Our Lady of the Lost and Found Page 20

  What they see on the tilma where the roses have been is a life-sized image of the woman Juan Diego has been describing.

  She is indeed a beautiful young woman, apparently of mestizo descent, with olive skin, rosy cheeks, dark brown hair, and dark liquid eyes cast down in prayer. She is framed by the sun which radiates behind her in more than a hundred pointed rays. She wears a floor-length, rose-colored gown patterned with finely drawn gold blossoms and leaves. A dark turquoise mantle dotted with stars and edged with gold flows in graceful folds from her head to her feet. At her waist is the black sash traditionally worn by pregnant Mexican women. It is fastened in a large bow just below her praying hands. Under her feet are a black crescent moon and a winged cherub happily holding up the hem of her robes.

  The tilma is secured safely in the cathedral and Juan stays overnight at the house of the bishop who is now, of course, completely convinced and very sorry that he was not more receptive to Juan in the first place. By the next day, crowds are already coming to marvel at and worship before the miraculous image. Juan leads the bishop to the exact spot on Tepeyac Hill where Mary appeared and asked that the church be built.

  —Then, accompanied by an escort of honor, Mary said, Juan went back to his uncle’s house in Tolpetlac. There he was overjoyed to find that Juan Bernardino was indeed fully recovered and he too had been paid a visit by the Mother of God. I healed him and then I told him the whole story of the image on the tilma so he wouldn’t be worried about his nephew’s delay. I told him to rest and drink plenty of fluids. We had all had more than enough excitement for one day.

  Juan Bernardino tells his nephew that just before Mary left him, she said they should call her Santa María de Guadalupe. The Spanish clergy are overjoyed to hear this as it pays homage to their most revered Marian shrine established two centuries earlier in the province of Estremadura, birthplace of Cortés, the mighty conqueror of Mexico. Cortés himself is devoted to Mary. He is said to have given a gold scorpion set with rubies, emeralds, and pearls to the Spanish Guadalupe in thanks for saving him from a scorpion bite.

  —Later, Mary said, there were many questions and theories about the name. I did, after all, speak to Juan Bernardino in his native Nahuatl dialect and it does not contain the consonants d or g. I don’t suppose he had heard of the Spanish Guadalupe anyway. Maybe what I said and what he heard were two different things. It would not be the first time. Maybe I said Tlecuauht-lacupeuh, She Who Comes Flying from the Light Like an Eagle of Fire. Or maybe it was Tequantloaxopeuh, She Who Banishes Those That Ate Us. Or maybe Coalaxopeuh, She Who Crushed the Serpent’s Head. Nahuatl was a difficult language and, mangled no doubt by my awful pronunciation, any one of those words could have come out sounding like Guadalupe. Or maybe I said all these things. There is no reason to have it only one way or the other. The truth is, the name made everybody happy, Spaniards and Mexicans alike. And to this day, many Mexicans still call me Tontanzin, the name of their own ancient mother-goddess. A rose by any other name is still a rose.

  In accordance with Mary’s wishes, Bishop Zumarraga immediately orders the construction of a chapel on Tepeyac Hill. It is completed by volunteer Mexican and Spanish laborers in just thirteen days.

  On December 26, 1531, Juan Diego’s tilma is carried from Tenochtitlán to the new chapel. The huge procession is led by the bishop and Hernán Cortés and his wife. They are followed by clergymen, noblemen, judges, trumpeters, drummers, dancers, and thousands upon thousands of common folk. At one point, a throng of Mexicans, carried away by the excitement, begins to shoot volleys of arrows into the air. A spectator is accidentally struck in the neck and killed instantly. The crowd parts to allow his inert body to be placed before the sacred image. As the people pray, the dead man opens his eyes and gets to his feet. Mary has wasted no time: this is the first miracle. In the next few years, between eight and nine million Mexicans are converted to Christianity by the sheer power of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

  —Juan Diego took up residence in a hut adjoining the Tepeyac chapel, Mary said. There he spent the rest of his life tending to the sacred tilma and telling its story to an unceasing stream of pilgrims. His uncle died in 1544 at the age of eighty-four and his home in Tolpetlac became a chapel. Juan Diego died four years later on May 30, 1548. I consoled him on his deathbed and he was not afraid when God called him home. Bishop Zumarraga, recently appointed the first archbishop of the New World, died just three days later.

