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The Morning
Not long ago you again told me to write. The physical effort is nothing compared to the moral effort I must make to lift the veils beyond which the supernatural lies. Why? For a number of reasons.
The first is that I almost seem to be committing a profanation on making known God’s secrets in me. And I always fear that this - though not a profanation, of course - proclamation may produce a punishment for me: that of being deprived of the divine caresses and the divine words. We living beings are always a bit selfish. And we do not consider that what God grants us can give joy to others and that, as something belonging to God, the Father of all, it is not licit for us to be greedy and deprive our brothers and sisters of it.
The second reason is that a residue of human distrust of myself and others always makes me wonder whether what I perceive to be “supernatural” should not instead be regarded by me as illusion and by others as nonsense. I have heard myself called a lunatic so often that I think that - the next one may also place me in this category.
The third reason is that I am afraid of these favors. Afraid because I am always dreading that they may be a trick... Can it be that I, a mere nothing, deserve these favors from my King? And afraid that they will arouse pride in me. I feel that if I were to get proud about them, even for a second, they would cease at once - and not just this, but I would be left without even that minimum of supernatural experience which is common to many people. As a punishment for my pride. Oh, I am quite sure that Jesus would punish me in that way!
And now that I have told you the reasons why I am not fond of speaking, I will tell you the reasons why I feel I am not a dreamer taking the phantoms of delirium to be supernatural truths and demonic words to be divine words.
I am sure because of the gentleness and the peace invading me after those words and those caresses, and because of the power assailing me, forcing me to listen to them and write them down, without being able to change a single word. Along with the very gentle power by which I am forced to listen to them or write them - and always at times far removed from any desire on my part to hear those things (I beg you to believe that I do nothing to place myself in a, shall I say, “receptive state”) - I feel, according to the circumstance, a more intense power telling me, “Make this known. Don’t mention this other matter to anyone.” And one cannot waver with this gentle overbearance...
But there is nothing belonging to me. Even if I think (and I am distressed at the thought), “Jesus is silent. Oh, if only He would make Himself heard to console me a little!” - you can be sure that He continues to be silent. Only when He wants to, He lets Himself be heard; and then, even if I am occupied with something else, anything else which may be urgent for me to do, I must stop and devote myself to Him alone. As when, in keeping with my style, I prefer one way of phrasing and seek to change it - I cannot. It is stated that way and must remain that way.
This morning, too, you asked me to write about past impressions. I told you that I could not repeat those words exactly now and will thus not repeat them. There should be nothing there originating in me. But I can give you a short list of the points I have observed.
As I have repeatedly told you, on many occasions,9 I have dreamed of Jesus, Mary, and the Saints. However, whereas Jesus was always alive, Our Lady and the Saints were like statues or pictures - figurations. Twice I saw only a Franciscan brother - who was certainly a saint - as a living person. And one figure told me that, of all my maladies, the one I had there - and he touched my lungs - would kill me. I had this dream seven years ago, when there was nothing at all wrong with my lungs.
Another time the same Franciscan brother - who seemed to me to be neither St. Francis nor St. Anthony - with a face of light said to me, “You have merited more with this illness than a nun in a convent. Every year of yours is worth as much as a lifetime in a convent.” He answered me this way because I, seeing death lying in ambush for me, was fretting about having done so little... The woman who was my Superior (who died in 1925) would draw me away from death and hide me from it by saying, “Go on living for a few more years,” and I would then declare, “But what am I doing? Nothing! If only I were a nun!” And it was at that point when the brother said those words to me.
As I told you, I saw my Angel only that time. But I sometimes feel a kind of breeze blowing over my face and think it is my good angel refreshing me when I feel so low I cannot even fan myself. In the summer of 1934 this sensation lasted for months - the months I was in constant danger of death. With this out of the way, my angel - is pretending to be dead. He who protected me so well when I was a wailing suckling in the red-hot furrows of Terra di Lavoro,10 who came to my aid in the syncope of January 4, 1932, has never let himself be seen or heard openly, except for that occasion. Unless it is he who has now planted the lily and the violets,11 taking them from abundantly endowed gardens - but who knows?
On the other hand, I have seen and spoken (while dreaming) to Padre Pio of Pietralcina. I saw him, also while dreaming, in ecstasy, after Holy Mass; I have seen his penetrating gaze and observed on my hand the scar of the stigmata when he took me by the hand. And, not dreaming, but wide awake, I have smelled his fragrance. No garden bursting with flowers in full bloom can give off the celestial scents which filled my room on the night between July 25 and 26, 1941 and the afternoon of September 21, 1942, precisely when a friend of ours was speaking about me to Father (I did not know that he had left for San Giovanni Rotondo 12). On both occasions I later obtained the graces requested. The fragrance, was perceived by Marta, too.13 It was so strong that it woke her up. It then ceased as suddenly as it had come. But smelling perfume is a habitual matter. This morning as well, after my ruthless night of agony, I smelled it. Indeed, it awakened me from the sleep that had come upon me at dawn. It was 6 o’clock when it woke me up. The window was closed. I don’t keep flowers in my room at night. I don’t have perfumes. The door was closed. So no smell could penetrate from outside. It was like a column of perfume on the right-hand side of the bed. As it had come, it disappeared, leaving a sweetness in my heart. To say that it is the smell of this or that flower is to say little. All fragrances are in this perfume. The capillaries of fragrance are mixed as if the souls of all flowers created were whirling in a heavenly roundel.
