by Mary Pearson
including Fr. Corappi and Fr. Pablo. The oddest thing were the tiny children and infants. Many of them had become quite fussy being confined to a tight space for so long. Not a whimper was heard during Mass. Reecie knelt with the rest of the family on the hard wooden floor, periodically making the sign of the cross. The sense of the Presence of God was palpable. When it came time for communion and the violin broke into the first strains of Franck’s Panis Angelicus, no one said a word to dissuade Stacy from joining them in the Communion line. They could tell she had changed.
“C’mon,” Stacy grabbed Emily’s arm. “I want to get some books and things before the Expo room closes.” She let her mother know where she would meet them afterward and the girls started to thread their way toward the door nearest the gargantuan room filled with vendors. Stacy felt a pressure on her elbow.
“We’re right behind you.” She looked into Arthur’s eyes. “Zeke and I want to get some things, too,” he told her.
Stacy nodded. It was too loud to do much talking until they were removed from the throngs of chattering people who mostly filed out the exits and presumably off to find somewhere to eat their evening meal. Stacy could feel her own stomach growling.
“What are you getting?” Zeke asked her.
“I need some books, mostly. Something on the Eucharist, something on Divine Mercy—maybe a life of Faustina—and I want something on the Shroud of Turin.”
“Oh,” Zeke began to rummage in his beaten pack, “I’ve got that last one for you.” He pulled out a beaten copy of a book entitled, Report on the Shroud of Turin. The author’s name was Dr. John Heller and there was an intriguing mummy-like image of the Shroud man on the cover.
“Where did you get this?” Stacy asked her cousin.
“Bartleby’s used books. I only paid five dollars for it. It tells about the STURP team effort to study the Shroud in 1978 and all of the opposition they encountered. It almost reads like a novel.” He handed the book to Stacy. “You can borrow it if you want. I already read the thing.”
“Thank you.” She took the book. They were by now moving down the first long aisle of displays. Suddenly something caught Stacy’s eye. Oh hey! On on a nearby table was a book that sported a large picture of the man who had heard her confession. He must be a presenter here, she thought. She was about to let the others know that she recognized the man as her confessor when Arthur picked the book up. “I read this,” he said to Ezekiel. “It was interesting.”
Zeke took the book from him and examined it. “Didn’t he have the stigmata?”
“For decades,” Arthur nodded. “He also could bilocate and was responsible for healing countless people, including a little girl who was born without pupils. Through his intercession, God made her see even though she still didn’t have any pupils.”
Arthur nodded solemnly. “Padre Pio also could tell you your sins. He would send you away to think about it unless you confessed them all. So people would come from all over the world just to stand in his confession line all day.”
Stacy took the book from her cousin. “What is stigmata?” she asked, thumbing through and looking at the pictures.
“The bleeding wounds of Christ. Padre Pio had all five. He died in 1968. They say his stigmata smelled like roses.” Stacy felt the blood drain from her face and she almost dropped the book. “Hey, are you ok?” Arthur put an arm around her and led her to a chair.
“Just a little dizzy,” she said, burying her head in her lap. It isn’t him, she told herself. My priest only looks like Padre Pio. Nevertheless she bought the book.
By the time they left the vending area, Stacy had also acquired a book on Divine Mercy and an 8x10 image that, when looked at head on, was a picture of Divine Mercy, but when looked at from either side became a picture of the Shroud. She found a book on Eucharistic miracles and another on the Shroud. This one was by Dr. Gilbert Lavoie and was called Resurrected. Although she ate and swam with the others, and it was fun, she couldn’t help slipping into long periods of silence as she mulled the day’s happenings over in her restless mind.
When Stacy awoke the next morning she was aware of a feeling that she was not alone. Good Morning, she said to Jesus. I know You are with me. Stay in all of my activities of this day. That was the best she could manage for a morning offering. With mixed feelings, she reviewed the events of the previous day, not quite sure what to think.
