His Heart Pursues Me

What I say to you in the darkness, speak in the light; what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops. -Matthew 10:27

Deep breath. Here Goes. Illness kept me from attending Mass on Father's Day today where we also said good-bye to a too soon reassigned beloved priest. He often spoke of the Sacred Heart and encouraged us to allow Jesus to tend to ours. Today's Gospel, Father's message, and the recent consecration by the bishops of the US compel me to share what has been told to me in the dark. 

As a child, I recall thinking of the paintings of Jesus with an anatomical heart afire over his clothes as being what "heartburn" was and left it there until I began teaching at Sacred Heart in my early 20s where we regularly recited devotional prayers and I grew in my understanding about St Margaret Mary Alacoque and her visits from Jesus. Here it became a fascinating history lesson, but my heart wasn't particularly involved. 

Jesus waited patiently another 15 years or so before laying the trail of breadcrumbs that lead to my consecration first to the Immaculate and then the Sacred Heart with my miraculous physical healing accompanied by the appearance of the flaming Sacred Heart in the Italian sky sandwiched between. Jesus invited my surrender. And I gave it as best as I knew how.  

Though He physically healed it for a time, He wasn't finished working on my heart. That first Good Friday after being strengthened, as I prepared to walk up to the cross for veneration I felt a surge of skipped beats and a strange sensation in my physical heart. I wondered if my illness was returning and I recommited my surrender. As I knelt to kiss the cross, I "heard" inaudibly "My Heart beats in yours." The physical symptoms faded and I was left pondering this impossible phrase. 

My reprieve continued for two wonderful years before Covid brought an onslaught of physical challenges including new cardiac ones. Though I sought medical advice and treatment for these ailments I felt somehow resigned to these burdens and didn't ask God to remove them. Perhaps I felt he'd already taken and then given. He must want this for me. This was confirmed when a friend prayed over my headache and while I had my eyes closed I sensed a picture of a crown of thorns being gently placed on my head and a wooden cross lovingly pressed against my right shoulder, as if encouragement to carry. 

I was struggling particularly with my heart rhythm and light headedness in May of 2024. I missed Mass on Pentecost, May 19. That night, I had a dream I walked up to two enormous golden doors of rich architectural detail. They reminded me of the doors of St Peter at the Vatican that are sealed closed until Jubilee years only much taller and wider, larger than a human could open. There was a mail slot to my left, at shoulder height and I came to know that admission was one faithfully worn scapular. I removed mine from around my neck and fed it through the slot. After it was gone from sight, the doors began to move imperceptibly away from my feet as the dream ended.

I awoke the next morning and realized my scapular was missing. I found it hours later tucked behind the headboard of my bed and I remembered the odd dream. 

On May 21st, Tuesday, I still wasn't feeling well, but made it to Mass. I was physically trembling, trying not to pass out as I went up to receive Eucharist and Father took a few steps toward me to shorten the journey. The moment Jesus touched my tongue, it was as if I was back at the doors of my forgotten dream. The mammoth golden doors opened even wider, the floor growing before me. Pillars of light appeared and room after room of possibility in every direction of colors and lights not repeated in my human experience moved about me. I inaudibly "heard" the words, "I have prepared a place for you." I opened and closed my eyes and "saw" the same thing regardless. I felt immense, overwhelming joy and peace, a dwelling place! My interior castle! I have no memory of making my way back to my pew or standing for the final blessing. Tears wet my cheeks but I don't recall crying. 

The next time I received Eucharist, I was again taken into a realm of experience not of my doing, but not visual, and this time, though it was still a sense of lifting up, it was into an immense sorrow and was accompanied by physical aching of my head and right shoulder and intense heart racing. 

This continued every time I received Eucharist, 40 in all. I'd have a heart pounding, in the depths, trembling, tearful, sorrowing experience. My head and shoulder throbbed. At these Eucharists, I felt union with Jesus, but not in the joy-filled buoyant way that I experienced at heaven's door or in the cloud of the Sacred Heart at my healing. This was deeply sorrowful, as if being helplessly at the foot of the cross, though not at the foot- at the heart.  

I generally felt helpless to respond or act or even think during these experiences. I was just taken up and brought into His sorrowing presence. But on June 5th I managed to ask, "What do you want of me?" I heard, "Console my heart." I had a sense that the rapid heart beat I not only felt but heard each time was somehow both our hearts. "My Heart beats in yours," I remembered. I don't know how I ever could be able, but I desired to obey. This instruction gave me peace and sense of purpose and it lessened the concern I felt about others seeing me in this trembling, crying, state at church. 

June 7 we celebrated the feast of the Sacred Heart by having our family's image of the Sacred Heart enthroned in our home. 

July 8 was to be the last Eucharistic sorrow I experienced. July 11, Feast of Benedict I was not plucked out of the church, lifted to the cross and immersed in Jesus' agony. I could think about it, remember it, with my usual distractions, but the Presence and physical manifestations were gone and have not once returned. And I'm left pondering still. 

While with Him on the cross, I was sitting with all the times I've failed to see Him in the Eucharist, received Him unworthily, or forgotten Him. I could be there in that sorrow for eternity for my failures alone, but he will not leave me there. Perhaps He gave me that time to make it up to Him in a little way. I trust He can multiply my little offering and make it holy fuel for others. 

