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.

Behold your Mother

After consecration to Mary, many in my prayer group were led to do an informal study of Marian apparitions through history. To cull the list, we stuck to those that have withstood Vatican vetting. I seek to summarize what I've learned and to plant a seed for further study. We were led on a beautiful journey of discovery that culminated in a field trip to the Miraculous Medal Shrine in Perryville where we were invested in the medal. 

It was after the trip that I learned there is a local farmer that claims to have regular visions of Our Lady on the 13th of every month (today!) at the grotto on this site, for nearly 20 years. I can't speak to the authenticity of this claim, nor do I think it has yet met the requirements for even local approval, but I can attest, that the shrine is bearing great spiritual fruit. It is holy ground. Here's a link if you wish to read more: Divine Mysteries

First we studied the apparition of the Miraculous Medal to St. Catherine Laboure (thus the field trip). This occurred in Paris in 1830 at the Convent of the Daughters of Charity (think 'Flying Nuns') which was founded by St. Vincent de Paul. 

On the night of July 18th Catherine was awakened by what she believed was her guardian angel and led into the chapel. There she saw Mary seated in the presider's chair. Catherine knelt at her feet and placed her hands in Mary's and remained in intimate conversation for hours. 

On November 27, she returned giving Catherine a vision of the medal she was to have made and distributed. Mary was pictured as beautifully robed standing on a globe while crushing the head of a serpent. Her fingers beheld jeweled rings from which rays of grace descended to the earth. Some jewels were darkened for the graces she has to distribute that no one asks for. The words, "O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee," encircled the image. The opposite side was stamped with the letter M and the cross for Mary at the foot of the cross. Below were the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. The image was surrounded by 12 (aspostles/tribes of Isreal) stars. Mary said, "Have a medal struck according to this model. All who wear it will receive great graces." 

Catherine obeyed and the medal was initially named, "The Medal of the Immaculate Conception," but was soon called miraculous due to the overwhelming protective and healing effects. By the time of Catherine's death, billions had been distributed. The shrine continues this mission of distribution today. 

One of my favorite Miraculous Medal stories is the conversion of Ratisbonne. He'd been raised in the Jewish faith but by adulthood professed no faith and was particularly hostile to Catholicism. His brother had become a Catholic priest which distressed him greatly. On a dare, he donned the medal to prove it had no effect. He reluctantly entered the Basilica di Sant'Andrea delle Fratte in Rome accompanying a colleague on an errand.  Mary appeared to him exactly as depicted on the medal. His conversion was immediate. He wept, demanded baptism, and eventually became a priest. 

Of course, I can't forget my own connection to the medal. It was at the Shrine on November 5th, 2016 that I first put one on, vowing to ask daily for the grace needed for the day. Without planning, by Advent, I was praying a daily rosary. By July, I began the devotion of the five first Saturdays and the brown scapular. One year after putting on the medal, on November 5th, 2017. I boarded the plane for Fatima and my eventual physical healing. I call this the breadcrumb effect. Mary keeps tossing out little bread crumbs to gently lead us into deeper relationship with her beloved Son. It's such a gentle and simple path, like holding the hand of your mother. 

Ask for Grace

Place your hands in Mary's. She'll take you to her Son. 

Relic of St. Catherine Laboure

Our Lady of Fatima

Speaking of Fatima, Mary appeared six times to three shepherd children on the 13th of each month in 1917 Portugal. She is big on appointments. She asked for reverent prayer to God, especially the daily rosary for peace, repentance, reparation for sins, and devotion to the hearts of Jesus and Mary. She said there would be a miracle at the last apparition which became known as the Miracle of the Sun. 

Surrounded by a crowd of likely 70,000 onlookers in torrential rain, Mary revealed she was “The Lady of the Rosary.” She asked that a chapel be built and the rosary recited every day. The war will soon end and soldiers will return. God is much offended, do not offend Him anymore. Mary opened her hands and launched a ray of light towards the sun, it began to turn, cascading brilliant light in all directions. It then suddenly seemed to crash toward the earth and many knelt in terror, begging for mercy. All present, including many miles away saw the sun dance and leave its fixed place. 

Only the children saw the visions of first the Holy Family as the infant Jesus blessed the world, Our Lady of Sorrows with her pierced heart, and finally, Our Lady of Mount Carmel holding the scapular.  When the phenomenon ended, the rain had stopped and everyone was clean and dry despite their previously muddy and soaked conditions. Many atheists who had come to mock the believers were converted on the spot. 

