“Sorry,” I said, and elbowed Michael.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Cut to the chase, Jimmy,” Father John said, laughing, too. “These two have plans for dinner with a group of tourists from my parish!”
“Oh, all right!” Monsignor Mirenda said. “I know! Why don’t we take a walk and go see the image and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“That sounds good,” Michael said.
As we made our way through the church, Father John and Monsignor Mirenda told the story, one throwing in details the other had skipped. It seemed that a fellow named Juan Diego, a reasonably wealthy and educated member of the Chichimecca tribe, not a poor Aztec Indian as previously thought, had recently converted to Catholicism. He was on his way to Mass on December 9 in 1531. It was cold and he was walking the fourteen miles, which apparently was common among the people.
“If I had to walk fourteen miles to church, I’d never get there,” I said.
“Yes, well, it would be a challenge for a modern woman,” Father John said, shaking his head.
“Well, anyway, he’s crossing a hill and hears music and a woman’s voice calling him. Of course we know it was Mary, the Mother of God.”
I winced a little and shot Michael a glance. It was odd to us to hear someone refer to Mary as the Mother of God. I mean, we had both grown up believing she was, but we didn’t just throw her name around in conversation.
Monsignor Mirenda continued.
“She said, ‘I am a merciful Mother to you and to all your fellow peoples on this earth who love me and invoke my help. I listen to their lamentations and solace all their sorrows and their sufferings.’”
I wondered if I prayed to her to ask Jesus to help Michael, she would hear me, and then I decided there was no reason that she would hear the prayers of a half-baked, sarcastic, cynical, fallen-away Catholic like me.
“She told him to go see the bishop and ask him to build a church in that spot. Not sure what was happening, he said, ‘You know, you should probably get someone more important to do that for you.’ But she said, ‘No, I want you to do it.’ So he goes and, after some difficulty, gets in to see the bishop. The bishop says something to the effect of ‘Why should I believe you? Bring me a sign.’ The very next day, on his way to Mass, Juan Diego sees her again. She says, ‘The bishop wants a sign? Go and gather those roses.’ Now remember, it is December and there is snow on the ground. But when Juan Diego looks around, there are roses everywhere, including a Castilian variety that had yet to be introduced into Mexican horticulture.”
I was beginning to get interested in the story at that point. “No kidding?”
“No kidding,” Father John said. “Wait, it gets better.”
“So Juan Diego goes back to the bishop’s office, and after some more difficulty, he gets in again. He drops the roses on the floor before the bishop and the bishop nearly faints in surprise because on Juan Diego’s tilma—which is the garment we are about to see—is the image of Our Lady.”
I shivered and so did Michael.
“And you believe this to be…it’s actually real? I mean, this is true?” Michael said.
“I know it for a fact,” Father John said. “Here’s where the science comes in. Come this way. We’re going to take you on the altar.”
There were literally thousands of people on the people movers below the sanctuary floor that slowly passed the image. I felt a little bad that they, who were so devout, were not in our place.
Father John and Monsignor Mirenda genuflected as they came to the main altar. Bumbling around a little, Michael and I did the same. We were about ten feet away and I looked up to where the original image hung on the wall behind the altar. For a split second, her eyes looked alive. I don’t know how else to say it except that if you had told me she was alive on that wall and in that garment, I would’ve said yes, she is.
Monsignor Mirenda was whispering now.
“The image is a codex,” he said.
“What’s a codex?” I said.
“It’s a story in pictures that many illiterate Indians of the day would have understood. And then there are attributes that were not understood until centuries later. For example, the stars in her mantle are in the exact position of the celestial sky over Mexico City on December ninth, 1531.”
“You’ve had that authenticated?” Michael said.
Father John shook his head, looked at his friend the monsignor and then back to Michael. He was a little irritated for the first time since I had met him. “What do you think? You are standing in front of a self-portrait of the Mother of God. Think about it, Michael, and you, too, Grace.”
Monsignor Mirenda said, “This garment has been put to more rigorous tests than the Shroud of Turin and Veronica’s Veil. Listen to this, Michael. Both eyes hold the reflection of Juan Diego. He is present in the pupils. Not only is he visible, but the reflections are accompanied by Purkinje-Sanson reflections.”
I had no idea what that meant, but Michael, in a quivering voice I might add, told me it had to do with how the eye reflects images—first on the cornea, then on the back of the lens and then on the front surface. Both of us were extremely unnerved. What was happening? Our tremors and sputtering didn’t stop Monsignor Mirenda or Father John from whispering away like naughty schoolchildren.
“Needless to say, the Church has allowed ophthalmologists and all sorts of experts on various subjects from around the world to examine the image at different times, and every single time it is judged to be miraculous—the gold, the colors, the symbolism, the eyes…Of course, the tilma itself should have disintegrated five hundred years ago, but there it is.”
We were speechless. And finally Michael spoke.
“Can we go back to the stars again?” he asked.
“Of course,” Monsignor Mirenda replied.