Before this experience after receiving Eucharist I would often pray, "Jesus, stay with me." Followed by the concerns of the day. When I was lifted up to the cross, it was as if I was now invited to stay with Jesus, to console him in His suffering. It isn't the physical suffering that is most painful to Him. It is the hardened hearts of those who refuse His love. He is in agony over those who do not love him in return. Before, when I'd look at a crucifix, I'd see Jesus dead, as a corpse. Now I see him suspended still in the act of waiting for every beloved son and daughter to receive His mercy. 

Three months later in October 2024 I was struggling with suffering well and still taking care of my responsibilites and I took this to adoration. I brazenly told Jesus to pick one because I couldn't do both and that I knew he could just reach His hand down and touch me on the head and heal me if he wanted and take back this cross and crown. I guess I didn't think He was really listening to my rant because I was surprised when I "heard,"

My priest's hands are the closest things to my own hands on earth. Go to him and ask him to lay My hands on your head.

Yikes. Does that mean he'll take the cross and crown?

I didn't hear an answer, but I sensed His rhetorical question, 

Do you want Me to take it?

To which I hedged, well, no. Not if you want me to carry it. But I can't do it all! 

I left adoration thinking I would need courage to ask a priest to lay his hands on my head and immediately saw one across the parking lot walking away. I didn't think he was even aware of my presence quite a distance behind him but he paused and turned and raised his hand waving at me, only I saw it distinctly as Jesus' hand saying, "Here I Am." 

Ok then. 

 

Father did not seem at all surprised by my request and soon met me dressed in robe and stole of anointing as I tried to explain that I didn't think I needed anointing, he quieted me, laid his hands in the person of Christ upon my head in prayer, not anointing, and the Holy Spirit came and I felt as if He poured spiritual and physical waters over me. As Father prayed, I "heard," 

I Am with you.

I love you.

I DO ALL THINGS WELL.

emphasis on the I

When it had ended, the little cross and crown remained. I wasn't ready for Him to take them back. I'm sorry I yelled at you, Jesus. I can't be trusted. 

For two years I wondered HOW to console the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I'd receive little consolations and challenges to console the sufferings of others, to endure my own suffering better, and to console through joy. I'd find glimmers in homilies and scripture, but Jesus was mostly quiet and somehow I wasn't at peace with the how and I continued to ask. A lot. 

June 4, 2026 I asked again in adoration. Feeling no answer had been given, I got up to leave but my eye caught a paper on the chair in front of me with the quote. "I firmly wish that My face reflecting the intimate pains of My Soul, the suffering and love of My Heart, be more honored! Whoever gazes upon Me already consoles Me." 

I found peace in this answer. Gaze upon His face and His Heart is consoled. 

I am a sinner. I cannot fathom why the God of the Universe would deign stoop down to even toss breaths of life or rays of sunshine toward me, much less all these consolations. But the rain falls on the good and evil alike. He abases Himself to the lowliest. It's like His whole thing. See every example ever. I have shied away from sharing these whispers here for fear of what others will think of me, either for well or for ill. But I've been moved to proclaim that God does all things well and He is waiting for us to love him back. Love him back. He has big hearts to fill. 

Scruffy Little Mangers

Part of solving the medical havoc of October entailed health insurance changes the firsts of October, November, and for the fun of it, December, but all seems to be soothed for now. I'll complain Ben's wheelchair is still in need of one of the repairs he's been working on since the summer, but he's making do. 

Gigi and I took a turn serving the hungry with the Missionaries of Charity and sold Christmas trees at the church tree lot. She ended her volleyball season and got to be an Advent dancer in a school prayer service. She had her high school interview, made a pi Pie for her math teacher, and sold a record number of Advent candles for the Little Flowers, being her last chance at the table. 

When we moved into our house over 12 years ago the realtor commented that the house in disrepair next door would be torn down within the year. Nearly every house on our side of the street has been demolished and replaced with infill since then, but her prediction was off by 12 years. It's a little noisy in my home office, but I'm like a toddler boy fascinated by the diggers and dozers that creep past my window squashing siding, moving earth, and felling trees.

Attendance at our traditional open door Thanksgiving took a bit of a hit due to under weathered family members which scared off all but the bravest of souls. 

Inspired by the snow and the Nutcracker ballet, we decked our halls before the boys headed back for their dorms and readied ourselves for Advent. 

I was at Mass one day recently looking at the golden tabernacle that holds the Eucharist, that we believe to be truly Jesus, body, blood, soul, and divinity and pondered why He would choose to leave the perfection of heaven, to be in all the tabernacles of the world so that he could come to us, even unworthy little me, then thought of the manner that He chose to do this, through the sinless vessel of Mary, another more worthily created tabernacle, as a vulnerable unborn baby to be delivered in the hay. But that's just how crazy in love Jesus is with us. He yearns to cover the lowliest, the darkest corners, the hidden places. I wrote this little reflection and since then have been asking Mary to help make me into a little manger before every Eucharist, an offered unworthy resting place in which to adore Him, just like He wants. 

