text by by João Silveira.
You can read the original text (in Portuguese) herre.
Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows, whom Leo XIII
called the “Saint Aloysius Gonzaga of our days,” was born in Assisi (Italy) on
March 1, 1838, the son of Sante Possenti of Terni and Agnes Frisciotti. On the
very day he came into the world, he received the grace of Baptism in the same
font where the great Patriarch St. Francis had been baptized, in the church of
San Rufino.
His father, already at the age of twenty-two, was
Governor of the city of Urbania, a position he subsequently held in San
Ginesio, Corinaldo, Cingoli, and Assisi. As one of the magistrates of the Papal
States, he enjoyed great esteem from Pope Pius IX, and Leo XIII honored him
with sincere friendship. His mother belonged to a noble family from Civitanova
d’Ancona. These two spouses were models of Christian marriage, living in holy
fear of God, united by a bond of respect and most faithful love, which only
death could dissolve. God blessed this holy union with thirteen children, of
whom Gabriel was the eleventh. At Baptism, he received the name Francis, in
honor of his grandfather and of the Seraphic Saint of Assisi.
Bearing witness to the education they received in
the family, in the process of beatification of the Servant of God, his brothers
declared: “We were educated with the greatest care regarding piety and
instruction. Our mother was very devout and raised us according to the
principles of our holy Religion.”
In the arms, upon the knees of a deeply religious
mother, little Francis learned the rudiments of Christian life and to pronounce
the holy names of Jesus and Mary.
The great happiness that reigned in his childhood
suffered a severe blow when, unexpectedly, the Angel of Death visited that home
and took their mother. Mrs. Inês, sensing her end was near, in fulfillment of
her duty as a Christian mother, gathered all her children at her bedside,
embraced them one by one, sealed their foreheads with a final kiss, gave them
her blessing—showing special affection for the youngest, among them
Francis—and, fortified with all the Sacraments and comforted by God’s grace,
died at the age of 38, leaving this world to receive in eternity, near God, the
reward of her rare virtues.
Regarding his father, Francis himself gave the
following testimony to his spiritual director:
“My father,”
he declared, “used to rise very early. He devoted an hour to prayer and
meditation; if someone wished to speak with him during this time, they had to
wait until his religious exercises were finished. Afterward, he would go to
church to attend Holy Mass and would usually take with him those children who
were not prevented. After Mass, he would begin his work. In the evening, he
gathered his children and gave them wise advice and useful exhortations. He
spoke to them about their duties toward God, the respect due to paternal
authority, and the danger of bad company.” “Bad companions,” he would say, “are
the assassins of youth, the agents of Lucifer, hidden traitors, and therefore
must be feared and avoided.”
The biographers of Francis emphasize, above all,
the extraordinary kindness of the boy’s heart, especially toward the poor. Many
times he went without his snack because he had given it to the poor. Among his
siblings, he was the angel of peace, always ready to excuse and defend them
when they were unjustly accused. He could not tolerate injustice, whether
directed at himself or at one of his own. He easily gave away objects of some
value that had been given to him. Thus, he once gave one of his brothers a
beautiful silver chain he had received from a relative.
These good traits in Francis’s character do not
hide certain shadows that also remained in him. Those who knew him as gentle,
kind, and compassionate also knew him to be nervous, impatient, and irascible.
Fortunately for him, his father Sante was not
among those who excuse the whims of their children under the pretext that “they
are just children,” without realizing that later they will have to pay dearly
for such indulgence. True Christian love led him to firmly combat all defects.
Francis was obedient and had great respect for his father, although this did
not prevent him, when severely reprimanded, from giving way to his impulsive
temperament with words and gestures of displeasure and anger. But all this was
fleeting. Soon he returned to calm; his good nature did not allow these
outbursts to last long. It was moving to see the boy shortly afterward in
tears, seeking his father and, in his innocent and childish manner, asking for
forgiveness and assurance of his father’s love. Sante, pretending not to be convinced
by these displays, would respond harshly: “No affection; I want deeds.” Then
the boy would throw himself into his father’s arms, kiss him, and feel happy to
have returned to peace through paternal forgiveness. In this school of wise
pedagogy, Francis early learned to fight and overcome his faults.
