5 Child Saints Who Totally Put All of Us Adults to Shame

 by ChurchPOP Editor - Feb 9, 2015

Leon Bloy once wrote: “The only real sadness, the only real failure, the only great tragedy in life, is not to become a saint.”

Indeed, coming closer to God is the whole reason for our existence!

Yet, it can seem so hard. But Jesus has paid the price, and God’s grace is available to us gratuitously. All we have to do is cooperate.

While many of us adults are still works in progress, there are examples of young children who lived such holy lives that, even though they didn’t made it to adulthood, were such great examples of heroic virtue and love of Christ that the Church has canonized them.

Here are a few inspiring examples:

1) St. Dominic Savio – Age 14 - St. Dominic Savio died at the age of 14 in 1857. When he was canonized a saint in 1954 by Pope Pius XII, he was (and remains) the youngest person ever to have been canonized a saint by the Catholic Church without being some sort of martyr.

Born and raised in Italy, Dominic showed signs of sanctity early on. When he was just 4 years old Dominic was frequently found by his parents in solitary prayer. He learned to be an altar boy at age 5, and if he got to the church before the priest unlocked the doors in the morning, he would kneel (in the mud, snow, whatever) until the priest arrived. When he was just 7 years old, he wrote in his journal that he had four rules:

 

1) I will go to Confession often, and as frequently to Holy Communion as my confessor allows.

2) I wish to sanctify the Sundays and festivals in a special manner.

3) My friends shall be Jesus and Mary.

4) Death rather than sin.

 

He happened to attend the school of St. John Bosco, and John became a mentor for Dominic.

As a pre-teen, he experimented with severe physical penances (putting rocks in his bed, wearing a hair shirt, etc), but when his superiors found out, they forbade him from continuing them. Instead, he decided to simply perform all of his duties with as much love and humility as possible, which he summed up with the motto, “I can’t do big things but I want everything to be for the glory of God.” (Remind you of another saint?)

Unfortunately, he contracted a lung disease and died soon after. After he died, John Bosco wrote a biography of Dominic, which was instrumental in Dominic being canonized.

 

 

 2) St. Maria Goretti – Age 11 - St. Maria was the third of seven children in a poor farming family. When she was nine years old, her father died, leaving her family even more destitute. To survive, their family moved in with another family. During the day, most of Maria’s siblings along with their mother would work the fields, while Maria would watch her baby sister, manage the house, and cook meals. It was a hard life, but they were devoted Christians and were close to one another.

One day when Maria was just 11 years old, the 20-year-old son of the family whose house they were sharing, Alessandro, came home early from his work when he knew that she would be alone (except for the infant she was watching). He had asked her to have sex with him twice before and she had always refused. Wanting to rape her now, he brandished a knife and demanded that she submit to him. She refused, telling him that what he wanted to do was mortal sin, and warned him that he could go to hell for it. She fought him, screaming, “No! It is a sin! God does not want it!”

Furious, Alessandro first tried to choke her. When she continued to resist, he stabbed her 11 times. Injured badly but still alive, Maria tried to move toward the door. But he approached her again, stabbed her 3 more times, and then fled.

The baby woke up from the commotion and started crying. When Maria’s mother and Alessandro’s father came to check on the baby, they found Maria and rushed her to the hospital. She explained to her mother and the police what had happened, expressed forgiveness for Alessandro, and died soon after.

Alessandro was captured and sentenced to 30 years in prison. Though he was unrepentant for the first several years, he says that Maria visited him in a dream. Years later when he was released from prison, he apologized and sought forgiveness from Maria’s mother, and received communion the next day. He said he would pray to Maria every day, calling her “his little saint.” Amazingly, he attended Maria’s canonization in 1950 and became a lay brother of the Order of Friars Minor Capuchin.

 

 

3) St. Vitus – Age 7-13? - St. Vitus was born at the end of the 3rd century and was martyred at the beginning of the 4th century as a child. Even though he has been a very popular saint for centuries in certain parts of Europe, that’s pretty much all we know about him for sure.

According to legend, however, Vitus lived in a small town in Italy and was a Christian while he father was a pagan. His father tried to persuade him to leave the faith, but when he refused, he ordered that Vitus be tortured. He survived the torture and fled with his Christian tutors to Rome. Unfortunately, Diocletian was the emperor. Vitus was arrested and tortured again along with his tutors, but remained steadfast in the faith.

Miraculously, before their torturers killed them, they were miraculously transported back to their home town, and died there of their wounds. Three days later, Vitus appeared in a vision to a wealthy woman, who then found their bodies and buried them.