I am not worthy that You should enter under my roof. But If I imagine myself like the lowly feeding trough, the manger found in the cold musty cave. Mary could possibly see within me a needs must place that could make do for a little while. She could see more in me. Dust me off, make my rough places smooth, clear away what offends and allow me to be a temporary resting place for you, Lord. Mary, if it pleases you, make me into a little manger for Jesus. Nestle Him beneath my heart, cradle His sweet little newborn body pressed into the simple linens you’ve arranged for His nesting comfort, and come, let us adore Him. How vulnerable and humble our Lord, to be descended among the scraps and lowing. How can it be that my Lord should come to me? We adore You. We consume You, and little by little we become a little crumb more like You. Rather, we adore You. You allow us to consume You, and we pray to one day become consumed by You.

Blabbermouth Saint

We're all called to be saints as it simply means reaching heaven and being with God. If the term is capitalized, then a Saint is someone recognized by the Church as one who lived heroic virtue on earth; one reasonably anticipated to be found in heaven even given a sign of such by a miracle or more. Saints aren't the opposite of sinners, they don't have immunity. They are sinners striving for holiness. Saints say yes to God. 

At times I've been teased for being a saint, even when I was little. I feel awkward about that and don't know how to respond. For I feel so very very far for where I'd like to be on this cow path to holiness. Sins and attachments to this world I have aplenty. Lent is for lattes and laziness and lectio divina and beginning again and again. The striving is real. I suppose I am prone to talk and write about God and the amazing things I've seen Him do. There's really nothing else I'd rather do than have honest conversations about where one encountered God and how that experience informs a next step in life. If that makes me saint material, then I'm a blabbermouth saint. Jesus writes me love letters and I share every remembered detail with all my friends. He wraps me up in a heart in the sky and I go on speaking tours. He healed me and I'm compelled to make the return trip in gratitude. Notice the one being healed isn't usually the Saint in the stories. 

I once thought the deepest desire of my heart was complete union with God. Then Jesus whispered my name and I was His. I had a rear view glimpse of the shadow of a foretaste of a sliver of the arm of the chair in the waiting room of heaven. Now I'm a tiny bit concerned that I won't be completely fulfilled in that final union if others are missing out on union with God too because they reject Him. So Lord, if you've called me to be a Blabbermouth Saint, I'll keep talking. If you'd rather I be a still small voice, well, it may be too late and I'll need some more redemption and maybe a cloister. So quiet me, Lord or lend me your trumpet. And may we all be saints with big or little s's and big or little yeses. 

Do Not Be Anxious

I was just blessed with a glorious 24 hour mini retreat with a prayer group I attend. The theme of the retreat was trust, specifically trusting in the Holy Trinity. I gave a talk on the Holy Spirit aspect of that effort. I wrote it before the horrific events in Israel and the exercise has helped me turn to God with this darkness rather than turning to fear. May it be so in all things. 

Veni Sancte Spiritus

The very last time I saw my father I had to tell him I was pregnant. A pregnancy that he knew was against the advice of my doctors. He was worried for me and the baby. But by the end of our visit he managed to hug me, looked me in the eye and declared, “You are so blessed.” 

He died suddenly while on a business trip in Maine a few weeks later. 

We were going through his newspaper office collecting his things when Mom found a scripture taped prominently to his computer. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6-7 

We found a good-bye in this. This would become my father’s last advice, a lesson I continue to ponder. Present your requests to God? Ask. With Thanksgiving in every situation? Thank. Do not be anxious about anything? Trust. 

Ask. Thank. Trust.

I had ask down pat. There was no need or desire I wouldn’t bring to God. Help! Please! Guide! Heal! Find! Forgive! Protect! Asking came easy. A plus plus. 

Thank? B minus. It’s easy to thank him for the answered asks. Easy to list the blessings. Harder to see the blessings in the crosses, but attitude of gratitude was already something I valued and practiced. 

The part that pierced me was Trust. Do not be anxious? As someone who lost sleep on the regular envisioning what ifs, tempered only by accusatory detailed dissections of the dumb or downright sinful things I’d said and done that day or 7 years prior, this was like telling a fish to fly. Debilitating anxiety was just where I’d always lived.

Anxiety stole more than my sleep. It prevented new friendships, job opportunities, and dates. It laid claim to my talents, never allowing me to step into light. Worry stole my voice. And Worry made hard things seem impossible. 

But with God all things are possible. 

It took time and grief and above all, God’s grace and mercy but the circumstances of the loss of my father and many other events in my life I once could only see as tragic have been somehow washed clean by the beauty of God’s Peace, as promised. 

What changed?

Well, first that pregnancy though medically complicated, resulted in a blessed birth of our healthy daughter. An amazing answer to prayer. 

And then I fell for the Holy Spirit.

I knew of Him, of course. But I didn’t think about Him much, I let him remain shadowed in the mystery of the trinity, some fiery bird that brave people knew. I thought I was doing ok with Faith in God the father, and Gratitude for my savior, his son, and even devotion to his mom. But that faith was pretty quiet, hidden within the walls of my house and church. This little light of mine was hidden under the bushel. 

Then, a few years after losing my dad, I attended a retreat. And there, the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of Life, revealed Himself to me. I caught His fire. I was praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet for the first time ever. When in the third decade, I felt the Holy Spirit gently encouraging me to surrender the false sense of control I had over my burdens, my sick son, my health problems, my complicated relationships with family, and most of all, the worry that made it all seem so impossible.  I had relationship with my creator and my redeemer, but I hadn’t known the love that flowed between them, a love so powerful, another person of God springs forth, the very essence of God’s love, stirring us into action, compelling us to take our faith beyond the walls

With God’s grace I responded to this prompting and laid it all down at the foot of his merciful cross. Jesus, I trust in you.