For some time, Francis was entrusted to a teacher;
later he attended the college of the Christian Brothers, where he made rapid
progress, always ranking among the best students. At the age of seven he made his
first confession. A year later, in June 1846, he received the sacrament of
Confirmation. All this shows that the boy was already well instructed in the
truths of the Faith, thanks to the solid teaching of the meritorious Brothers.
At that same time, the date of his First Communion
arrived, for which he prepared with great care. An eyewitness of that grand
event said:
“The fervor
with which I saw him approach the Holy Table, the spirit of faith that shone on
his face, and the strength of his affection were such that one could believe he
was being carried by a Seraph.”
These sentiments of faith and piety, those flames
of love for the Blessed Sacrament, never left Francis’s heart in his youth,
even amid a somewhat worldly life. It is no less certain that frequent Holy
Communion preserved him from grave deviations amid worldly temptations.
After completing his elementary studies, his
father sought a higher education for Francis, in accordance with his social
position, and entrusted him to the Jesuit Fathers who ran a college in the city
of Spoleto. In this school, Francis spent his entire youth and completed four
semesters of philosophy studies. An intelligent and diligent student, he left a
good memory at that college, and great hopes were placed in him. He never went
a year without winning a prize, and at the end of his studies he was awarded a
gold medal. Teachers and classmates also esteemed him.
Everything about him was charming: his delicate
and gentle manners, modest speech, the kind smile that played on his lips, the
grace with which he carried himself in solemn circumstances, and the noble
sentiments that guided his conduct. He always showed the greatest esteem and
gratitude toward his teachers. He was a strict observer of religious practices
and regularly received the Sacraments. It is true that, given the occasion, his
impetuous temperament led him to outbursts of anger and vehemence. But these
excesses were always followed by tears of repentance and penance.
From childhood, he showed particular devotion to
Our Lady of Sorrows, whose image was kept in his family; it was his duty to
adorn it with flowers and keep a lamp burning before it. One of his brothers
testified that Francis once wore a leather cilice with iron points during his
last year at home. Another testimony from the Parenzi family states: “His
religious and moral conduct was irreproachable; given the strict supervision of
our parents, he would not have been admitted into our family if he had not been
truly virtuous.”
To complete the image of the young student, and to
better understand the change that would later occur in him, we must consider
the solemn prize distribution ceremony of September 1856, his last at the
Jesuit college in Spoleto. Francis stood among the best students chosen to
enhance the ceremony with speeches and poetic declamations. No one equaled him
in elegance, grace of performance, charm of recitation, expressive gestures, or
voice. On stage, he seemed in his element and performed with perfect ease.
His appearance was impeccable: dressed according
to the latest fashion, carefully styled hair, elegant attire, white gloves,
silk tie, polished shoes—all of this he valued greatly. On one occasion, he
recited with such enthusiasm that the Apostolic Delegate, Monsignor Guadalupe,
said to his father: “If your son were here, I would embrace him on your
behalf.”
However, the rare moral qualities that adorned
him, his attractive youth, and his vivacity were tinged with a slight shadow of
vanity. This showed itself in his concern for dress, perfume, hairstyle,
dislike of the smallest stain on his clothes, and his fondness for worldly
amusements.
The enemy of souls took advantage of these
weaknesses. If he did not succeed in robbing him of innocence, it was not for
lack of attempts. His passion for theater, his mania for dances, and his love
of novels were all dangers that make it remarkable he did not fall completely.
So strong was his passion for dancing that he was nicknamed “the dancer.”
