

Nearly two years passed and we began to feel a little sheepish about ignoring this call, that still compelled us. A new detail had emerged where Jason thought perhaps we should sell all we had and move to Italy to be goat farmers. He isn’t sure where that plan originated, but he repeated it often. I was dubious about this interpretation. Goat farming, healing, pilgrims? What sort of medical coverage might that entail? 

At this time we were struggling with a secondary schooling plan for Ben. We desired to send him to a Catholic school, but a full day was too much for him physically and surgeries were looming that would cause extended absences. We couldn’t justify the high cost of tuition knowing he’d miss so much and that he would always struggle to keep up. Still, we longed for Ben to have a faith based education and community for support.

Another struggle that was becoming a growing concern was my health. We’d long speculated that I had the same or similar muscle issues as Ben and had it clinically confirmed in degrees over recent years. My heart, vision, strength, ambulation, balance, and swallow were all affected and I suffered from regular muscle pain and spasms. My generalized weakness had increased greatly in the last year and was now affecting daily life. I began walking with a cane and wondered how I would care for my family, especially Ben. 

One morning I was attending a bible study with our pastor when he announced a pilgrimage for the parish. My ears perked at the itinerary. Fatima! The Camino! Assisi! Avila! Rome! I had a connection to every place he mentioned and had longed to go to many of them. A plan began to formulate but I had to get Ben from a class. On the way, an idea was born. Going on a pilgrimage through Europe could provide an excellent, albeit condensed Catholic Education for Ben. This trip could be the best way for both of us, with our physical limitations to see these sites and “do” the Camino. And perhaps we could find a way to add Padre Pio to the itinerary…and get our family to Rome, the place our little story began. I rushed back to Father feeling much like Peter during the Transfiguration. I hardly knew what I was saying. 

"We will take three weeks! Ben and I will go on the pilgrimage and then Jason and the kids will meet us in Rome and then we will go to San Giovanni in Rotundo and Pietrelcina for Padre Pio!"

And that’s just what happened. 

A few weeks before we left, I followed a social media page of San Giovanni in Rotundo. I learned that the pilgrim statue of Our Lady of Fatima would be visiting for a little over a week and that the dates coincided with our visit. I knew of the history of this statue. It had come via helicopter to San Giovanni in 1959, which it was not scheduled to do, while Padre Pio was deathly ill with pleurisy. He'd been unable to even celebrate Mass for weeks. Padre Pio painfully made his way down to the church and kissed Mary's feet, then crawled back to his cell and watched as the statue was lifted away, inexplicably circling three times. He told Mary that he was now ready to die, for her to take him, and then chided, but Maria, I thought you might heal me. In that moment, he felt a shudder in his bones, and was instantly well. Within three days he was again celebrating Mass. 

Though our primary purpose in being pilgrims for Padre Pio was for gratitude, we also wondered if this could be a path to physical healing. With encouragement from spiritual friends, I decided I would boldly ask for the moon, and request physical healing for Ben and myself on this trip. The coincidental presence of this statue caused me to remark, "We're kissing that statue, Ben!" 

We awoke that morning in San Giovanni and walked to the Church of St Mary of Grace, praying the miniature Way of the Cross as we went because they were there. Seventeen days in and we were finally starting to catch on to how a pilgrimage works. We attended Mass, on a Tuesday, Alex noted pointedly. 

Seeing the Fatima statue perched upon beds of white and pink roses caused fresh tears to wet my cheeks. We were able to translate enough to understand that the Gospel reading was the story of Zaccheus climbing the tree to get closer to Jesus, and the homily was about striving for child-like faith. Parents should teach their children love for God, but should also learn to love as a child loves, without strings or conditions. Here, we encountered the traditional Italian communion "line" which is more like a camino shell, all paths, or available space, leading to God. 

Our Lady of Graces

We went into the museum next door and received a family blessing from a Capuchin monk. We saw Padre Pio's cell and the chair where he died. I kissed school photos of our kids and placed them at the feet of his statue beside his room. It was about this time that Jason noted a gnawing pressure in the palms of both hands. The phenomenon continued throughout the day. Not as though he were experiencing anything like the wounds of Christ, just as an affirmation that our prayers were heard. We visited the old church where Padre Pio was praying when he received the visible stigmata and saw one of his famed confessionals where he'd celebrate the sacrament of reconciliation for hours at a time, using his gift of reading souls.