  As the centuries unfold, Our Lady of Guadalupe is given credit for everything good that happens to the Mexican people. She saves them from all manner of natural disasters including pestilence, flooding, and fire. She provides guidance and strength throughout the many revolutions and uprisings that characterize the country’s tumultuous history.

  —The sacred image, Mary said, was displayed unprotected for over a hundred years. Yet it was never damaged or worn, not even by the kisses, caresses, candles, and tears of millions and millions of pilgrims. Nor has the fabric, which would normally have disintegrated in about twenty years, shown any signs of decay after more than four hundred and fifty years.

  The tilma is repeatedly and intensively examined by an assortment of scientific experts, all of whom must conclude that it could not have been created by human hands. Among these experts are a group of astronomers who discover that the stars on Mary’s mantle are not merely random decoration. Rather they are an accurate duplication of the constellations as they were positioned at precisely 10:40 A.M. on December 12, 1531. Physicians, opthamologists, anatomists, and oculists study Mary’s eyes on the tilma and spot up to seventeen different people reflected in her pupils.

  The tilma has been housed in many different churches over the years and has also traveled extensively to visit the many other Mexican Madonnas: Our Lady of the Remedies, Our Lady of the Light, Our Lady of the Miracles, Our Lady of the Round, Our Lady of the Angels, Our Lady of Compassion, Our Lady of the Thunderbolt, Our Lady of Santa Anita, Our Lady of Zapopan, Our Lady of Ocotlán, Our Lady of San Juan de los Lagos, Our Lady Health of the Sick. These Madonnas travel, too, carried in processions from one city to another, from one church to the next. Dressed in all their queenly finery, they are accompanied by mariachi bands, choirs, dancers, jugglers, and military honor guards. The citizens set off fireworks and airplanes drop flowers down upon them as they proceed. In a country so full of Marys, there is always a procession going on somewhere, always one Mary on her way to visit another, with a thousand or more Mexicans following along joyfully behind, their hands full of tiny milagros to be pinned to her dress.

  Since 1976, the tilma has resided behind bulletproof glass in the New Basilica of Guadalupe in Mexico City, a seventy-million-dollar circular temple with room for ten thousand worshippers. The basilica is visited by more than twelve million people every year.

  Our Lady of Guadalupe is an inextricable part of daily life in Mexico. Her image appears in every church in the country, as well as on lottery tickets, medicine and soft drink bottles, baseball caps, taxi dashboards, calendars, lampshades, playing cards, key chains, coffee mugs, ashtrays, pillows, belts, purses, towels, tattoos, and computer mousepads.

  At the Guadalupe Web site, it is possible to pray the rosary from your computer terminal at home, school, or office. Here, little boxes stand in for rosary beads. Each mystery is illustrated by a painting of the event and each instruction is preceded by a small red rose and followed by an empty box. Mark each box with an X as you complete each step. If you do them all at once, by the time you are finished, you will have meditated on the Five Joyful Mysteries, the Five Sorrowful Mysteries, the Five Glorious Mysteries, made the Sign of the Cross three times, said the Apostles’ Creed and the Hail, Holy Queen three times each, said the Our Father and the Glory Be to the Father eighteen times each, said 159 Hail Marys, and put an X in 304 little boxes.

  As I continued my exploration of the site, I came to a page called “My Prayer to Our Lady of Guadalupe.” Here I was invited to light a candle and s
end my own prayer of petition or thanksgiving. There was a blank rectangle into which I was to type my prayer. Then I could click on the “Send the Prayer” bar and off it would go: to heaven, I presume, via Mexico and cyberspace.

  I have to admit that I was laughing—but not out loud, not exactly. I was making the face and sound that pass for laughter when I am alone: a wry smile with my mouth tightly closed, half of it pulling up, the other half pulling down, while repeatedly making short, heavy exhalations through my nose. Full-blown laughter, I have found, is seldom a solitary activity. I couldn’t help but wish that Mary was still with me: I could not quite imagine what her reaction would be.