When I first encountered Dad’s last message, I balked at the idea of not being anxious. It seemed an inextricable trait I couldn’t control and didn’t have the ability to change. I held onto the security that everything depended on me. In Truth, everything depends on God.

The moment I accepted the invitation to lay it all down, he relieved me of the burden of carrying it all alone, and he filled me with the strength to entrust him with the outcome. The hands that had tightly grasped were now open to receive and give. 

It has been 9 years since that Divine Mercy moment, and I can still say it was transformative, releasing the hold anxiety had over my life. Letting the Holy Spirit in has allowed me to be more fully who God calls me to be. To live my faith out loud, to reach out beyond my own little concerns open to being his Hands and Face to others. I now trust that there is no suffering that God will not transform into good. He asks us to surrender it to Him so he can make it holy. 

Trusting in the Holy Spirit does not let me off the hook of doing my part. He requires my cooperation. The Spirit could whisper the plan in my ear, rearrange the stars, or send a billboard. OR some spiritual or physical work could be involved. As I was writing this, I slammed the laptop shut, and declared what I’d written dumb. My husband said, “Just get up, trust in the Holy Spirit and speak from the heart. What’s this talk about?” 

“Trusting in the Holy Spirit,” I replied sheepishly. This incident highlights my point. I could have simply trusted in the Spirit to deliver this talk and the Spirit could certainly use me as a vessel. But without prayer, preparation, checking the theology, and practice, I wouldn’t be fully cooperating, or using the gifts the Spirit has bestowed. My feeling that these words are dumb, was not inspired by the Holy Spirit, but by the one that wants to deter us from proclaiming Him. 

Over time and encouraged by the examples of my favorite Saints,  I’ve learned I can walk more confidently in the ways the Spirit leads and can more readily recognize His promptings by not only surrendering my will to match His, but by aiming to turn to God in all things and trusting in the visible Church he left to guide me. 

Surrendering my will is something I’ve learned I have to do over and over. I lay it down, but can struggle with the leaving it there. I flounder in my trust like Peter on the waves. 

The antidote is keeping my gaze fixed on God. 

The things I value get my first fruits. I develop trust with my family and friends by cultivating relationships. I try to keep our home comfortable and inviting. I care about what we wear and what we eat. I fill the calendar with work and fun. 

Yet, my patron St Therese reminds us, The world is thy ship and not thy home.

What space in my life have I given to the one who will be, God willing, intimately with me for all eternity? The job, the house, and the family can and will be stripped away imminently. What will matter to me then? What lasts? Only God.

So I strive to give God better fruit, seeking the Father in his Creation, in the inherent dignity of others. God wants to be my eternal spouse. He woos me in every breath, every glimpse of beauty, every act of love I encounter. All He asks is for me to receive it with my little empty hands.

I seek the Son in my sufferings, in stubbed toes, and diseases, in grief and sacrifice. 

St Therese, known for her little way offered up even minor frustrations, chores, irritating noises or meals she disliked and wrapped them up as gifts to God, wasting nothing. I waste so much holy fuel!

I seek Jesus also in resurrections, triumphs, conversions. I find the Spirit, our advocate in the still small voice, the conscience, the desire for virtue, and the prompting to do the next right thing and leaving the outcome to God. 

Giving God His due helps me to discern which voice is His. 

Another voice I’ve learned to seek, is the sweet sound of the spouse of the Holy Spirit. He overshadowed her quietly bringing forth the Incarnation, then returned later in the roar of Pentecost, lighting Holy Fire to the earth and expanding her maternal care over all. Mother, Daughter, and Spouse of God, yet model of humility, surrender, and obedience. 

After St Catherine Laboure’s mother died she held a statue of Mary and said “Now you will be my Mother.” When my kids were young and I felt overwhelmed, I’d imagine Mary siting in the room, knowing I’d be less likely to say or do anything she wouldn’t like. In emergencies, I’d call her name over and over and over and she gave me the strength to endure. I call her to mind as I put my jewelry on each morning asking her to remain with me. In times of fear or concern, I reach for her miraculous medal around my neck pleading for grace and motherly advice. I seek comfort beneath her mantle and give her my knots to untie. I’ve imagined what I’d say to Mary if I were blessed with Catherine’s hours of kneeling at her feet, their hands entwined in the lap that cuddled and bounced the baby Jesus and then cradled his lifeless body at the foot of the cross. 

As my devotion to Mary grows, I’ve learned to trust that no love or attention I give to the Blessed Mother stays with her, she is the moon merely reflecting the light of her son. Mary knows Jesus best and she loves to tell us all about Him. 

Despite seeking the spiritual, often God feels hidden. Thank God, he gave me a tangible way to find Him through the One Holy Catholic Apostolic Church. 

St John Paul II reminds us true freedom comes not in doing whatever we want, but rather in the ability to do what we ought. Jesus gave us the Church and put Peter in charge. Then that love that pours fourth from Father and Son we call the Holy Spirit guides and grows this dynamic entity filled with sinful humans. Jesus asks us to trust in the Church He made for us. 