Next, we studied the apparition of Lourdes to Bernadette Soubirous (sounds like Suburu) in 1868. I love that Bernadette's immediate reaction to the vision was to kneel, reach for the ever present rosary in her pocket and begin the prayer. Mary bowed her head and joined in, only saying the Glory be aloud, since she wouldn't need to ask for daily bread or participate in aves to herself. At the next vision through the prompting of doubters, Bernadette threw holy water at her in case she was of the devil, to which Mary smiled, bowed, and blessed herself. The spiritual and physical healings of Lourdes still speak to the fruits of this encounter. 

We studied the very recent and less known apparition of Our Lady of Kibeho, Rwanda Africa. Mary appeared beginning November 28, 1981and gave warning of the genocide to come, which was unheeded. The first three visionaries' claims have been named worthy of belief by the Vatican. Mary highlighted the value of the seven sorrows chaplet in which we are to meditate on the sorrows which pierced her heart. Her messages here were heavy on mercy and redemptive suffering. I highly recommend genocide survivor Immacullee Ilibigiza's books, "Our Lady of Kibeho" and "Left to Tell." 

Next, we visited to stories of Knock, Ireland which occurred in 1879. This apparition is unique in that so many of various ages witnessed it, and it was a silent vision. On a dark and rainy night August 21st, fifteen people saw an image of light emblazoned upon the outside wall of the humble village church. The figures of Our Lady, St. Joseph, and John the Evangelist stood alongside an altar on which rested a lamb beneath a cross. Angels hovered about. The image remained in place for hours and returned three other dates to others. There was also the phenomenon of unwet pouring rain. The meaning of this pictograph is open to interpretation, but many have described the witness to hope, the meaning of the Mass, Mary's prayer and intercession for us, Joseph's silent obedience, John's role as the Tradition of the Church and Liturgy of the Word, while Jesus, the Lamb of God, as the sacrifice of the Mass. Others see apocalyptic warnings, and local warnings of the famine and persecutions ahead. 

And finally, the grandmother of all Marian apparitions, we studied Our Lady of Guadalupe. December 9, 1531 Mary appeared as "the woman clothed with the sun" from Revelations to a recent Aztec convert to Catholicism, Juan Diego. She gave him the seemingly impossible task of convincing the bishop to build a chapel on the hill which soon resulted in the immediate conversion of millions and the end of human sacrifice in that region. 

Juan Diego missed his appointment with Mary on December 11 because his uncle Juan Bernardino was dying. On December 12, he was hurrying to fetch a priest to administer the sacraments. He took a different route in order to avoid another encounter with the Blessed Mother, embarrassed that he had missed the appointment and not wanting to be delayed in seeking spiritual help for his uncle. Our Lady appeared to him nonetheless, the fourth time, assuring him that his uncle was already cured and instructing him to gather flowers on the top of the hill as a sign to take to the Bishop. “Am I not here who am your Mother?  Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not the fountain of your joy?  Are you not in the fold of my mantle, in the cradle of my arms? Do not grieve nor be disturbed by anything. Do not be afflicted by the illness of your uncle, who will not die now of it, be assured that he is now cured.”  Juan Diego trusted Our Lady and found on the top of the frozen and barren hill the most beautiful Castilian roses, not native to Mexico. He gathered them and Our Blessed Mother arranged them in his cloak, or tilma. Juan then hurried to the Bishop’s house. When he opened his tilma to show the flowers to the Bishop, Our Lady of Guadalupe appeared depicted on the tilma. The Bishop immediately understood the truth of Juan Diego’s message from the Blessed Mother and hastened to have the chapel built on Tepeyac Hill. 

The image itself is the most fascinating aspect of this apparition. Despite centuries of being subjected to the elements the cactus fiber cloth which should break down within thirty years, remains intact with its original vibrancy. The manner in which it was made cannot be explained scientifically. The image is a pictograph immediately understood by the Aztecs. She appears as a beautiful young queen that is both virgin and with child. The stars on her cloak represent the constellations as they appeared that Dec 12th night. She occludes the sun which was the god at the time, a god that demanded human sacrifice to continue to shine. Over her womb, is a flower in the shape of a cross, the sign of the Divine and the center of the cosmic order to the Aztecs as she bears the true God. Her hands are folded in prayer and her feet in the dance of worship indicating that she is not divine, but worships the One who is greater. The cross brooch around her neck is the cross of the Spanish missionaries that had until then been unsuccessful in their mission of evangelization. She stands on the moon, a symbol of another ancient Aztec god announcing the true God. An angel with eagle's wings supports the Mother of God. It was the "bird of the sun," now servant to the Virgin. She holds her mantle in one hand and robe with the other, signifying the Son she bears is both of heaven and earth. 