  In the middle of this page, in large letters, was the sentence: SEE THE LIGHTED CANDLES AND PRAYERS. I couldn’t resist. I clicked on it.

  It took a long time for the page to load. First came the black background dotted with twinkling white stars. Then came the full-color image of Our Lady of Guadalupe flanked by two glowing red candles. Below this was the title: ORA PRO NOBIS. PRAY FOR US. Then came the prayers in a tiny yellow font, each with a lit candle flickering beside it on the left.

  I scrolled through them quickly. There were hundreds, maybe thousands. Each was dated, the most recent having been posted that very morning. The majority were in either English or Spanish, with a few in other languages: French, Italian, German, Swedish, Dutch. They addressed Mary in many ways: Dear Mother, Dear Lady, Dear Virgin, Madre Mia, Madre Amorosa, Madre Bendita, Madre Santísima, Madre Purísima, Madre Llena, Querida Virgencita, Reina del Cielo y de la Tierra, Hi there Mary. Some were anonymous but most were signed: with a name, both first and last, or just the first, or initials only, or with phrases like Your devoted daughter, Your loving son, Your most miserable child, Your humble servant, Your faithful servant, Your faithless servant, Your desperate friend, A believer, A sinner, A mendicant, A small soul lost in the sea of sorrow, You know who I am.

  I went back to the top of the page and began to read the prayers more carefully. I was still feeling amused in a superior and cynical sort of way, wondering about the gullibility of all these people who were obviously smart enough to use a computer and yet foolish enough to believe that this could possibly be a meaningful or reasonable way to pray.

  Most Holy Mother, please help my friend Donna who has just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

  Blessed Virgin, please comfort the family next door. Their son died yesterday. He was twenty-three. Please give them strength.

  Heavenly Queen, I thank you for the safe delivery of my baby boy last Sunday. He weighed 7 pounds, 6 1/2 ounces. I named him Alexander. Please help me to raise him up right.

  Mother of Jesus, I have lost my job again. It was not my fault. Please help me find another one so I can pay the rent and feed my children.

  Merciful Virgin, please ask Jesus to cure my high blood pressure, my sinus infection, my sore back, my swollen feet, and my insomnia.

  Oh Mary, please don’t be mad at me. Please forgive me. I promise I’ll never do it again. I know I’ve said that before, but this time I really mean it.

  Mother Most Divine, please help my daughter to get away from that boyfriend who is hitting her and spending all her money on drugs and beer.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, I sent you a prayer last week but have heard nothing yet. Please Mary, I need my prayer answered by the end of the month.

  Dear Holy Lady, please forgive me for yelling at God and for thinking that you had all abandoned me. I will try to be more patient.

  Blessed Mother, please show yourself to me. I promise I will not be afraid.

  Holy Mary, thanks a million!

  There were prayers that were lists of the names of loved ones needing to be blessed, protected, healed, returned to the fold, saved from Satan or themselves. The longest of these prayers contained 243 names. Some of these were names of the dead who needed ferrying from purgatory up to heaven. Another list included each person’s problem or affliction in parentheses after the name: Leonard (prostate cancer), Ida (gall stones), Martha (migraines), Jennifer (pregnant), Billy (broken leg), Tony (liar), Jimmy (thief), Bobby (drug addict), Angelina (single mother), Doris (depression), Janet (loneliness), Stuart (suicidal tendencies). There were less personal pleas, too, prayers for the hungry, the homeless, the victims of war, terrorist bombings, domestic abuse, and abortion. There were prayers for the pope and the American president.

  I couldn’t read the Spanish prayers in their entirety, but I could pick out a word here and there, mostly those similar to the English: salvación, compasión, protección, desesperación, prisión, cáncer. With the help of my Spanish-English dictionary, I translated others. There were, I discovered, several different words for prayer: oración, rezo, ruego, súplica, plegaria, petición. In English, the word prayer is most often used generically, encompassing all those moments when a person talks to God. In doing so we are also talking to ourselves, describing and addressing our own deepest fears and needs. But theologically speaking, I now know that there are five different categories of prayer: Adoration, Confession, Petition, Praise, and Thanksgiving. It seems quite likely that the first prayer ever uttered was a desperate cry for help, a petition. Human nature being what it is, I’m quite sure that Petition is still the most frequently practiced form of prayer. Many people, in fact, think that’s all there is to it.

