Some time ago, I went to the hospital to visit Juanita (invented name), a young friend of ours. When she was only four, both of her parents died from tumors. Her grandparents took in her and her little brother Alejandro, who at the time was only four and still lives with them. Throughout this time, aunts, uncles and cousins offered to the two siblings the tenderness and attention that are typical of Mexican families.
The week before our visit, Juanita had had an accident. While she was ironing in the hotel where she works with an industrial machine, a shirt got stuck in the roller which crushed her right arm. Her coworkers brought her immediately to the hospital where, after two operations of almost ten hours each, the doctors finally had to amputate her arm.
When I entered her room, the family members left me alone with her. I found myself before a tiny girl, almost a teenager, with glasses with thick lenses. We introduced ourselves and I told her that she has the same name as my grandmother; for a moment, we laughed. Then, the question that I had been waiting for arrived: “Tommaso, why did this happen to me? Why did God allow this to happen to me?”. “I do not know, Juanita,” I responded. “What I know is that whatever cross God allows us to have, it always has a certain direction, even if it seems absurd to us: to help us to discover that He is a Father, to push us into His arms. We must ask ourselves what is the good that God is preparing through the evil that has happened to you. It is what we will discover if we remain faithful to Him in time.”
For an instant, the veil of the visible was raised and I could see the ocean of the invisible mystery
After some time in silence, Juanita looked away, almost as if to bring into focus what she was about to say: “You know, Mary gave me an enormous gift. For this I am certain that she will not abandon me in this trial. As you know, I lost my mom when I was only four. Lately, I had begun to forget the sound of her voice. I tried to remember it but I was not able to. Two nights ago, I had a dream. I found myself in a room completely white and I heard a voice that said to me, ‘Do not be afraid; your time has not yet come. I still need you. Do not worry, I am here waiting for you.’ In the morning, when I woke up, I realized that it had been the voice of my mother.”
While she was talking, the face of Juanita was transfigured. Eyes wide open, turned towards heaven, and the tears began to flow down her cheeks.
Then she turned to look at me again and said: “I know that it will be very difficult. I’ll have to learn to do everything with my left hand. But I am not afraid. I have never felt so loved as I have in these days: my grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends came to visit me and sent me messages. I had never been so aware of all of the love that surrounds me.” I heard her confession and then we said goodbye.
Leaving, I was feeling a strange sensation. What came to mind was what the Gospel says of Mary during the annunciation of the angel: At these words she became troubled (Lk 1:29). In the same way, I was troubled. The emergence of the divine always provokes some agitation. For an instant, the veil of the visible was raised and I could see the ocean of the invisible mystery that surrounds the brief space in which our life is played out. An ocean that is an abyss of love. Immersing my gaze there, even for just an instant, was enough to leave a feeling of vertigo.
This is the incredible condition of the priest: being a man on the border of the abyss that divides and unites heaven and earth.