Padre Pio did not understand why he must endure the stigmata, the wounds of Christ on his body, not because he didn’t want the suffering, but because he didn’t want the attention. Pio wanted to live a quiet, humble life devoted to Jesus. But the crowds kept coming. The Eucharist was the most important part of his life, yet he obeyed without question when he was ordered by the Church to discontinue celebrating public Mass and was prevented from hearing confessions, or giving spiritual direction or even blessings for the years while he was under investigation. Some allies wanted to gather evidence of the scandals of his accusers to present to the hierarchy in hopes of reversing his punishment. Padre Pio angrily responded to the suggestion, "You devil, you! Go, throw yourself at the foot of the Church instead of writing this garbage! Don't you set yourself up against your Mother!” Eventually, the holy and remarkable life of Padre Pio was recognized, and his obedience another sign of God’s grace working in his life. 

 

It is pride that tells me I know better. I’ve mistakenly told myself the church doesn’t know my circumstances. Or the rules are outdated. Or God would understand. 

I’ve been challenged to submit even when I didn’t understand or agree. There is nothing God asks us to do that he won’t give us the grace to obey. 

Obedience can be summed up in the words, “Thy will be done.” God has clearly shown His will for us by creating our Mother, the Church to guide us, to wash us, to provide comfort and healing, to welcome us in, to challenge us, and to see us safely into the awaiting arms of Jesus when we enter the next life. 

The Church is our ship and our way home. 

Within that church Jesus created a mystical way to remain fully present to every soul at all times by humbling himself to become our food in every tabernacle, in every Catholic Church, in every community around the world. I am what I eat. I need the tangible food of heaven and graces that cleanse my soul and compels me towards holiness.

St Faustina described receiving Holy Communion as the most solemn moment of her life and longed for each reception. She called it the “Bread of the Strong.”

St Faustina was given the mission of highlighting the infinite ocean of God’s mercy. We encounter the Divine physician who not only cleanses our souls of our sins, but heals our deepest wounds. It quiets, at least momentarily, the voice of the accuser, the source of our fears. Reconciliation is a grace, a gift. When we confess we rest in God’s forgiveness not only for ourselves, but for the whole world. No matter how grievous my sin, or how far I run, he seeks me out ready to lavish his Divine Mercy the moment I turn back. Faustina spoke of entering into the Sacred Heart of Jesus as she went into the confessional. Oh to remain in his heart!

Through another sacrament of the church, the Holy Spirit gives us all the tools we need to cooperate with God’s grace and live in peace, surrendering our will and trusting in God alone. We may not remember, but at our Confirmation, we were given actual spiritual gifts, like arrows aimed at life’s trials. We’re given Wisdom to judge truth. Understanding to “see” God. Counsel to be guided rightly. We’re given fortitude to overcome obstacles and try again when we fail, Knowledge of faith, piety to give God his due, and fear of God to help us flee from offending Him. 

If we utilize these gifts, the fruit will come, giving us more of what we want! Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Generosity, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control.

The Church was truly given a perfect guardian in the Holy Spirit.  What freedom is found when listening to what the Church tells us! Obedience in the One whose power is true is the path to happiness and freedom.

As I reflect again on dad’s scripture, Ask. Thank. Trust, I’ve become aware of the connection of these actions and have adopted his advice to give. First, Ask. Bring it all to God. He can take it. Bring the pleadings, the wonderings, the big and little worries. Bring the anger, Ask it all. And ask what He wants for you to have, to know, to wonder. 

Asking leads to the thanking. We’re to respond to the answers, the gifts, and even the silence knowing His ways are best. There’s an often repeated exercise to imagine if you woke up tomorrow with only the things you thanked God for today. Maybe I’d only have dinner.  I want to be thanking God more than I’m asking. 

And then there’s Trust. The trust will come if we surrender our will and allow him into our messes.

The more we ask and thank, the more we can trust that God is the source of all good, that the transcendent peace that comes to guard our hearts is the Power of the Holy Spirit. 

Let us ask the Holy Spirit to stir up those gifts in us again, so we can step out into the light, fully who God made us to be, a beloved daughter, seeking Him, thanking him and trusting in his will. 

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6-7

Amen.

Aside: This scripture happened to be the 2nd reading at Mass on what would have been Dad's 80th birthday on October 8. Alex happened to lector for the first time at Benedictine Abbey that day. He was supposed to have the first reading, but another lector asked to swap with him last minute. Alex proclaimed his "Papa's wisdom" to the world on his birthday. Thanks, Dad!

Offering it Up

Today marks the five year anniversary of the indescribably glorious day one ordinary woman was changed by an encounter with our extraordinary God. I must be very hard hearted that our ever patient and merciful God uses such obvious and spectacular signs to get my attention. Last month I gave a talk about that day and the events leading up to it framed through the lens of redemptive suffering. Though this story has been told here before, I think the passage of time and my recent struggles with health have augmented my limited understanding of suffering, so I thought it worth a re-share. The reflection emboldens me to advise we not waste the precious holy fuel the difficulties this earthy life offers. 

 Veni Sancte Spiritus

When I was a child and I’d go to my mom hurt or sad she’d say, “Offer it up.” Which I took to mean, don’t complain, be a big girl.

As a young bride, pregnant with our first baby I suddenly experienced unexplained health issues such as an arrhythmic heart and severe muscle weakness which led to falls and preterm labor. All seemed well with the baby. Bedrest put my teaching job on hold. 