  I continued studying the Spanish prayers with my dictionary in hand. Some words showed up over and over again. Ayuda, help. Peligro, danger. Tristeza, sadness. Lágrimas, tears. Malo, evil. Miedo, fear. Perdido, lost. Fe, faith.

  Even as I was reading them, I was reflecting on what a total invasion of privacy this was. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I was actually peeking into other people’s prayers. I was sickened and thrilled by my own voyeurism. It was like chasing an ambulance or gawking at a car accident while a policeman waves you past, and you are both hoping and afraid that you will catch a glimpse of blood, a dismembered arm, a mutilated teddy bear facedown on the asphalt.

  What an invasion of privacy and what a privilege. I was no longer feeling amused, superior, or cynical. I was no longer making my solitary-laughter smile and sound. I knew too much. I did not know nearly enough. I could not stop reading. I wanted to know more. I wanted to forget what I already knew. I wanted to know whose prayers were answered and whose were not. But there was no way of knowing how these stories would end.

  I went back to the page for sending prayers. Into the blank rectangle, I typed: My dearest Mary, I miss you. I sent it unsigned. Then I sat at my computer and I wept.

  Sightings

  On Thursday afternoon Mary suggested that we go for a drive. It was another warm clear day and she said she would like to see the rest of the city. I thought this was a good idea. What we had seen the day before on our way to the mall had certainly not given her a true picture of the place.

  In fact, this is a very old city, but traveling to the west had taken us to the very newest area. If we had gone beyond the mall, we would have found the suburbs, acres and acres of shiny, identical houses huddled together in an impenetrable maze of crescents and cul-de-sacs. Some streets there are still under construction. The houses are still just empty shells and the streets are filled with large yellow machines and lengths of colored pipe waiting to be set into the ground.

  I did not suppose that was what she wanted to see. So this time we set off in the opposite direction. I was happy to play tour guide, narrating as I drove, pointing out interesting buildings and explaining the history of the city as best I could.

  To the east is the downtown, a quaint conglomeration of boutiques, bookstores, banks, drugstores, coffee shops, and restaurants. Most of these businesses are housed in heritage buildings, which have been carefully restored and are now lovingly maintained. The streets are clean and attractive, decorated in the summer with flowers in concrete planters and hanging baskets, and in the winter with Christmas wreaths and colored lights. At the end of downtown is the waterfront where there is
a marina and a large park complete with fountain, benches, a hulking black steam engine, hot dog stands, an information booth, and live music in the summer. Tourism is an important part of the economy here, and we take pride in the beauty of our city.

  We circled around to the south, which is the upper-class residential district, the sizes and prices of the homes increasing steadily as the tree-lined streets slope down to the waterfront. Mary marveled at the stately old limestone mansions and I hoped she did not regret having come to stay at my house instead. Also in this district is the university, a prestigious old school with vine-covered buildings and tree-lined walkways. We drove then toward the north end, the homes becoming smaller and smaller and then being superseded by lopsided duplexes, triplexes, and fourplexes with old appliances and broken-down cars in the driveways. These in turn give way to a ramshackle housing project, a trailer park, and finally a desolate industrial area on the northernmost edge of town. Beyond that is the highway.

  We turned around in the parking lot of an auto-body shop and headed back the way we had come. At a red light between the trailer park and the housing project, we found ourselves idling beside a place that sold concrete and plaster lawn ornaments. Arranged in tidy rows were hundreds of brightly painted gnomes, elves, lambs, cows, raccoons, foxes, rabbits, swans, turtles, bears, and flamingos. There were frogs in funny costumes, burros pulling little carts, red-jacketed jockeys with and without lanterns, groups of seven dwarves with and without Snow White, and whole families of ducks, skunks, and pigs.

  Tucked away in a corner past the fountains and the birdbaths was a selection of religious statues. There were lots of angels, some sitting, some standing, some with their wings extended as if they had either just landed or were about to take flight. Some were only heads, with flowers or clouds where their shoulders should have been. There were statues of Jesus, of course, and of several saints whom I could not identify from that distance. And there was Mary.