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.