At 37 weeks I delivered our seemingly healthy son, Ben. Yet one day later, Ben inexplicably stopped breathing in my arms. We cried out for help and he was whisked down the hall, my husband racing after. I sat frozen in terror. Jason watched through glass while a team tried to save him. A nurse off to the side shook her head repeating, “He’s gone. He’s gone.” 

Someone noticed Jason and guided him back to my hospital room. We clung to each other pleading to God. I uncharacteristically demanded He send him back. My husband’s prayer was, “Thy will be done.” 

Time stopped, and I was alone with God for a moment. He seemed to be sitting with me asking, Are you sure? Will you be the mother he’ll need? And will you allow Me in? I knew our life together would be difficult if he lived. I said Yes. I will carry this cross. 

After 30 minutes with no heart beat, Ben came back. He was immediately baptized by a hospital chaplain. No candle, no Godparents, no holding him at the font. I couldn’t speak his name when asked. But one tiny seashell of holy water was enough to affirm Ben belonged to God, not me. 

Ben’s six week stay in the Mercy NICU was traumatic. The tests were fruitless, the prognosis grim. He continued to code, but he always came back. 

Jason and I sat at his bedside and pleaded for more miracles. We sang hymns. We prayed for the courage to accept God’s will. Ben couldn’t breathe on his own or swallow, so he had surgeries to place a hole in his neck for a trach and one in his stomach for a feeding tube. After converting our house into a mini clinic, a mere twelve days after his surgery, we were able to bring him home supported by a team of nurses. Ben wasn’t expected to survive infancy. 

Ben showed us right away that there was reason to hope. His eyes seemed to indicate that he desperately wanted to communicate, but the trach meant no air could pass his vocal cords, so he could make no sound. I found a baby signs book and by one year of age Ben knew over 100 signs and strung them together into sentences. We took Ben to visit the NICU around his first birthday. He signed to me, “Baby hurt. Mama help.” 

I had a miscarriage when Ben was two. We attended an Archdiocesan pregnancy loss memorial service and gave her the name, Theresa. A woman approached me, weeping, and handed me a blue rosary. “Please keep this safe as a gift from my little boy to yours,” she said. I hung it from our car mirror and used it to pray on road trips to honor Theresa. I also prayed for this unknown mother and son. 

A decade later, the rosary still hung from the mirror. After all those years of specialists, medical events, and tests, Ben and I were both diagnosed with a rare genetic neuromuscular disease likely in the realm of Congenital Myasthenic Syndrome, meaning disfunction of muscles and nerves. My weakness would fluctuate causing difficulty climbing stairs, lifting, swallowing, visual blurriness, and irregular and fast heart beat. Ben’s weakness was more severe and constant. There is no cure, but some medications and therapies can improve quality of life. For much of his life, Ben had stoically accepted all the surgeries, the procedures, the medications, the suffering with minimal complaint. He didn’t know any other way.

But by middle school something had shifted. One day, the school nurse called me to again pick him up and by the time we reached the parking lot, Ben was crying. He was fed up with feeling sick and tired all the time. He was done with “Offering it up.” He just wanted to go to school like everyone else. 

I didn’t know how to help, so I asked Mary to be a mother to us. I had the thought to go to the adoration chapel and said aloud, “Let’s ask God what to do. Will you pray with me?” I opened the car and retrieved the blue rosary. He took it and it broke in his hands, part of it hitting the pavement, causing him to sob harder. I reached down to pick up the loose end, and cupping his hands in mine over the broken rosary, I looked him in the eye and said, “It’s ok, we can fix this.” 

I had an strong sense of peace filled hope and confidence in that moment. I knew Mary was present. He agreed to go into the chapel with me and when our hands parted, the rosary was completely intact, it was fixed. 

This repaired rosary was a sign of grace received. Ben’s broken spirit was mended too. A repair that has endured. 

A few weeks later, I went on my first ACTS retreat. I brought along a new rosary my Godmother had made since she thought the blue one deserved retirement from the car. Each decade was made up of letter beads spelling out the names of my family members and the medal held a relic of St Thérèse, a serendipitous nod to our lost baby.  

I thought I was fine, just looking for an opportunity to build community and deepen faith. But I hadn’t dealt with the heaviness of the last 12 years or the responsibility I felt to be a perfect caregiver to keep my son alive. Jesus was waiting. 

On the retreat, I prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet for the first time. When we reached the third decade, with the beads of Benjamin beneath my fingers, I looked up and realized the cross above the altar was a larger version of the Sisters of Mercy cross that hangs in every room of the hospital Ben frequents. I had been pleading for the life and strength of my son beneath that cross for 12 years. 

At the realization of this literal sign, I felt Jesus asking me to hand Ben over. Again. Then He gave me the grace to do it. All the suffering we’d endured was poured out at the foot of this cross. I offered up my firstborn son to His providential care. I offered up my need to fix it. I offered up control of the outcome. I offered up checking on his breathing every time I awoke in the night. Jesus took my little offering and multiplied it. He took my yes but also my anxieties, my pride, my fear, my doubt. He transformed them into a lasting peace. 

Soon after, Saint Padre Pio inserted himself into our lives. There’s no other way to explain that. I’d never heard of this contemporary stigmatist from the mountains of Italy. But he kept popping up. 

https://taylormarshall.com/2013/09/padre-pio-a-rare-video-plus-stigmata.html

Ben had a scheduled surgery to remove a reoccurring mass from his ear that this time threatened his brain. I had recently begun praying novenas prior to the feast days of my favorite Saints. I checked Ben’s surgery date and was bemused to learn it was Padre Pio’s, September 23rd, which coincidentally, 13 years prior was the date I first learned I was pregnant with him. 

