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.

One of the Ten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Amazing Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum

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

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

Breakfast in San Giovanni in Rotundo

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

Our Lady of Grace in the old church

Pio's loft

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

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

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

Pio's loft recreated

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

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

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

Saint Mary of the Angels

Our Lady of Liberty

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

Pio's Tower

His room

Saint Anna

Padre Pio's Baptismal Font

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

Rosary Walk

Piano Romano Church

Our Lady of Grace and the Elm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saint Mary Major

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

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

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

Surely, this was a dream.

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

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

Me helping Ben up the stairs

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

San Cecilia

Her tomb

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

I had been healed.

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