The unifying theme of all of these apparitions are of the message to turn back to God, to pray (especially the rosary) every day, and that we are not alone or without hope in our sufferings. Also, we all share a Mother, who loves us and looks like us and wants our greatest good (heaven) for us. These events are also accompanied by countless conversions and miracles, bearing great fruit, and spreading through the ages. The seers are generally humble and pious unknown people who willingly suffer persecution to spread the messages of Our Lady. Mary's humility and service to God is obvious, as well as her unique cooperative role in the distribution of His grace. May the messages of our dear Lady be heeded as we strive to be merciful to one another and seek to be pleasing to God in all matters. 

My Miracle

For twenty-six years I lived a pretty ordinary life as a middle class, Midwestern middle child, muddling through without much drama. As it often does, things changed when I became a mother.

Five years prior, I met my husband to be, Jason, primarily through an opera work study program in Rome, which is where the extraordinary started creeping in. We shared a first kiss on the Spanish steps, which two years later became the scene of our engagement and later the backdrop for our wedding photos. Our story began on that staircase and we envisioned sharing the spot with our hoped for children.

When our first, Ben, was born, his muscles were so weak he couldn’t breathe on his own or swallow. Within a few months he was in heart failure. Doctors couldn’t tell us a cause. He was fitted with a trach and a g-tube and we were sent home to a life of round the clock nursing, countless specialist appointments, and hope. We had hope because each time the count was down, Ben would rally. Twice we’d actually been told he had died, yet he revived. One night I had a conversation with God about our Ben. He asked me if I was willing to be the mother Ben was going to need if he stayed on earth. I said yes.

Today we understand Ben to have a rare genetic neuromuscular disorder. So rare, it hasn’t been named, though likely it is a type of congenital myasthenic syndrome. His disease affects every system in his body, and yet he functions remarkably well. He uses a wheelchair for fatigue, but he can walk. He may not be formal dinner ready, but he eats by mouth. He’s a very bright and witty high school sophomore. His fatigue prevents him from attending a full school day, so he does half his classes on-line from home. He has endured so many scary and painful experiences and there is no end in sight. Yet, he forges on, ever overcoming.

One day the right doctor asked the right question and suddenly I found myself a patient alongside Ben. I had ignored my own unexplained falls, difficulty with stairs, trouble swallowing, racing heart, and blurred vision, since it had always been “normal” for me. I began seeing my own set of specialists, enduring countless tests, and was ordered medications to improve nerve/muscle communication and slow down my overworked heart. Still, we had no name for what ailed us, and our symptoms were not entirely alike. I had more generalized weakness that seemed to worsen with age, stress, illness, and pregnancy, while Ben was born completely involved and had periods of improvement. Testing failed to offer a conclusive diagnosis, though we remained hopeful our genetic abnormalities would one day be deciphered.

The experience of mothering this boy brought me closer to Christ. Ben’s determination to overcome his crosses is where his strength lies. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t fight pain. The doctors and nurses and therapists that encounter him leave better, happier and often laughing.

I can’t say I bore my cross so well. I was frightened by my increasing weakness. I complained. I resisted. How could I be the mother I’d promised to be with this failing body?

One September night, my husband, Jason, took his worries to Eucharistic adoration and had an experience that was the catalyst for change. He felt he was given a message by Saint Pio of Pietrelcina to, “Be a pilgrim, and be my healer.” We both felt compelled to heed this message. For two years we wondered how to be Padre’s Pio’s pilgrim for healing. The answer came one Wednesday morning when our pastor announced a parish pilgrimage to Europe in honor of the 100th anniversary of the apparitions of Our Lady of Fatima.

A transfiguring idea took root. Ben and I would go on the two week pilgrimage where he’d receive a condensed Catholic education. Jason and our other two children would join us later. We’d spend a week showing them our Rome away from home taking a few days being pilgrims for Padre Pio by crossing the country to visit his sites. We wanted to thank St. Pio for his intercession on Ben’s behalf as we felt he’d been watching over him since birth. Perhaps by obeying the call to pilgrimage, we’d find healing for Ben there as well.

While Padre Pio was bending Jason’s ear, our Blessed Mother had taken up residence in my heart. Always friends, I had begun calling upon her help much more abundantly. One November day I visited the Shrine of the Miraculous Medal near our home. I added the medal to my necklace that day and resolved to ask Mary daily for grace. By Advent I resolved to pray a daily rosary. In July I vowed to consecrate myself to the Immaculate Heart of Mary by way of the five first Saturdays and on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I put on a scapular, as a reminder to remain beneath her mantle. I haven’t taken it off. Slowly, I recognized these little habits as tangible examples of grace received.