“When did they figure out they were correct?”
“In the eighties. Computer technology.”
“Do you mean to say that no one suspected anything before that?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But this priest…What was his name, John?”
“Sánchez, I think. A Mexican priest. He studied it for decades. Listen, folks, we could go on and on about this forever. I just thought you might like to meet my friend and see the tilma. When we come here with the group, we’ll never get this close. It’s really amazing, isn’t it?”
“Wait!” I said. “Do we have to leave this minute?”
“No, of course not,” Monsignor Mirenda said.
You have to understand that we stood there staring at the image of Mary, transfixed and perfectly still. I could not have known what was happening on my right or my left as my eyes were glued to the tilma.
“Michael? What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing my arm. “I’m feeling very weird. I think I might need to sit down. My legs feel like rubber.”
“Of course,” Father John said. “Come sit here.”
My adrenaline surged with alarm as we led a shaky Michael over to the area where the choir sang, and Michael slumped into a chair.
“Michael! Are you all right?” I felt his head. He was perspiring like crazy, but he was cool to the touch. He was breathing heavily, but I felt his pulse and it seemed normal to me. “What happened? Talk to me.”
“Oh, my God,” Michael said.
“Do you need a doctor?” Monsignor Mirenda said. “Water?”
“No, no. I’m okay.” Michael leaned over and put his head between his knees.
“Do you feel faint?” I said.
Michael sat up slowly and looked at all of us. “No, I’m fine. I think I’m fine. I just felt this…I don’t know how to describe it…like an electrical charge run through my whole body. Seriously. It was a little like being electrocuted. But I feel perfectly fine now. There was a loud buzzing in my ears…it was crazy. I’ve never felt anything like it.”
I saw Father John whisper to Monsignor Mirenda and the monsig
nor nodded in agreement.
“What’s the big secret?” I said.
“Michael has just received a spontaneous healing. I’d bet my reputation on it,” Father John said.
“Yes,” Monsignor Mirenda said. “I agree. I saw one at Medjugorje once. It was exactly as you describe.”
“Oh, please,” Michael said. “Come on. I’m absolutely fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Michael?” I said. “I have something to tell you and I guess now is as good a time as any.” He looked at me, not knowing what I was about to say. “Papenburg called. He wants to see you when we get home. You’ve been to see him, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I did see him and had another MRI.”
“We can talk about complete disclosure another time,” Father John said. “Why don’t we get Michael some fresh air?”
“Wait,” I said. “Please? Give us a minute.”
Father John and Monsignor Mirenda stepped away and began babbling to each other. I looked back at Michael.
“Oh, Michael! Oh! I just…” I put my head in his lap and he stroked my hair. For what seemed like the billionth time, we began to sob almost uncontrollably. Michael pulled me to my feet, and after we found some tissues and blew our noses, we walked back to the center of the altar and looked up. There was Mary, smiling as sweetly as you would imagine. Her head was dipped to one side in what seemed to be a modest gesture of piety.
“Grace?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Grace, something just happened that I’m not sure I understand at all.”
“I know. How could this be? But if it’s true, then…”
“If it’s true, we have a really heavy responsibility.”
“If it’s true, then it changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, everything. Oh, my God…”
When we all got outside, squinting in the light, Michael turned to Father John.
He said, “Look, Father John, I mean this in the nicest possible way. I don’t believe in all this miracle stuff. I just don’t.”
“Well, Michael, just because you don’t believe in the power of God does not mean that God’s power doesn’t exist.”
“That’s true,” Michael said. “And I feel very different.”
“Something happened in there. Something happened to you,” Monsignor Mirenda said. “I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Yes, it did,” he said.
“So what do you think it was, Michael?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Michael said. “You really think I’m healed, don’t you?”
“Your doctor can answer that, Michael, but here’s what I think. If you are indeed completely healed, I’m wondering how much longer do you think the Lord will seek you out if you don’t respond?”
The rest of our visit to Mexico City was spent in a state of wonder. From the moment we returned to the hotel and met the group for dinner, the story traveled like wildfire. We were still in shock and unsure of how to answer the many questions.
“What did it feel like?”
Michael retold the story.
“How do you feel?”
“Perfect. I feel like I am in the most perfect health I have ever known.”
“What kind of tumor did you have?”
“My sweet Michael was basically a dead duck,” I said.
“Little Miss Sensitive strikes again!” Michael said with a laugh. “Listen, all I can tell you is, I thought I was going to die and now I think I’m going to live. I feel perfectly healthy. Obviously, I have to confirm that with my doctors and I will as soon—”
“As we have our little trip to Cancún,” I said in all innocence.
Everyone stopped and looked at me like I had lost my mind.
“No!” they all said at once. And the chorus got into gear.
“You can’t go to Cancún!”
“You’ve got to go straight back to Charleston! Get an MRI tomorrow!”
“Call us! Holy Mother!”
Michael and I looked at each other. More than anything, we wanted to believe his cancer had vanished. What if it really had?