Francis was aware of the danger he was in, and
many reminded him of the need for prayer, vigilance, mortification, devotion to
Jesus and Mary, and eternity. A letter from Father Fedeschini, S.J., contained
all these warnings.
Despite his youthful faults, Francis remained a
good and pious young man, to whom wise and virtuous men could write with
confidence and esteem.
“Many times,”
says one who knew him well, “Possenti felt the call of God to leave worldly
life and embrace religious life.”
His director, Fr. Norberto, a Passionist,
declares:
“The
vocation, although neglected and suffocated, had been in him for a long time,
and he felt it from his earliest years. The servant of God often told me this,
lamenting his ingratitude and indifference.”
The same priest relates:
“His
vocation manifested itself as follows: I do not know in which year it was, but
he was struck by an illness that made him think of death. He then had the
inspiration to promise God that he would enter a religious Order if he
recovered his health. The promise was accepted, for he improved quickly and in
a short time was restored. But the promise remained as if it had never been
made. The young man returned to his affection for the world and gave himself
over to dissipation as before.
It was not
long before God sent him another illness, an internal and external inflammation
of the throat, so severe that death seemed imminent already on the first night,
making breathing extremely difficult. Once again the sick young man turned to
God and, invoking Saint Andrew Bobola, applied an image of the same saint to
the painful area and renewed his promise to embrace the religious state.
Improvement came almost instantly, and he spent a peaceful night; the attacks
of breathlessness never returned. The young man always remembered this
extraordinary favor with great gratitude. He also kept for some time the
intention of becoming a religious, but delaying its execution, his love for the
world returned, and he continued to live in the world.”
Among Francis’s passions, one of the strongest was
hunting. To this passion he paid a heavy price, and his spiritual director did
not hesitate to attribute to this sport the cruel illness that cut him down in
the flower of his youth. On one occasion, while jumping over a fence, he fell
so badly that he broke a bone in his nose. The gun discharged, and the
projectile passed very close to his forehead, narrowly missing his skull.
Francis, immediately recognizing the providence of this warning, renewed his
promise. He was left with scars, but remained in the world.
Divine grace, however, was not defeated. Rejected
three times, it attempted a fourth blow, even more painful. Of all his family,
Francis had a very tender affection for his sister Maria Luisa, nine years
older than him, and this affection was fully reciprocated. In 1855, cholera
broke out in Spoleto, and Maria Luisa was the first victim of the terrible
epidemic. It was on Corpus Christi day, and the news reached Francis while he
was carrying the cross in the procession. His sister’s death deeply wounded the
young man’s heart and plunged his soul into darkness he had never before
experienced. He lost all taste for life and fell into inconsolable sadness. It
seemed that with this blow divine grace had removed the last obstacle to the
fulfillment of his promise.
Yet this was not yet the case. Deeply saddened,
Francis expressed to his father his decision to enter the convent, even saying
that for him everything in this life was over. Sante Possenti, fearing the loss
of his beloved son, did not receive the news well and asked him never again to
speak of it. He advised him to distract himself, to drive away sad thoughts, to
seek company, attend the theatre; he even suggested he consider forming a
friendship with a distinguished young lady from a similarly respectable family,
hoping that innocent social interactions might make him forget his religious
intentions.
In the metropolitan church of Spoleto, a
particularly venerated image of Our Lady was honored; this image was simply
called “the Icon.” During the octave of August 15, this image was carried in
solemn procession inside the church, and everyone knelt as it passed. In 1856,
Francis Possenti was among the faithful, and, filled with love for the Blessed
Virgin Mary, his eyes remained fixed on the revered image as if expecting a
special blessing. When the “Icon” approached him, it seemed to cast upon him a
special gaze, as if saying: “Francis, the world is not for you; the life of the
convent awaits you.” These words, like a burning arrow, pierced his heart; he
left the church in tears. He was now resolved to carry out the plan he had long
considered. However, he decided not to reveal his intention for the time being.