So for nine nights before the surgery, my husband and I knelt beside our bed and prayed Padre Pio’s efficacious novena to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, asking specifically for protection for Ben’s brain. As Ben was moved to recovery, the bewildered surgeon told us he had repaired damage caused by the corrosive mass, shoring up the hole made in his skull that had luckily stopped just before hitting brain matter, but the mass, itself had disappeared! Ben chose Pio as his confirmation name out of gratitude. 

Days after Ben’s miraculous surgery, Jason too attended an ACTS retreat. He brought his gratitude and heaviness to adoration. Weighed down by the suffering of both Ben and I, he begged God to give him our illness instead. He surrendered himself, “Give their crosses to me.” He received an unmistakeable reply through Padre Pio. “Pellegrino!” He heard, which Jason later learned meant pilgrim in Italian, “Be my healer.” The message was accompanied by intense pressure in the center of his hands. Padre Pio was known to bear the wounds of Christ on his palms. 

This sign was not one easily forgotten, and we both felt compelled to respond. For two years we wondered how to be Padre Pio’s pilgrim healer until the day our pastor, Fr. Jack announced a parish pilgrimage to Europe in honor of the 100th anniversary of the apparitions by Our Lady of Fatima. Her feast day was our wedding anniversary too.

It was a transfiguring moment. I needed to make this trip happen and knew that somehow we would find a way to see Padre Pio there and thank him for his intercessions. Trusting in God’s providence for how we would afford the trip and obtain the time off, Ben and I signed up for the two week pilgrimage and began planning for my husband and other two children to join us for an additional week.

While Padre Pio was pressing Jason’s palms, our Blessed Mother had taken up residence in my heart. Always friends, I had begun speaking with her daily. One November day I visited the Shrine of the Miraculous Medal in Perryville. I was struck by the graces she has been entrusted to give that we fail to ask for. I added the medal to my necklace and resolved to ask Mary daily for grace. Soon after, I consecrated myself to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. 

http://famvin.org/en/2016/11/10/the-history-of-salvation-in-a-medal-•-tales-of-the-miraculous-virgin/

Before we left for Europe I shared with a prayer group that I was hoping for the courage to ask for Ben’s healing. Having witnessed my physical decline, my friends encouraged me to add myself to the petition.
 I recoiled. This wasn’t about me and I didn’t want to be greedy, after all, we’d already received so many answered prayers, even asking for Ben's healing felt like going too far. They wisely countered, that it would be a pretty small god that doled out “just enough,” blessings, not the God who Is.

On November 5, 2017 exactly one year to the day after I’d spontaneously put on that miraculous medal, and the day after completing the five month consecration to the Immaculate Heart, none of that planned, Ben and I boarded a plane for Fatima, Portugal.

It was a physically difficult trip, navigating several cobblestoned cities in three countries not bound by ADA compliance. I walked with a cane and Ben used a wheelchair and we had trouble transporting our gear and keeping up. All along the way, fellow pilgrims carried us along, anticipating our needs and never making us feel like burdens. 

I felt called to be enrolled in the brown scapular while in Fatima. As I stood in the historic square I prayed, “Mary, if I should be enrolled, show me your priest.” Soon after while in line for an exhibit. I was approached by a priest who asked me for information for tickets in English. As he turned to go where I had directed, I noticed his messenger bag imprinted with a scapular around the words, “Missionaries of the Sacred Heart.” I trusted in the sign. 

After my on the spot enrollment, Father gave me the assignment of continuing my dedication to the Immaculate Heart, but also adding a new devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. “Complete the set,” He’d said, “to Jesus through Mary.” 

Before the pilgrimage ended, Fr Jack had everyone gather around Ben and I and prayed a blessing over us, asking for our healing. 

When our friends had all gone home, my family joined us in Rome and we began our trek to the Gargano Mountains of Padre Pio. We spent two days immersed in his memory. We thanked him for his guardianship over Ben. Yet, we still had a sense we hadn’t fulfilled our mission of being pilgrim healers. 

In my research on Padre Pio before the trip, I read of a statue of Our Lady of Fatima arriving unexpectedly by helicopter to San Giovanni while Padre Pio was gravely ill. It was known as a pilgrim statue, traveling around the world to spread the message of Fatima. Pio requested to be taken to the statue and kissed her feet. He returned to his hospital room and watched as the statue of Our Lady ascended by helicopter to her next destination. He told Mary he was ready to go to heaven with her and said, “But Maria, I thought you would heal me.” In that moment, he was cured. A current newspaper article told me the same statue would be returning for one novena, 9 days, which coincided with our visit. 

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/331366485077080639/

The coincidence of this healing pilgrim statue of Fatima displayed before us when we had come to be pilgrim healers via Fatima, felt monumental. I longed to kiss her feet too, but there were gates and guards and security cameras. I did find the courage to boldly request of God through the intercession of Mary and Padre Pio to heal us both and I blew her a kiss. Nothing happened…But I did get a sign. 