We called Papenburg and left a message with his service to arrange another MRI as soon as possible and let him think Michael was a nut job. I already knew that the doctor was going to tell Michael he needed more radiation. But how stunning would it be to compare a new MRI to the most recent one Papenburg had called about and see that the cancer had disappeared? If it had.
That night, after dinner, the show and a lot of tequila, Michael got philosophical.
“Why would Mary single me out to save? In the eyes of the Church, I am a fornicating sinner who does stem-cell research and completely unworthy for any recognition, much less this. That is, if it’s true that I am okay.”
“Well, maybe in Mary’s eyes you aren’t. Maybe she sees you going on to do great things. Maybe she wants you to live for another reason. I don’t know. I just know I hope it’s all true.”
“You want it to be true? How do you think I feel?”
“I think you feel perfect.”
Dr. Christian Papenburg was a practical man. He dutifully returned Michael’s call and listened to what Michael had to say. He became intrigued and then very curious.
“I’ve heard of this sort of thing, but I’ve never been a witness to it myself.”
“Well, let’s hope those two priests are correct.”
“Like an electrical shock to the body, you say?”
“Yes. It was like nothing else I have ever felt.”
“Well, when can you be here? Let’s get to the bottom of this immediately.”
The next day, we left our fingernails in the tarmac of the airport in Mexico City. We dreaded knowing the truth as much as we couldn’t wait to find out. The flight was long, but to us time had stopped. It could’ve been an hour or it could’ve taken a day. But the next thing I knew we were falling into our bed and we were scheduled to see Papenburg the next morning.
I waited in the outer office while Michael went through the MRI and finally it was over. Papenburg’s radiologist had agreed to read it right then. We went out for coffee to help Michael shake off the sedative he had been given for the procedure. I was holding my breath, but my sleepy Michael was guardedly confident. He wasn’t making a lot of sense to me as he spoke and I wrote it off to the drugs.
“This is going to change us, Grace. You’ll see. Everything is going to change.”
“Yes, sweetheart. I know it will.”
“Our whole world is going to change.”
“Of course it will. Now drink up!”
I patted the back of his hand and said a prayer. (Yes, I said a prayer!) I just asked God if it was okay if I came back to the Church if Michael was healed. And then I asked God what we should do with our lives if Michael was healed. In fact, I had a lot of questions.
When we returned to Papenburg’s office at four that afternoon, we were ushered straight inside by a smiling nurse.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire career,” Papenburg said, grinning from ear to ear, which did a lot to put us immediately at ease and in a mood of anticipatory celebration. “I made the radiologist go over it three times.”
“What?” we said.
“It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone. As in G-O-N-E.”
“Oh, my God,” Michael said in a quiet voice. We fell into each other’s arms and began to weep tears of joy. Tears of thanks. Tears of humility.
“Precisely,” Papenburg said, choking on his own tears, “because there is no earthly explanation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
REVELATIONS
We left Papenburg’s office on a natural high that was so high it was almost frightening.
“I’m never using a curse word again!” I said as I got in the car and slammed the door.
“Me either!”
“And I’m never talking shit ab
out that bitch Marianne again!”
“Um, you just cursed.”
“Right! I take it back!”
“And, Grace?”
“What?”
“We’re going back to church.”
“The Catholic Church?”
“You got it. You and me. We’re going to get ourselves back into church every Sunday and we’re gonna start a foundation to raise money to send really sick kids to Mexico City. Or Lourdes or Fatima or wherever they want to go when there’s no hope left.”
“Michael, spontaneous cures happen to Protestants, too. A foundation’s good. But maybe you want to consider the Catholic membership thing a little more.”
“I know that. But, nope. My miracle happened in a Catholic church and that’s what we’re doing. And the foundation’s going to have a Web site where we can collect stories about other people’s miracles because they can give sick kids hope.”
“Michael! You’re serious?” I looked at him and he shot me a glance. “You are serious! Do you know what this means?”
“Yep!”
“It means we have to go to confession! It means we can’t…we shouldn’t…I mean, just how far down this straight and narrow path do you intend to pull me?”
“I don’t know. We gotta talk about all that stuff. Call Father John’s cell right now!”
“He doesn’t have a cell! But he got back late last night. I’ll call the rectory.”
I left a message for him and was certain he would call as soon as he could.
Then Michael and I started laughing and realized we were deliriously happy. We actually had a future before us and we moved in to a kind of euphoria. We were as happy as the day we realized we were in love—no, happier. When it came to changing your mood, there was nothing like thinking it was all over and then getting another chance.
As soon as we got home, I called my parents. They were so overwhelmed by the news, they burst into tears.
“God Almighty! Thank you! I’ve got the heebie-jeebies here,” Dad said. “I’m so happy for you, son!”
“Thanks, Mr. Russo! We are understandably thrilled out of our minds!”
“So are we!” Mom said. “I’m going to church tomorrow to offer a thanksgiving Mass for you, Michael.”
Full of Grace Page 29