 

 

4) St. Rose of Viterbo – Age 18 - St. Rose of Viterbo died when she was 18, which means she was just on the cusp of adulthood. But her incredible life of holiness during her childhood and teen years show why she deserves to be on this list. Besides, how many of us were saints by the age of 18??

Born around 1233, even as a small child Rose wanted to pray and help the poor. More than that, early on she displayed miraculous gifts. At the age of three, she apparently appeared to bring her aunt back from the dead.

At the age of 7, she decided to live the life of a recluse, closed off from the world most of the time, engaged in prayer and penance. When she was 10, it is said that the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to her and instructed her to enter the Third Order of St. Francis and to go preach in a nearby town. She entered the order, started wearing a habit, and would walk around town holding a crucifix, exhorting people to live a Christian life faithful to the Catholic Church.

When she was 15, she attempted to found a monastery, but failed. After that, she continued to live a recluse lifestyle, only infrequently going in public, and only to exhort people to penance. Two years later, her town erupted in revolt against the pope. Because she and her family supported the pope, they were exiled. Soon after, though, they were allowed to return.

When she heard that a nearby town was being oppressed by a sorceress, she visited and won the conversion of everyone in the town – including the sorceress. Her method? She stood unharmed for 3 hours in a large fire.

At the age of 18, she died of a heart condition. Within a year, Pope Innocent IV opened the cause for her canonization, which eventually took place in 1457.

 

 

5) St. Agnes of Rome – Age 13 - St. Agnes was born to a noble Christian family in A.D. 291. She was a beautiful young girl and, combined with her noble background, had many suitors. She had intense devotion to her faith however, wished to remain a virgin for the kingdom of God, and showed little interest in the suitors. Offended, some of them reported to the Roman authorities that she was a Christian.

Refusing to renounce her faith, a Roman official ordered that she be stripped naked and dragged through the streets to a brothel. In one version of her story, her hair miraculously grew long and covered her body. At the brothel, any man who tried to rape her was immediately made blind.

Undaunted, she was eventually tried in court and sentenced to death. Soldiers tied to her to stake, but when they lit the fire, she wouldn’t burn. So a Roman officer stabbed her with his sword, finally killing her.

El misionero Christopher Hartley revela detalles de los ataques que acabaron con la vida de 15 sacerdotes y 50 fieles (in Spanish)

 You can read the source here.

You can help Fr. Christopher Hartley's mission here. 

 

             Era el 4 de agosto de este 2018… y serían más o menos las 9:30 de la mañana… Un día más, un día cualquiera en la vida de la misión. Y sin embargo, sería un día que se recordará para siempre en la misión, como el día de la infamia, en la memoria colectiva de este maltrecho pueblo etíope.

El día había amanecido soleado y abrasador – ¡como siempre! – y ya a esa hora el sol apretaba sobre el caleidoscopio variopinto de las interminables planchas de cinc, de las casuchas apelmazadas y amontonadas sin orden, de las callejuelas de Gode.

Me dirigía al pequeño aeropuerto de nuestra localidad en compañía de un buen amigo sacerdote español, que marchaba de vuelta después de haber compartido con nosotros algunos días la vida de la misión.

Mientras le veía caminar hacia el avión bimotor de Ethiopian Airlines, desde la destartalada terminal de nuestro aeropuerto, – con mucho más de chiringuito que de terminal -, me di la vuelta y de nuevo en mi camioneta, volví a la misión.

Era un día más en la vida de la misión con su entretejido de pequeñas tareas, aparentemente intrascendentes, como puñados de semillitas pequeñas de mostaza que, arrojadas tenazmente hacia el viento, con esperanza terca, nos prometía una fecunda cosecha evangélica para este sufrido pueblo somalí.

 

Estalla el horror

No llevaría yo en la misión ni cuarenta y cinco minutos, cuando sonó mi teléfono… al principio no lograba entender lo que la chica me decía entre lloros y gritos desesperados. Por fin, descifré que decía: “¡padre, nos van a matar, están apedreando a los cristianos y quemando las casas de los cristianos! ¡Venga a buscarnos, venga a buscarnos!”.

Y sin pensarlos dos veces, me fui a la ciudad a buscar a las dos mujeres, trabajadoras de nuestra “caritas diocesana”. No sabíamos lo que nos íbamos a encontrar por el camino, el peligro que correríamos, lo que nos podría pasar…

Llegamos a su pequeña oficina, nos esperaban ambas a la puerta con su petate al hombro, se subieron de un brinco, y regresamos a la misión a toda velocidad. Allí, los demás voluntarios, estaban en la capilla rezando el santo rosario, pidiendo por nuestra seguridad y por la paz.