Then, careful not to wake anyone else, she got dressed and made her way to the breakfast niche alcove just off the hotel lobby. A warm fire was crackling and the tempting aroma of freshly made Belgian waffles filled the space. Stacy poured herself a cup of coffee from the big carafe and quickly made herself an english muffin. Then, breakfast and reading materials in tow, she made her way toward the row of tables that were facing the fire.
“Care to join me?” The person at the table next to hers lowered the newspaper he had been reading. It was Arthur.
Stacy gathered her things and moved over to his table. “I didn’t know you were an early riser,” she said.
Arthur surveyed the peaceful morning scene. “I always have been,” he said, “ever since the paper route I had when I was twelve. Is that all you’re eating?” He surveyed her piece of toast and black coffee with mock disapproval. “You know this place has a world famous breakfast.” He pointed to their brochure on the table. World Famous Breakfast, it read. He pushed his overflowing plate in her direction. She dutifully took a grape.
“Have you been enjoying the conferences?” she asked.
“I really have,” he told her. “I didn’t even know this sort of thing existed.” He spiked a big forkful of scrambled eggs. “How about you, though?”
“Yeah,” Stacy’s response was non-committal. “It’s big.” And confusing. “You know, I was wondering, how is it that you and my cousin weren’t confirmed in eleventh grade with the rest of your class?”
“I don’t know about Zeke,” he said, after he’d swallowed. “I wasn’t real sure I was Catholic back then.”
Stacy took a sip of coffee. “You are now?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of reading since then,” he told her. “I’m seeing the world a lot differently.”
Stacy considered him gravely. “I’ll admit the world looks different when filtered through Catholic eyes.” She sighed. “I have a lot more reading to do, I guess.”
He met her eyes. “I guess,” he agreed. He tapped her pile of books. “So read.” He smiled slightly. “I look forward to discussing them with you.”
The first event on the last day of the conference was again a lecture by Fr. Corappi. He emphasized that we are all in the midst of a great battle. We do not battle against flesh and blood, but against the Powers of Evil that are in high places. He told a story of receiving a call in the middle of the night from friends of a woman he had known who had been a very powerful and successful person, but who, like him, had lost it all with an addiction to drugs. Later he had found her behind the grille of a nunnery, but now the demons of her addiction had driven her back onto the street. Fr. Corappi had to literally buy her back from a brothel. He told his audience they should never think it could not happen to them. With the pressures of temptation, there was no one immune from backsliding. And there was nothing Satan would like more than to see us give up. The Evil One wants us to believe it is not possible for God to continually forgive us when we just fall back into our old sins. When Judas hanged himself after handing Jesus over to be killed, it was not the sin that condemned him, but his inability to conceive of so great a Mercy that there was nothing that could not be forgiven. We must never hold ourselves back from such torrents of Mercy, but be confident that in any moment of our life, however bleak, He will forgive us.
This lecture completed the workshop. Before leaving the convention center she had to do one more thing. With trepidation, she found her way back to the confession line again. Her examination of conscience this time consisted of repeating, I imagined the whole thing. He only looks like Padre Pio o
ver again and again until it was her turn. As she knelt in the cubicle and looked up, this time there was the smiling face of a portly Irish priest. “What can I do for you, my child?” he asked, with a thick accent.
Stacy breathed a sigh of relief. “Nothing,” she said, getting up again. “I guess I’m ok. Thanks.” She pumped his hand. “I don’t need confession after all.” He gazed after her departing figure, a confused look on his face.
When she got back to the area of the auditorium where her family had “reserved” their seats by placing personal items on them, the rest of the family was gone, either at the expo center or in the rest rooms. While waiting for the final Mass, Stacy opened the book on Eucharistic Miracles and began to read about the Miracle of Lanciano, Italy. In the eighth Century a priest was plagued by doubts as to the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist. He prayed for an increase of faith and when he spoke the words of consecration over the Host, the wafer of bread became a chunk of striated human heart tissue. The wine became blood—type AB+. This event continued to be miraculous in that it never decayed. More than twelve centuries after the event, the miraculous relic was still available to be seen and venerated by believers.
An ancient little nun was sitting beside her. The tag on her garment read Sr. Loretta. She
