Full of Grace (28 page)

“Well, they have certainly made great strides in research. But you have to watch out with this stem-cell business. It’s a very slippery slope.”

“It’s one hot tamale,” Michael said.

I thought that had to be the corniest joke he had ever made. But then I realized it was a ploy to dodge further discussion.

“Father John thought that both of you might find the science of Our Lady of Guadalupe to be interesting.”

“Well, you know the story, don’t you?” Father John said.

“Not really,” I said. “I went to Catholic schools, but I don’t remember if they covered saints and miracles. They talked more about social issues like prejudice and the environment. My grandmother is sort of the family resource for that stuff, but she’s more focused on Italian martyrs.”

“And you, Michael?”

“All-boys private school.”

“Well,” Mirenda said, “I don’t want to bore you with a long-winded talk but the miracle is important. You saw all the people out there, right?”

We nodded.

“We have thousands of visitors every day. In the summer months, I couldn’t begin to tell you the numbers. It’s shocking, even to me, and I used to be stationed at the Vatican. Anyway, Mexico, as you know, has a long and rich history that predates Cortés and Montezuma; but let’s begin with them. When Cortés arrived here in
1519
, Montezuma was the Aztec emperor in charge. He ruled all the various tribes and each year sacrificed anywhere up to twenty thousand Indians to appease his pagan gods.”

“Not nice,” I said.

“To say the least,” Mirenda said, and cracked a little smile. “Anyway, Cortés and his army were Spaniards and therefore Christians. Basically, they went to war and whipped Montezuma’s army. The priests were the next to arrive and continued the business of converting the Indians to Christianity. These were dark days, as I’m sure you know.”

“Very,” Michael said.

I could see Michael shifting in his chair and knew he was thinking that he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

“Then, by
1531
, after much fighting over Mexico City itself, Cortés was firmly rooted in the Mexican government, which was now loyal to Spain, and the Catholic faith was taking hold of the natives. Okay, enough boring history, unless you want more?”

Monsignor Mirenda looked at us and then laughed.

“You two look like you’re waiting to have your fingernails pulled out!”

“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 every
where, 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 monsignor 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!”