Veíamos aterrorizados las columnas de humo que se levantaban al cielo desde diferentes puntos de la ciudad, especialmente donde se encontraba la parcela de la iglesia ortodoxa.

 

Terror en toda la región

Mientras, el teléfono no dejaba de sonar, informándonos de que estos mismos acontecimientos se sucedían en todas las otras ciudades de la región somalí de Etiopía, con especial virulencia en Jijiga, capital de nuestra región.

A media tarde me llamó el obispo, para contarme todo cuanto les había pasado a ellos en Jijiga, mientras bendecían una capilla recientemente edificado, con enorme sacrificio, por el párroco.

Cuando ya anochecía, y debido a las múltiples peticiones de ayuda que nos llegaban del director regional del hospital de Gode, decidimos cargar una buena cantidad de medicinas en las camionetas, y nos fuimos al hospital para colaborar con médicos y enfermeras, en las curas y primeros auxilios de los heridos.

Al volver a la misión, nos encontramos que muchos cristianos —católicos y ortodoxos– habían llegado por sus propios medios hasta nuestra casa pidiendo refugio.

Mientras algunos de nosotros convertíamos las aulas de nuestra escuela en dormitorios en un incesante trasiego de pupitres y escritorios que salían y camas, colchones, almohadas, sábanas que llegaban para convertir las clases en improvisados refugios para estas pobres gentes… Otros se afanaban en la cocina, preparando calderos de comida que ofrecer a nuestros inesperados huéspedes…

Entrada ya la noche, nos fuimos todos a la capilla, expuse el Santísimo Sacramento, Cristo vivo en la Eucaristía y oramos con enorme intensidad, sobrecogidos por una confluencia de emociones hondas, difícilmente traducibles a la pobre palabra humana… miedo, tristeza, fraternidad, incertidumbre, experiencia de Evangelio, angustia… Palabras mil veces escuchadas y pocas veces tomadas en serio: “nadie tiene amor más grande que el que da la vida…”. “No tengáis miedo, yo estoy con vosotros…”. “Padre, perdónalos porque no saben lo que hacen…”. “Este ha sido puesto para que muchos caigan y se levanten…”.

Leímos reposadamente – en inglés, español y amhárico – el capítulo seis de san Juan, lo comentamos entre todos mientras los refugiados compartían entre lágrimas los miedos y las angustias que habían vivido esa mañana…

 

Odio desencadenado

Mientras cenábamos nos dieron más detalles de como hordas de musulmanes, cegados por el odio y la venganza entraron en las casas de los cristianos, calle por calle, casa por casa, apaleando a hombres y mujeres, moliéndolos a golpes, apedreándoles, propinando machetazos y patadas… los mismo a hombres que mujeres, niños pequeños y ancianos, mientras arrancaban puertas y ventanas, se dedicaban al pillaje, robaban lo que podían y destruían reduciendo a un montón informe de escombros, los pobres enseres de las familias cristianas.

Miles de cristianos corrieron despavoridos. Los que no vinieron a nuestra casa, se escondieron en el perímetro de la iglesia ortodoxa; otro grupo numeroso logró llegar al destacamento militar del ejército federal.

Mientras, bandadas de musulmanes recorrían a modo de patrullas las calles, buscando más cristianos que matar o apalear; más tiendas y negocios de cristianos que destruir, robar y vandalizar…

Esa noche del 4 de agosto de 2018, Gode quedó sumido en el terror.

Jamás, en mis once años de misión por estos secarrales africanos, habían visto mis ojos nada igual… Gode, la región somalí, nunca volvería a ser lo mismo.

Al amanecer del día siguiente recorrí sobrecogido las callejuelas de la ciudad, iba sorteando vehículos calcinados, sillas rotas, televisiones destripadas, ropas hechas jirones, piedras por doquier… parecía que al barrio cristiano lo había sacudido un terremoto y en realidad así había sido, un terremoto humano, el terremoto del odio hacia los cristianos.

 

Traumatizados para siempre

Para siempre quedarán en mi memoria los gritos que por teléfono escuchaba de nuestro pobre enfermero católico, que me pedía que fuese a buscarlo. Para siempre recordaré el dilema que me atenazaba el alma, sin saber yo qué hacer… de un lado, le quería ayudar a toda costa, aún a riesgo de mi vida, por otro lado, pensaba en la responsabilidad que tenía frente a tantas personas de las que yo era responsable; pensaba qué sería de ellas si les faltase la cabeza, el pastor.

Por pura gracia de Dios, nuestro enfermero (omito todos los nombres por motivos de seguridad) consiguió saltar la tapia y ocultarse en la casa de los vecinos mientras una banda de jóvenes musulmanes tiraba abajo la puerta de su habitación a patadas, lo revolvía todo y le robaban todas sus pertenecías de valor. A la mañana siguiente logramos llegar hasta él y le trajimos con nosotros.