International travel with a medically fragile teen as a weakened caregiver was a daunting endeavor, but I was certain we should go. No matter that we didn't have the funds or the time away worked out. In the months leading up to our departure, my weakness worsened significantly. I began avoiding stairs and used a cane to prevent falls. Little tasks like laundry and carrying a pot of water to the stove became monumental. Though I’d always experienced my weakness primarily in my legs, I now felt it keenly in my arms and neck as well. I truly began to understand the frustration and anguish my son had been experiencing his whole life. Each day a marathon without the cheering, the medals, or a finish line.

I scheduled an appointment with my neuromuscular doctor just before our departure. She measured my strength and was equally alarmed, ordering further testing to be completed as soon as I returned.

I attended a prayer group where I expressed my hope for Ben’s healing on this pilgrimage. My friends encouraged me to add myself to the petition. I balked at the idea. 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.

Exactly one year to the day after I’d spontaneously put on the miraculous medal, and the day after completing the five month consecration to the Immaculate Heart, I boarded a plane for Fatima, with my son at my side.

For two weeks we shared in the rich heritage of our faith. We bathed in the languages, the lands, the food, and the stories. We walked where saints had trod. We bonded with fellow parishioners and our relationship evolved from caregiver mother/patient son to equal travelers on the road. In Fatima, I was officially enrolled in my scapular by a priest I met there. He gave me the assignment of continuing my dedication to the Immaculate Heart, but also adding a new devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

My family joined us in Rome and after enfolding them into our history one piazza at a time, we began our trek to the Gargano Mountains of Padre Pio. We spent two days immersed in his memory. We thanked him for always watching out for our boy. In the church where he celebrated his final Mass in 1968, the pilgrim statue of Fatima had come to rest a few days. This exact statue had come one other time. Padre Pio had kissed her feet when he was gravely ill. He had expected this act of faith to heal him and was disappointed when it didn’t happen. He returned to his hospital room and watched as the image of Our Lady ascended by helicopter to return to Fatima. He told Mary he was ready to go with her, but expressed his confusion as he’d been certain she would cure him. In that moment, he was healed.

The coincidence felt monumental to me. I longed to kiss her feet too, but I lacked the courage. I did find the courage to request of God through the intercession of Mary and Padre Pio to heal us both. Nothing outwardly obvious happened in that moment, but we did get answers. Padre Pio showed me a picture of Our Lady of Grace, the one where an infant Jesus is reaching for her breast and offering nourishment to us. She has grace enough for all. Behold your mother! Behold your savior! Surrender all to the Sacred and Immaculate Hearts. Go home. Your faith has healed you.

After our time in the mountains we headed back for one last day in Rome. As we were driving 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 for God’s glory. Though I did express my mild disappointment in saying, “But Padre Pio, we came all this way, I kind of thought we’d be healed.”

Contentedly, we continued along the autostrada. Suddenly, my younger son, Alex, exclaimed, “Look at the sun!” It was a clear day but dark clouds had descended upon the mountain range to the West. The sun had burrowed through the darkness and peeked though in the perfect shape of a heart. Though, it didn’t look like the sun, it looked more like a burning, flaming anatomical heart dancing in the sky. Jason reached for my hand and we both said aloud, “It’s the Sacred Heart of Jesus!” We felt intensely at peace and so very loved in that moment. My resolve to live out Padre Pio’s motto of “Pray, Hope, and Don’t Worry,” swelled to new heights.

We arrived in bustling Rome and after checking into the hotel and returning the rental, jumped right back into sightseeing mode, Colosseum bound. 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, or rather the sweet absence of fatigue. I expressed this oddity aloud. There was a low wall to my left. I stopped to sit and then stood. I did it again without the cane. Darkness was falling and we wanted to get the family and wheelchair safely off the cobblestone, but I had a great desire to get into a church. We happened upon one dedicated to Jesus’ grandparents, Anne and Joachim and knelt in confusion tinged with gratitude. I recall praying, I don’t know what this is yet, but I offer all to Your glory. Let it be done to me according to Your will. 

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. 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. We 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 supposed 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 agreed to accept it for himself and others.

It has been six months since the pilgrimage. We’ve been changed. I am physically strong. I no longer take any medications. My heart is steady, my vision clear. I have no fear of falls or staircases. I have been released from the care of my specialists. Ben is strong too, not in body, but in spirit. He found a new source of joy, accepting God’s will in his life. How blessed to learn this lesson at fifteen! And how blessed am I to sit at the feet of this teacher. The fragile son I was entrusted with has shown me the face of God. I would 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 me, and it was fitting with God’s plan to allow me to be the mother I promised to be. I did not earn this honor. It was a gift freely given, a grace. The experience of my illness taught me humility and empathy. I learned to find joy in my suffering and that my dignity and worth is not dependent upon my ability to contribute.

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.