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faith, when 1 had believed in angels and miracles. But I couldn't possibly bring
it back simply through an act of will.
"The superior told me that if I believed that I knew, then I would in fact
eventually know," he continued. "I began to talk to myself when I was in my
cell. I prayed that the Holy Spirit would manifest itself and teach me what I
needed to know. Little by little, I discovered that as I talked to myself, a
wiser voice was saying things for me."
"That's happened to me, too," I interrupted him. He waited for me to go on. But
I couldnt say anything else.
"I'm listening," he said.
Something had stopped my tongue. He was speaking so beautifully, and I couldn't
express myself nearly as well.
"The Other wants to come back," he said, as if he had guessed what I was
thinking. "The Other is always afraid of saying something that might sound
silly.
"Yes," I said, struggling to overcome my fear. "OK, sometimes when I'm talking
with someone and get excited about what I'm saying, I find myself saying things
I've never said before. It seems almost as if I'm 'channeling' an intelligence
that isn't mine one that understands life much better than me. But this is rare.
In most conversations I prefer to listen. I always feel as if I'm learning
something new, even though I wind up forgetting it all."
"We are our own greatest surprise," he said. "Faith as tiny as a grain of sand
allows us to move mountains. That's what I've learned. And now, my own words
sometimes surprise me.
"The apostles were fishermen, illiterate and ignorant. But they accepted the
flame that fell from the heavens. They were not ashamed of their own ignorance;
they had faith in the Holy Spirit. This gift is there for anyone who will accept
it. One has only to believe, accept, and be willing to make mistakes."
The Virgin smiled down on me. She had every reason to cry but She was joyful.
"Go on."
"That's all," he answered. "Accept the gift. And then the gift manifests
itself."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Didn't you understand me?"
"I understand. But I'm like everyone else: I'm scared. It might work for you or
for my neighbor, but never for me."
"That will change someday when you begin to see that we are really just like
that child there."
"But until then, we'll all go on thinking we've come close to the light, when
actually we can't even light our own flame."
He didn't answer.
"You didn't finish your story about the seminary," I said.
"I'm still there."
Before I could react, he stood up and walked to the center of the church.
I stayed where I was. My head was spinning. Still in the seminary?
Better not to think about it. Love had flooded my soul, and there was no way I
could control it. There was only one recourse: the Other, with whom I had been
harsh because I was weak, and cold because I was afraid but I no longer wanted
the Other. I could no longer look at life through its eyes.
A sharp, sustained sound like that of an immense flute interrupted my thoughts.
My heart jumped.
The sound came again. And again. I looked behind me and saw a wooden staircase
that led up to a crude platform, which didn't seem to fit with the frozen beauty
of the church. On the platform was an ancient organ.
And there he was. I couldn't see his face because the lighting was badbut I knew
he was up there.
I stood up, and he called to me.
"Pilar!" he said, his voice full of emotion. "Stay where you are."
I obeyed.
"May the Great Mother inspire me," he said. "May this music be my prayer for the
day."
And he began to play the Ave Maria. It must have been about six in the evening,
time for the Angelus a time when light and darkness merge. The sound of the
organ echoed through the empty church, blending in my mind with the stones and
the images laden with history and with faith. I closed my eyes and let the music
flow through me, cleansing my soul of all fear and sin and reminding me that I
am always better than I think and stronger than I believe.
For the first time since I had abandoned the path of faith, I felt a strong
desire to pray. Although I was seated in a pew, my soul was kneeling at the feet
of the Lady before me, the woman who had said,
"Yes,"
when She could have said "no." The angel would have sought out someone else, and
there would have been no sin in the eyes of the Lord, because God knows His
children's weakness.
But She had said,
"Thy will be done,"
even though She sensed that She was receiving, along with the words of the
angel, all the pain and suffering of Her destiny; even though Her heart's eyes
could see Her beloved son leaving the house, could see the people who would
follow Him and then deny Him; but
"Thy will be done,"
even when, at the most sacred moment in a woman's life, She had to lie down with
the animals in a stable to give birth, because that was what the Scriptures
required;
"Thy will be done,"
even when, in agony, She looked through the streets for Her son and found Him at
the temple. And He asked that She not interfere because He had other obligations
and tasks to perform;
"Thy will be done,"
even when She knew that She would search for Him for the rest of Her days, Her
heart filled with pain, fearing every moment for His life, knowing that He was
being persecuted and threatened;
"Thy will he done,"
even when, finding Him in the crowd, She was unable to draw near Him;
"Thy will he done,"
even when She asked someone to tell Him that She was there and the son sent back
the response, "My mother and my brothers are those who are here with me";
"Thy will be done,"
even when at the end, after everyone had fled, only She, another woman, and one
of them stood at the foot of the cross, bearing the laughter of His enemies and
the cowardice of His friends;
"Thy will be done."
Thy will be done, my Lord. Because you know the weakness in the heart of your
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