Nunca ha vuelto este hombre a ser la misma persona. Como tantos otros cristianos, ha quedado profundamente traumatizado por lo que sus ojos han visto, por la experiencia vivida. Ya no sonríe como antes… sencillamente no es la misma persona.

Me acerqué a la iglesia ortodoxa para interesarme por la situación de los sacerdotes y los cientos de familias que allí se habían refugiado entre el templo y la escuela. Al ir a darle un abrazo al sacerdote, en el instante que le toqué la espalda dio un salto y un grito de dolor. Quedé asombrado y me explicó que los musulmanes que habían asaltado su recinto con la intención de quemar la iglesia hasta sus cimientos, como ya habían hecho en Jijiga, Dehabur, Kebre Deher… le apedrearon y molieron a palos.

Sin pensármelo dos veces, le obligué a subirse a mi camioneta y le llevé al hospital para que le hiciesen un examen general y radiografías. Estaba tan traumatizado y aterrorizado, que no se había atrevido él a ir por su cuenta, por más que le insistieron sus feligreses. Estaba en estado de shock solo de pensar que tenía que salir a la calle y que de nuevo las bandadas de musulmanes le volviesen a atacar.

Regresamos a mi casa él y yo, le dimos de cenar, le facilitamos las medicinas que le habían recetado y una misionera le dio una sesión de fisioterapia; de allí regresamos a su casa… o lo que quedaba de ella…

Eran tantos los refugiados cristianos que se arremolinaban en torno a la iglesia ortodoxa, hambrientos, sedientos, enfermos, asustados, sin nada para pasar la noche más que los jirones de ropa que llevaban puestos que, en nombre de la Iglesia católica, pagamos la comida y el agua de los casi quinientos refugiados. Eran nuestros hermanos… “a Mí me lo hiciste…”

Durante los días en que los refugiados permanecieron con nosotros, tratamos de ayudarles a arreglar sus casas, armados de serruchos, clavos y martillos; compramos los enseres básicos para que pudiesen comenzar de nuevo su vida y les regalamos una compra de comida a cada uno, gracias sobre todo a la generosidad de Cáritas de Toledo.

 

El grito de las víctimas todavía hoy resuena

Aún me resuenan en los oídos los gritos y llantos de los niños más pequeños, que nos contaban, con su lengua de trapo, cómo los musulmanes les habían golpeado, a ellos y a sus madres, cómo las habían empujado al suelo, dado patadas –arrastraron a sus madres por el suelo tirándolas del pelo y arrancaron violentamente su ropa…–.

Incluso supimos de mujeres que habían sido salvajemente violadas.

Las noticias que nos llegaban de Jijiga eran igualmente terribles. Si bien el gobierno había cortado las comunicaciones por internet y suspendido los vuelos a la región, dejándonos aislados, los teléfonos aún funcionaban. Gracias a ello pude estar en comunicación constante con el obispo, que aún seguía atrapado en Jijiga.

En Jijiga, me contaba el obispo que habían matado a varios sacerdotes y diáconos ortodoxos, quemado las iglesias, desacralizado y profanado los lugares de culto. Nos contaban que habían sido tantos los cristianos asesinados, que las excavadoras cargaban los cadáveres en camiones y los tiraban a las afueras de la ciudad para que se los comieran las hienas…

El obispo, que había ido a Jijiga para el día, hubo de quedarse allí cinco días, hasta que por fin las tropas del ejército federal lograron penetrar el cerco de las fuerzas paramilitares somalíes, logrando abrir un corredor humanitario.

Esta crónica mía de lo sucedido es sobria y breve, os lo aseguro.

 

Lecciones de vida

Me doy cuenta de que una cosa es leer las noticias de las atrocidades que a diario cometen los musulmanes contra los cristianos, porque sencillamente nos odian, y cosa muy diferente es ser parte de la noticia, “estar dentro de la noticia”, verlo con tus ojos, sufrirlo en tu carne y en tu espíritu.

Creo que después de vivir estos sucesos, nunca se vuelve a ser la misma persona…

Y sin embargo, se aprenden muchas lecciones de vida…

He aprendido que Cristo está vivo.

Que es un honor y un privilegio del todo inmerecido sufrir y morir por amor a Jesucristo.

Que la vida se pasa en un vuelo, como esa mañana de ese 4 de agosto, donde a las 10 de la mañana todo es paz y tranquilidad y a las 11, morían tantos cristianos por el simple delito de “ser de Cristo”, de ser la Iglesia.

