My Life is a Miracle

21 The Healin well-hidden in the inner spirit, those invisible tears. I’m always struck by the peace of this place, its silence. You hear the continuous rolling of the Gave, that river flowing through the bottom of the valley, powerful, forceful. It’s a river that sometimes gets angry, overflows, rampages. But there in the grotto is the still power of God. An unmoving, spiritual, mystical presence. So ac- cessible to all. So close to the little ones. To the poor. To the afflicted. This God whom Mary brought into the world is not far off. As though he’s waiting like a child for us to look at him, to pay him a little attention. And why not ask him for something? I’m reminded that Saint Catherine of Siena, that lover of the Church—fiery, determined, down-to-earth—would approach the church tabernacle where Jesus reposes in the Eucharist, and there, that woman of great faith who saved the Church of Rome by supporting the pope during turbulent times, said to God: “I want!” And me, what do I want—me, a poor little nun? Rosary in hand, I raise my eyes to Mary. It’s not a statue that I worship, but Mary, in- side my heart, that heavenly Mother who knew Jesus better than anyone. You can ask her any- thing. It’s not some goddess I pray to but the Mother of Christ, attentive like every mother