And now we come to the clearest sensations, which all come from Jesus. Yes, it is He alone who reveals Himself that way.
I mentioned to you the sensation of having Jesus’ gaze in me and of looking at my fellows through his eyes. This is very hard to explain, and it occurred uninterruptedly for many years, when I still walked.
Then there have been, shall I say, invasions of love, jolts of love - tormenting in their gentleness. It was as if God were rushing into me with his will to be loved. This, too, is difficult to explain. Those persisted and still do.
Since more lively manifestations started occurring, however, I would say that I have been noticing the others less. Maybe it’s because I have become stabilized in them. When you are standing still in one place, well rooted, there are no more jolts. Don’t you think so?
Two years ago for the first time I perceived a soundless “voice” responding to my questions (questions I ask myself when meditating about one thing or another). I remember clearly. It followed upon an argument with my cousin (the spiritist).14 I had replied with a derisory, stinging letter.
Three hours later, while I was ruminating over the text, already dispatched, and commending myself on it, adducing human, and somewhat more than human, reasons and approval of my fiery letter, I perceived the “voice”: “Do not judge. You cannot know anything. There are things that I permit. There are others that I provoke. And none is without a purpose. And none is understood justly by you human beings. I alone am Judge and Savior. Consider how many of my servants were classified as possessed because they spoke, repeating words emerging from mysterious realms. Consider how many others - whose lives seemed to transpire in the most devout observance of the Law of God and of my Church - are now among those condemned by Me. Do not judge. And do not fear. I am with you. Look: have an instant of perception of my Light and you will see that the most intense human light is darkness in comparison to my Light.”
And I saw that a door seemed to be opening, a large door of bronze - heavy and high... It turned on its hinges with the sound of a harp. I did not see who was pushing it open slowly... From the crack there filtered through a light so intense, so radiant, so - there is no adjective to describe it - that filled me with heaven. The door went on opening, and from the slit, growing wider and wider, a river of rays of gold, of pearls, of topazes, of diamonds, of all jewels turned into light embraced me completely and inundated me. I understood in that Light that we must love everyone, not judge anyone, forgive everything, and live through God alone. Two years have passed, but I still see that brilliance...
And then, Holy Week in 1942. Or, rather, Passion Week. On Passion Wednesday a sentence suddenly sounded in my ear. The impression was so vivid that I can truly say “it sounded,” although I heard no sound at all. “Of those I have given you, none has perished, except the child of perdition, and this is so that you, too, may know the bitterness of not being able to save all those who are yours.”
As you see, a sentence which is half Gospel - and thus ancient - and half new. A sentence capable of causing perplexity, for Jesus has given me many - relatives, friends, teachers, fellow students, and students of my own - many for whom I have suffered, acted, and prayed. Among these many, I have had more than one who has disappointed me in my thirst for spiritual love. I could thus remain perplexed about the person described as the child of perdition. But when Jesus speaks, even if the statement is in appearance enigmatic to most people, it is joined to such a special light that the soul the sentence is spoken to understands exactly to whom Christ is referring.
I understood, then, that the “child of perdition” was one of my daughters in the Association. A person for whom I had done a great deal, bearing her right over my heart to save her, for I had grasped her nature... Apparently, last year there was nothing that would make you imagine an error on her part. But I understood. I then increased my prayers for her - and could do nothing but prevent a crime of infanticide.
On Good Friday for the first time I saw Jesus Crucified, between the two thieves, on the summit of Golgotha - a vision which lasted for months, not continuous, but quite frequent. Jesus appeared to me against a dark sky, in a leaden light, naked against the shadowy cross, a very long and rather slender body, extremely white, as if He had lost his blood, a voile of deathly pale blue over his loins, his face bent over his chest in the abandonment of death, with his hair shadowing it. The cross was always facing east. I saw the thief on his left clearly and the one on his right poorly. But they were alive - Jesus was dead. Sometimes I still see Jesus on the cross, but now He is always alone. No matter how much I reflect, I have never seen any picture similar to this.
In June, under this impression, I wrote the following poem. For years I had no longer written any, since with so much misfortune the poetic vein had dried up like a dying flower. I shall transcribe it for you, not because it is a masterpiece, but because it provides an idea of my impressions after that vision and conveys them better than my phrases in prose. Immediately afterwards I also wrote the one for the Virgin Mary, although I never see or hear Our Lady. I shall copy both of them.