He aprendido la importancia de estar preparado, de vivir siempre en la gracia del Señor, de tener la lámpara encendida; que a la hora que uno menos lo espera “llega el Esposo”.

He aprendido que la vida pasa en un vuelo: “una mala noche en una mala posada” decía la gran Santa Teresa de Jesús y que de nada sirve decir tantas veces como decimos en la liturgia divina: “¡Maran athá, Maran atha, Maran atha…!” Si en el fondo no esperamos al Señor con el hatillo al hombro y “la cintura ceñida…”.

He aprendido que para nadie es el martirio una posibilidad tan real como para los misioneros. Esos extraños hombres y mujeres, de corazón inquieto y desasosegados, perdidos en las periferias y trincheras del primer anuncio evangélico.

He aprendido la importancia fontal que para un sacerdote misionero tiene el vínculo con su obispo. Al día siguiente del ataque, logré hablar con España con mi obispo, el arzobispo de Toledo, Don Braulio Rodríguez Plaza. Hasta ese momento estaba yo atenazado por la angustia, por la emoción de todo lo vivido, estaba lleno de dudas, sin saber qué hacer… hablé mucho rato con él… no sé bien cómo explicarlo, me dio mucha paz la serenidad de sus palabras y la sabiduría de sus consejos. Sentí que no estaba solo, que estaba entroncado por él con los apóstoles, con la Iglesia… ¡injertado en Cristo! Que yo no estaba ni solo, ni peleando batallas por mi cuenta. Me sentí “reenviado” por Cristo y por la Iglesia. Desde ese momento algo cambió en mi corazón y en mi disposición pastoral y misionera.

He aprendido tanto del heroísmo del obispo de nuestro vicariato, monseñor Angelo Pagano, O.F.M. Cap. Fue él quien nos inspiró a todos durante esos días. No sobre todo con discursos elocuentes o de simple “sabiduría humana”, sino por animarnos con su ejemplo a abrazarnos a la cruz, por su disposición a no abandonar su grey pasara lo que le pasara y aún a riesgo de perder su vida. Es una gracia inmensa para mí colaborar con tan buen pastor y padre.

Rezad por nosotros ¡No nos abandonéis! Orad por nosotros, ayudadnos con los donativos que podáis a que sigamos ayudando donde el Cuerpo de Cristo vuelve a ser crucificado en la carne de los cristianos.

Nada más, mis queridos amigos; a todos os damos las gracias en nombre de tanta gente pobre que no pueden hacerlo por sí mismos. Le pido a la Santísima Virgen María, Madre de la Iglesia, Madre de los misioneros y Madre de los pobres, que a todos nos cubra con su manto bendito.

Ante el Sagrario de la misión oramos cada día por todos vosotros.

 

Padre Christopher Hartley

An appeal from Fr. Christopher Hartley wrote in 2017.

 You can check the source of this text here.

You can help Fr. Christopher Hartley's mission here. 

 

Lent 2017

 

Dear Friends of the Mission,

For the last year and a half, not a drop of rain has fallen in Gode and the Somali region of Ethiopia.

Here everything is dying.

It is dramatic to see people arrive at the rickety hospital of Gode, by any means of transport, including carts driven by donkeys, carrying squalid and dying patients.

People arrive with their last breath and sometimes they die within in a few minutes, in the hands of helpless doctors, because of the magnitude of the tragedy.

It is so sad and heartbreaking to see the fields devastated by the drought. Here nothing grows, neither corn, nor soybeans, no cereals, here everything is swept away by gusts of wind in giant clouds of dust that soil and clothe it in coats of gray.

Every morning when I leave the house, before dawn, to celebrate the Holy Eucharist, I see the dead cattle on the roadside … cows, goats, sheep … The stench is dreadful and the spectacle so terribly sad.

At this time, all that Gode breathes is death and desolation.

For a few months now, we have had a young English doctor working with us. He spends mornings and afternoons at the public hospital. Thanks to him we are receiving firsthand information on the magnitude of the drama that these people are experiencing.

Thursday, March 2, he warned us that an unusual number of patients were dying (in fact, the first six of them died in the Gode hospital that afternoon), brought from the Afder area, whose capital is Hargele.

We soon learned that the problem was that, because of the desperation to bring water in trucks to the most remote villages, some NGOs had taken water from a dam near the city of Hargele, which was completely polluted and infected.

This particular NGO was the Islamic Relief Service.

That same night I loaded the off-road vehicle of the mission with all the medicines that we had at that moment at our disposal and at 5:00 am last Friday I went to Hargele. It was 230 kilometers (143 miles) of terrible road. Before 10 in the morning, I was already in the hospital of the city. I met the medical director and gave him the medicine. It was very sad to hear this man, Abdisalem Mohamed, tell of the tragedy of all those hundreds of people who came every day infected with terminal typhus.