The bedroom of Padre Pio where he died.

Old Church

Confessional

The crucifix in the loft where Pio received the visible stigmata

Looking down into the old church at the Our Lady of Grace icon from the loft

Presepe (Nativity)

We climbed the path of the large Way of the Cross, leading to a statue of the resurrected Lord, and a beautiful view of the valley below. We returned to the church for the Angeles and consecration to the Immaculate Heart of Mary and went up close to the Fatima statue where I realized, there was no consequence free way to kiss her feet. The Statue was guarded, behind a partition, and a good fifteen feet off the ground. I lost my resolve. I blew a kiss. 

We had a chilly picnic and headed to the new pilgrim church built to accommodate the millions of people like us, inexplicably drawn to this Italian mountaintop. Alex picked out a favorite "prayer tree," among the olive trees planted in the plaza. He said a prayer tree is a place to feel connected to God and nature. 

You gotta dance when the Spirit says dance

We came to an adoration chapel and knelt there for awhile. Jason and the kids moved on and as Jason watched me praying there, he asked God to hear my prayer and give me what I needed. At that moment, the elevator Jason hadn't been aware of, dinged open behind him. 

"Not funny, God!" he thought, "Ok, a little funny, God." 

When he told me this, it reminded me of how my Confirmation saint, Teresa the Little Flower, often told Jesus she was too weak and small to climb up to him, so He'd need to send her an elevator. 

After descending into an incredible spiral of mosaics depicting the lives of Jesus, St Francis, and St Pio, we venerated the body of our messenger, held behind glass in the pilgrim church. His face was still incorrupt, though now covered in wax. In five days his body would be carried back into his church, to lay again at the feet of the Fatima statue before she returned to Portugal. He would then be laid in his original crypt below Saint Mary of Grace.

I thanked him for his influence in our lives. I thanked him for watching over Ben. I thanked him for his intercessions on our behalf. And I asked him what he wanted to show us. 

The kids were a little churched out, so we took them to a park with a playground and watched a round of bocce. We fed the kids pizza and sent them to bed. Jason and I took the bad advice of a stranger for a dinner of regret. 

Bocce

Seeking dinner

Bad pasta in good company

Just the two of us headed back to the church for a vigil. Unlike the daily Mass and Angeles, this felt like the local crowd. There was guitar music, and lay people speaking. A large Damiano cross had been placed in front of the altar. The purpose of the service appeared to have something to do with Our Lady of Fatima, as I kept hearing the words, "Madonna," and "pastore bambini (shepherd children)." I remember my left leg began spasming visibly, probably from all the hilly walking we'd been doing and lasted for several minutes. It ached all night after the extended spasms. 

We were leaving in the morning and I felt like time was running out. I didn't feel I had done what I came to do. I repeated my prayer, "Padre Pio, please show me what you want me to see." It was then my eyes were drawn to the full wall mosaic behind the altar. It depicted the image of Our Lady of Grace, Mary holding the infant Jesus and Padre Pio seemed to be running toward them, one hand extended as if to "show" them to us, and the other reaching out to the people, extending his rosary towards us, reminding us to pray. He seemed to be saying, "Behold your mother. Behold your Savior."

"But I know them already, Pio."

"No, surrender. Surrender all to Him," my messenger explained. 

The congregation began their closing song, the bell song of Fatima. "Ave Ave Ave Maria, Ave Ave Ave Maria..." 

Our Lady of Grace

Everything seemed clear in that moment. A conclusion to our pilgrimage, tied up neatly. I came here freshly consecrated to the Immaculate Heart of Mary and was given the assignment to devote myself to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Mary always points us to Jesus. She was so large in the mosaic, the vessel, the tabernacle that carried Jesus into life, foreshadowing her pieta, when she bore him again into death. I know a little of what she felt, standing helpless while her son cried out in pain. Mary and Padre Pio invited me here, to this moment of being called to surrender to my Savior. 

Seek and ye shall find.

I had seen what I needed to see.