You Redeemed Us, God, in Your Blood Ominous is the mountain of jagged rock. The sky grows dark over your pain As You go on swooning drop by drop On the high peak, Lord, for our sake. You remain with your crosswise arms extended, With your head beneath the crown inclined, With your gaze beclouded and your voice spent, With only your love-stirring heart alive. You look at the hatred and warfare of man Which cruelly sow hunger and killing Over all the earth on their fatal path. And man always prefers Ill To the Good who is your Son, to the Peace Who is the holy flower of a heavenly flowerbed, To the Love wherein all selfishness ceases to speak, To Faith, which alone is the life of men. And still, yes, once again up You go Onto your Calvary for us, and for us offer Yourself, The host redeeming all our woe, And on the wood You suffer, raised high towards heaven. Why, why have You risen Again onto the cross of pain? With mad greed and wrath enkindled, Man rages against himself and will not be tame Until, overwhelmed, to the wretched slime, Where You pulled him to a higher fate, He returns. And against You, Christ, He rushes with death’s blind rage. But You expiate anew, for the sake of man, Who offends You, for a shield You have made Yourself for us against the tremendous flashes Of your Father, and alone, bruised, and bare, In the final agony, upraising your eyes, You cry, “Everything is finished!” For this hour, Father, forgive! Grant them Paradise! I have redeemed them once more!” June 16, 1942 For the Blessed Virgin Hail Mary, you that are holy! Protect these devout young people, Sweet Mary, you that are overflowing With grace to the highest degree. Through the Lord who is with you and yourself with Him, Blessed among creatures, Defend them against dark tricks And days that are grim and cheerless. For the sake of merciful Jesus, your Son, whom you, while remaining a virgin, bore in your womb. Oh, turn to us your eyes of love. You are the Queen of the gloomy. Holy Mary! For us mortals pray. Without you, O Mother, our lives Too closely resemble a stray Swallow with tired Wings from too much flight, or a little boat Tossed about by the fury of waves increasing. Oh, calm the storm cloud over the angry ocean, For you are the star of the sea. During life, and at the hour when lights fade For us in the darkness of death, even more, Virgin and Mother, open to us the eternal gates And lead us to the Lord. June 17, 1942
I am happy to have made my last two-poetic bungles for Jesus and Mary. Even if the rhymes are faulty, it does not matter. Jesus gives me a good grade for them all the same because He does not look at the meter, but at the love.
And in June, one evening when I was between life and death, I also heard that daughter - “the child of perdition,” who was in Rome - calling me. A cry of boundless invocation: “Miss, Miss! Don’t you see me? Don’t you hear me? Don’t you love me any more?” I heard her distinctly. No one else heard it. A month and a half later, when she had come back home, I learned from her the true story concerning her absence: a child. And that evening, in despair she had been on the brink of killing herself - and had called me to resist the temptation. She had called me, with her soul - me, who knew nothing definite and thought she was away for work reasons and did not want to believe that “voice” on Passion Wednesday.
In addition, I have sometimes seen Jesus as a boy about seven or ten years old. Very handsome. Jesus as an adult in the fullness of his manhood. Even more handsome.
But I received the sweetest, fullest, most perceptible sensation on March 2 of this year. Don’t laugh, Father, but I got it on the morning of the death of Jamie, my poor little bird.
I was crying because - I’m a fool. I was crying because I get so fond of everything. I was crying because in my ten- year isolation as a patient I have a real desire for affections around me, even if they are the affections of little animals. And I complained to Jesus in a low voice. I said to Him, “You could have let me have him, though. You had given him to me. Why did You take him away from me? Are you jealous even of a bird?” Then I concluded, “Well then - take this pain of mine, too. I offer it to You, with all the rest, for the reason You are aware of.”
And then I felt two arms surrounding me and drawing me up against a heart, with my head on a shoulder. I perceived the warmth of flesh against my cheek, breath, and the beating of a heart within a living breast. I abandoned myself to that embrace, hearing, over my head, a voice murmuring in my hair, “But I remain for you. I am holding you over my Heart. Don’t cry, for I love you.”
And I did not weep any more. And I no longer felt pain. Observe that when a bird of mine dies, or a dog, there are tears lasting for months... That day - everything ended with Jesus’ embrace. It is sometimes repeated less intensely.
Then, on Good Friday of this year - that is, on April 23 - the first dictation from Jesus, and on May 1, the second.
Oh, now I have really said everything and come to a halt, with my shoulders so crushed that I feel as if I’ve been carrying the cross up and down on Calvary.
9 These continual references are to the Autobiography, above all, already written in response to Father Migliorini’s wish.
10 In Caserta, where she was born on March 14, 1897 and remained for the first eighteen months of her life, Maria Valtorta had been entrusted to a deplorable wet nurse who went so far as to abandon the baby in the fields.
11 In the text of May 10.
12 Site of a famous hospital founded by Padre Pio, the Italian twentieth-century stigmatic.
13 Marta Diciotti was born in Lucca in 1910 and lived alongside Maria Valtorta, caring for her with love, from 1935 until the death of the infirm writer, on October 12, 1961. She later conserved the keepsakes in the house in Viareggio.
14 Giuseppe Belfanti, cousin of the writer’s mother.