Delivery of medicines to the hospital director. In the red bag, down to the right, there are medicines brought in my suitcase.

He accompanied us to visit some of the patients. Above all, seeing the children was heartbreaking. The anguish of the parents who had already seen their children die by the cursed polluted water of the NGO. The director begged us, almost on his knees, to try to send more medicines and food for the patients.

In these days when the whole Church, as a faithful bride of Jesus Christ, accompanies his way of the cross through the countless painful paths of this world, it is not difficult to recognize the face of the Passion of Christ in the small macerated bodies of these children.

By mid-morning, I decided that it was imperative to look for the villages from where the sick people arrived, to really understand the problem. What no one had told me was that there was no real roadway to get to those settlements. So, with the 4×4 ready and gritting our teeth, we trudged those 40 endless and unforgettable kilometers (25 miles).

We finally arrived drowned in dust from head to toe and scorched with heat. The people immediately swirled around us to tell us about their tragedy. We went to the polluted well and saw the putrid water that had caused so much death and desolation.

This is the new pool where they receive uncontaminated water. It seems a sad irony to call this clean water. Please note the woman down to the left. She is collecting water with a cup and a plate from the mud, where goats and sheep also urinate…

The men of the town told us details of the tragedy and asked for urgent help: drinking water, food and medicines. I promised to help them in what was within the reach of the Church.

On the way, we saw many animals that had died of thirst and starvation. People said to us: “Abba (Father), when the camels are dying of thirst is when we do not have much life left.”

I asked to visit the sick who were too seriously ill to be taken to Hargele Hospital. They showed me a cabin in which several sick people lay on the ground.

There were two very young boys in ragged white nurse robes. I asked them about the symptoms. “Do they have a fever?” I asked. One bowed his head in embarrassment and said, “We do not know because we do not have a thermometer.”

I gave them the few medicines we still had and some clean water. We had to return to Gode and we had more than five hours of road. You feel so powerless, so disturbed inside when you see these scenes … You simply ask “Why?” Why these people, why do millions of people live like this? Why while this woman does not even have a thermometer, other women spend a fortune on an absurd cosmetic surgery?

We live in a crazy world. Definitely.

As we made our way back from the villages to Hargele, out of nowhere, from behind the bushes, came children running behind our vehicle,  screaming at us with despair written on their faces, “biyo, biyo, biyo” (water in Somali).

We distributed more than 15 bottles of water, through the window of the vehicle, to shepherd children.

We distributed more than fifteen bottles of water like this one, through the window of the vehicle, to shepherd children.

We still had a five-hour drive back to Gode. I thought of all the water I had seen in my life: rivers, swimming pools (my house, for example…), ponds, beautiful fountains of so many cities, lakes … As much water as I had seen … water that no one will ever drink, water for the fun it, even water parks! Water for the aesthetic adornment of a square … And seeing desperate children, running after my car begging a liter of water … It seemed all so grotesque and absurd …

What a world we live in!!

And everywhere, dead animals, in a state of putrefaction, under a merciless sun of more than 45 °C (113 °F). Fertile ground for the spread of anthrax and many other contagious diseases, so dangerous for the survival of these poor people.

Before a spectacle like this, one does not know, what to think, or what to say, or what to do …

My head was spinning, while I was thinking of solutions, of the help that could befall them.

The medicines that we still need are: Ceftriaxone IV, gentamicin IV, ringer lactate, DNS, normal saline, 40% glucose, oral amoxicillin, ciprofloxacin, levofloxacin, norfloxacin, co-trimoxazole, ibuprofen syrup, paracetamol syrup, amoxicillin syrup.

If we had the resources, we could transport them to the Hargele hospital from Gode, as most of these drugs are accessible here. We would need funds to pay for the fuel for our vehicles coming and going to emergency areas and, finally, funds to buy basic food.

On the way back, I thought, with profound emotion, amidst the horror I had seen that day, that it was the first time these people had seen the face of charity, by the presence of a Catholic priest.

It was the first time in history that the Catholic Church had reached the Somali area of ​​the Afder. And I thanked God that, as St. Paul says: “He trusted me and entrusted this ministry to me.”

And it came to mind the words I had just meditated on in previous days of our Holy Father Pope Francis in his message of this Lent:

 

[…] Lazarus teaches us that other persons are a gift. A right relationship with people consists in gratefully recognizing their value. Even the poor person at the door of the rich is not a nuisance, but a summons to conversion and to change. The parable first invites us to open the doors of our heart to others because each person is a gift, whether it be our neighbor or an anonymous pauper. Lent is a favorable season for opening the doors to all those in need and recognizing in them the face of Christ. Each of us meets people like this every day. Each life that we encounter is a gift deserving acceptance, respect and love. The word of God helps us to open our eyes to welcome and love life, especially when it is weak and vulnerable. But in order to do this, we have to take seriously what the Gospel tells us about the rich man.[…].