My eye was drawn to the large mosaic of Our Lady of Graces behind the altar, the one where an infant Jesus is reaching for her breast and offering her maternal nourishment to all. The figure of Padre Pio below seemed animated, running toward them and spoke these words to my heart, “She has grace enough for all. Behold your mother! Behold your Savior!” 
“But I know them, already,” I answered. 
“No, Surrender. Surrender all to the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. Go home. Your faith has healed you.”

After visiting Pio’s idyllic hometown, Pietrelcina, we drove back for one last day in Rome. In the car, we talked about the answers we’d been given. We were not healed physically, but we were leaving with so much peace and comfort and hope, and a resolution to surrender to God’s will in our lives. Whatever suffering lay ahead we’d accept, offering it all up for God’s glory. Though I did express my mild disappointment and said aloud, “But Padre Pio, we came all this way, I kind of thought we’d be healed.”

Contentedly, we continued along the highway. Suddenly, my younger son, Alex, exclaimed, “Look at the sun!” This phrase evoked my memory of Fatima’s miraculous sun dance. It was a clear day but dark clouds had descended upon the mountain range to our West. The sun had burrowed through the darkness and peeked though in an odd shape. Though, it looked nothing like the sun. It evolved into the form of a burning, flaming anatomical heart dancing in the sky.

Jason reached for my hand and we said together, “It’s the Sacred Heart of Jesus!” We felt intensely at peace and so very very loved. It was if we were momentarily taken up and suspended in Heaven, enveloped in His flaming heart, burning away anything that was not of Him. We both knew it was a sign for us, an affirmation. Once more, God accepted our little offering and multiplied it. There, in the mystical fire, I was freed of even my lingering desire to be healed.

http://corjesu-sacrocuoredigesu.blogspot.com/2011/12/san-giovanni-apostolo-e-il-sacro-cuore.html

We arrived in bustling Rome and jumped right back into sightseeing mode, Colosseum bound. A funny thing happened on the way to the Forum. As we walked I noticed the cane felt odd in my hand, so I switched to the other hand. It still felt wrong. Then I realized we had climbed a fairly steep incline in the road that I hadn’t felt in my legs. 

I lifted the cane off the ground and continued to climb the hill and felt-nothing, the simple, extraordinary lack of fatigue. I expressed this oddity aloud. There was a low wall to my left. I stooped to sit and then stood. I tried it again. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been able to stand from sitting without great effort.

 We arrived at the Colosseum and I lost all sense of tourism, fully engulfed in the curiosity of my new found abilities. I did little tests like climbing up the curb, standing from sitting, jumping jacks, running in place. There’s video.

I even picked up my six year old daughter and carried her on my back. I hadn’t lifted her in at least 3 years. I was astounded and disbelieving, certain I was asleep. 

It occurred to me that perhaps I had been healed, so maybe Ben was too. Giddily, I asked him to get out of his wheelchair and try things out. He obeyed, but soon realized his strength was unchanged. I was crushed. My gratitude soured to guilt and grief. See? I was greedy! I did ask too much! This was all to be for him, not me!

I must have said some of this out loud for Ben turned to me and said steadily. “I didn’t pray to be healed. That’s not God’s will for me. I’m supposed to be this way and pray for the people who have no one to pray for them.” Without using the vocabulary, Ben expressed his acceptance of redemptive suffering. Where I had promised fifteen years before to bear this cross on his behalf, he now freely gave his own yes.

For three years I was physically strong, took no medications. My heart was steady. I was released from the care of all my astonished specialists. 

Yet, the story continues. Just as Ben turned 18, I clearly discerned that God was inviting me to, “suffer well,” to not only be a big girl, not complain, and again pick up my cross, but to truly turn it over to Him to be multiplied for a good beyond my understanding. Shortly after, my heart again began racing and skipping beats. Though my vision remains clear and my muscles, strong, I have found myself again under the care of specialists and need medications for my heart for an entirely different disease. I renew my surrender to God’s will for my life. I trust in His tender love and infinite mercy. And I’ve learned like forgiveness, surrender is a process. He craves our continued yeses. 

Ben was strengthened that November Sacred Heart day too, not in body, but in spirit. Today he’s a bright, witty, sarcastic, theology studying college kid. He wants to be a hospital chaplain. I would still trade my strength for his in a heartbeat, but I know in my soul he has chosen the better part.

I believe my faith did heal my body for a time, and it was fitting with God’s plan to allow me to be the mother I promised to be. I did not earn that honor. It was a gift freely given, a grace. It was a grace too, to be allowed to see the signs of God’s unwavering hand, stretched out, ever calling me to Himself. Just as He calls to each of you. I don’t know your signs, your moments of knowing the presence of God is very, very near. I don’t know what crosses He’s inviting you to carry. I hope to hear about them. I only know that it was when I surrendered and opened my ordinary eyes and heart wider to the awe of God’s grace and mercy that big wonderful changes happened inside. 

Padre Pio pointed me to Mary, and Mary led me to Jesus. Yes, I knew them already, but I learned to truly surrender myself and my son to God, to offer up MY will, asking Him to make it match His. Thy will be done. 

We listened to God’s call to be pilgrims and to be healers, but it isn’t finished. We are to be pilgrims every day, seeking God in all things. Learning from His words and those who know Him. Seeking, knocking, and having faith that we remain always in the palm of His loving, guiding hand. It is in our showing up, our surrender, our yes that we are truly healed. 

And when her babies hurt, Our Mama helps.