 

I returned home dead tired and broken with grief from what my eyes had seen. From the very moment I arrived at the mission again, I have not stopped turning around what can and should be done as the Church of Jesus Christ that we are. Witnesses of the merciful love of God, who is Father and loves each one of these people. These people may be non-existent people, irrelevant to the world. Perhaps their tragedy is at best a mere statistic. Not for God, not for the Church.

They are people whose faces come out of anonymity in the encounter with a missionary Church, always ready to go further, where no one has reached. The Church is the only one who can see in all this tragedy that every life, every face, is an icon and transparency of the crucified Lord.

I beg you for the love of God to please do everything in your power to help us. Any help, however small or seemingly insignificant, may help save a life.

I am the voice of those who have no voice, or have only a drowned groan, like a lump in the throat, a shrill groan, where they not only have no water, but have no more tears to cry.

The stench was unbearable. It was horrible to see village after village, by whose banks the cattle died of thirst and starvation. This makes for dangerous infections for these people whose immune systems are weak.

The Church, like Our Holy Mother Mary, always walks with her Son, who in the painful via crucis of the life of these dusty paths, falls and rises again and again. Sometimes she has things to give, other times empty hands (I well know it!). But hands empty or full, the Church will always walk in each missionary, adhered as a mother and bride, to the crucified body of her Son in each one of the brethren.

Every day in every Holy Mass I offer in the paten and chalice, the death and the life of these poor people. In that same offering, I offer each one of you, who with your charity, clothe the naked with us, give drink to the thirsty with us and feed the hungry with us.

For God’s sake, help us as much as you can!

Before the Tabernacle of the mission we pray for all of you and with Our Lady, Queen of the Missions, we ask that she hide us under her blessed mantle.

We wish for all of you a Lent in which our hearts be torn, so that we may bear fruits of conversion, sharing with the poor so much that we can all spare.

 

With my blessing to all,

 

Fr. Christopher

Like Toys in the Hands of the Child Jesus

 On the feast of the Epiphany, the Three Wise Men visit the Child Jesus bearing gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And what shall we offer the divine Infant? Perhaps... a toy — since children are so fond of them?

Christo Nihil Præponere Team — January 6, 2023

Ypu can read the original source (in Portuguese) here. 

 

On the solemnity of the Epiphany, the Three Magi who come to adore the Christ Child bring Him gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh — offerings which, as Pope Benedict XVI once observed, are somewhat unusual for a child. But this child was no ordinary one: He was God made flesh (hence the frankincense), destined to reign from the wood of the Cross (hence the gold), and to die for all mankind (hence the myrrh).

Despite the peculiar nature of these gifts from the East, what remains is their gratuitous character. “The people of Tyre will seek your favor with gifts, the richest of the people with all kinds of wealth,” says Psalm 45 (v. 12). Our baby showers express the same sentiment: we delight in giving gifts to children. And there is no better way to celebrate this Epiphany than by offering our own gift to the Child born in Bethlehem.

And why not toys, if children delight in them?

Our readers might find the suggestion humorous, but it was the Child Jesus Himself who made it to Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque on the day she was admitted into religious life, November 6, 1672. She recounts the moment in her Autobiography:

 

On the day I received the long-desired grace of admission, my divine Master wished to accept me as His spouse — but in a way I cannot express. I can only say that He presented Himself to me and treated me as a bride of Tabor, which was more painful to me than death, for I saw myself so unlike my Spouse, whom I saw before me all disfigured and torn on Calvary. But He said to me: “Let Me do all things in due time. I want you to be a plaything in the hands of My love, which desires to amuse itself with you as children do with their toys, as it pleases them. You must surrender yourself without resistance or hesitation, and allow Me to take My delight at your expense. But you shall lose nothing.” He promised never to leave me, saying: “Always be ready and eager to receive Me, for I desire to make of you My dwelling place, to converse and delight Myself with you.” [i]

 

Notice, however, that the gift Jesus desired was herself — with the level of surrender that a toy gives. Jesus compares Himself to a child, longing to play with us as one might with dolls, toy cars, or building blocks. And the remarkable thing is that, during the Epiphany (and indeed, throughout the Christmas season), we contemplate God not as a child merely by analogy, but as a real child — wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger, cradled in Mary’s arms. The eternal Son of God did not compare Himself to a child — He became one.

Just consider how the story of our own lives unfolds to see how apt this analogy is. At times, certain events — whether joyful or painful, but especially the painful ones: losses, accidents, tragedies, financial hardships — leave us with the impression (especially if we are believers) that we are indeed at the mercy of a child’s whims, someone in heaven who “arranges and rearranges” things down here as He pleases; who plays with one of us for a while, enjoys Himself a bit, then suddenly shakes us roughly, tosses us into a corner, and forgets all about us... (A bit like young Andy in Toy Story, who gradually grows tired of some toys as he gets new ones.)

Yet what may seem like the erratic behavior of a whimsical God is in fact the supremely wise and perfectly ordered plan of His Providence. We are not in the hands of a tyrant, but of a loving Lord who even makes use of our sins — and of what we consider great “misfortunes” — to pour out His grace and fulfill His will in us.

In the Italian literary classic I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed) by Alessandro Manzoni, the main thread running through the story is precisely Divine Providence. Neither Renzo nor Lucia, neither the heroic Father Cristoforo nor the cowardly Don Abbondio, are the true protagonists of the novel: the lead role is played by the Creator Himself, guiding His creatures through paths and “detours” of His own design. For the characters, things often make little sense (indeed, they frequently make no sense at all), but in the end, everything fits together. As the narrator explains:

 

After much discussion and reflection, [Renzo and Lucia] concluded that many troubles arise because people invite them, but that the most cautious and innocent conduct is not enough to keep them away, and that when they come — with or without fault — trust in God softens them and makes them useful for a better life. This conclusion, though reached by humble folk, seemed so wise to us that we decided to include it here as the meaning of the entire story. [ii]

 

For instance: had Don Abbondio not cowardly refused to marry Renzo and Lucia, the fearsome Unnamable would not have converted — a cruel and mysterious man who repents of his sins, confesses to Cardinal Federico Borromeo, and changes his life in one of the most beautiful passages in the entire novel. Literary critic Otto Maria Carpeaux writes of the work:

 

It is one of the most complete worlds ever created by a poet: held in perfect balance by the hand of God. Manzoni, a Catholic of firm faith, believed in Divine Providence; and thus, one never doubts the happy outcome of the tragedy, and this faith transforms the novel into a symbol of heavenly harmony [...]. In The Betrothed, all the infernal sufferings of humanity are present: tyranny, violence, passion, injustice, plague, and even the most terrible enemy of mankind — cowardly foolishness — embodied in Don Abbondio, a creation worthy of Cervantes. But these horrors are softened by the historical perspective, and even the trivialities of the common folk are transfigured by ironic, indulgent humor. In a cosmic way, Divine Providence and human action are intertwined [...]. It is the greatest historical novel ever written. [iii]

 

As we’ve said, this perfectly ordered and harmonious universe is not merely a literary creation of Manzoni. If we look at our personal experience, this is exactly how things unfold in real life. Isn’t our very existence the result of countless chance events and seeming accidents? How many of us were brought into the world by the sole desire of God — “disrupting” the plans of many? How many of us are the outcome of others’ grave sins — just like Christ, whose genealogy includes King David’s adultery and the prostitute Rahab (cf. Mt 1:5–6)? And on a supernatural level, how many encounters and “missed encounters” were necessary for us to convert and begin living in a state of grace?

In this sense, Jesus’ request to Saint Margaret (and to each of us) is nothing other than a call to collaborate personally in this beautiful divine work within us. A few pages before this revelation, the saint’s spiritual mistress had said to her: “Go place yourself in the presence of Our Lord as a canvas before the painter.” [iv] Another beautiful image for meditation: God as the artist; we, the blank canvas! And shortly after, speaking of obedience to her superiors, Christ told her:

I am pleased that you preferred the will of your superiors to My own, especially when they forbade you to do what I had told you. Let them do with you what they will: I shall find a way to fulfill My plans, even if I use seemingly contradictory and opposing paths. [v]

Let us not be afraid, then, to surrender ourselves to the divine Infant, like “toys” in His hands — truly, this is a fitting “program” not only for this Epiphany, but for the whole of our lives.

 

References:

i. Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, Autobiography. Translated by Lucas Ferreira. Dois Irmãos: Minha Biblioteca Católica, 2022, pp. 73–74.

ii. Alessandro Manzoni, The Betrothed. Translated by Francisco Degani. São Paulo: Nova Alexandria, 2012, p. 669.

iii. Otto Maria Carpeaux, History of Western Literature, 3rd ed., Brasília: Senado Federal, 2008, p. 1486.

iv. Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque, op. cit., p. 66.

v. Ibid., p. 72.