Although certain of his vocation, but distrustful
of his own weakness and not wanting to be deceived by illusion, he sought his
teacher at the lyceum and spiritual director, Fr. Bompiani, a Jesuit, and
confided everything to him, making his final decision depend on his advice.
The examination was carried out with complete
sincerity, and after considering all the factors of his past life, Fr. Bompiani
did not hesitate to affirm that it was a true vocation and encouraged him to
follow it. Consultations with two other priests of his full confidence reached
the same conclusion. Francis then decided to request admission to the
Congregation of the Passionists.
Communicating his decision to his father was not
easy. But this time Mr. Sante, a conscientious man, seeing his son’s distress
and firmness, no longer opposed him; however, he was shocked to learn that the
Congregation chosen by Francis—the Passionists—was the most austere of all.
Although he did not oppose his son’s will, he sought to delay the execution of
the plan and impose conditions.
Francis, however, remained firm. He took part one
last time in the prize-giving ceremony at the Jesuit college, once again
performed brilliantly on stage, said farewell to his teachers and friends, and,
accompanied by his brother Louis of the Dominican Order, visited his uncle
Cesare, canon of the Basilica of Loreto, and a relative of his father, Fr. John
Baptist of Civitanova, guardian of a Capuchin convent, carrying letters from
Sante Possenti asking them to examine his son’s vocation. Both the canon and
the Capuchin strongly emphasized the austerity of the Passionist life, which,
they said, would not suit a young man of eighteen accustomed to following his
own will without restriction.
During his visit to the Holy House in Loreto,
Francis took the opportunity to entrust himself to Our Lady. He did not turn
back from his chosen path. From Loreto he went to the Passionist convent of
Morrovalle, where on September 21, 1856, he received the religious habit with
the name Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows. Admitted to the novitiate, he wrote to
his father and brothers informing them of the fact. To his father he asked
forgiveness; to his brothers he recommended filial love and good conduct. The
letter, though simple, is a remarkable document of filial and Catholic
sentiment. He also wrote to his school companions, asking forgiveness for any
bad example he thought he had given them, and urging them to avoid bad company,
theatre, bad books, and useless conversations.
Fully convinced of his religious vocation, far
from the world, society, and family, he had no other ideal than to ascend to
the heights of perfection.
His personality remained unmistakable among his
fellow novices. Without losing the characteristic traits of his
nature—joyfulness, cheerfulness, and kindness—he excelled not only in the exact
observance of the rules, but also in the practice of Christian and monastic
virtues. If we examine the deep causes of this radical change in Gabriel’s
life, we find two: his ardent love for Jesus Crucified and the Holy Eucharist,
and his singular devotion to the Mother of God (especially Our Lady of
Sorrows), as well as his constant mortification, by which he subdued his
disordered inclinations one by one.
After the year of probation, Gabriel was admitted
to profession and sent to various houses of the Congregation to complete his
theological studies. During the years of preparation for the priesthood,
superiors and companions saw in him the most perfect model of all virtues and
an exact observer of all his duties.
At the age of twenty-three, the first symptoms of
the illness that would take him to the grave within a year appeared: pulmonary
tuberculosis. During his long sickness, Gabriel took the opportunity to deepen
even further his devotion to the Passion and Death of Jesus Christ and to Mary,
Mother of Sorrows.
In February 1862, he was still able to walk and
receive Holy Communion in church with his companions. Suddenly, his condition
worsened; he was told to receive the Last Sacraments. The news frightened him
only for a moment; he immediately regained his usual calm, which soon turned
into an extraordinary joy. The manner in which he received Holy Viaticum moved
and edified all present. He never let go of the image of the Crucified, which
he kissed repeatedly, and he kept close to him a statue of Our Lady of Sorrows,
which he often pressed to his chest, uttering affectionate prayers such as:
“My Mother, hurry!”
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, may I die in peace in your
company!”
“Mary, Mother of grace, Mother of mercy, protect
us from the enemy, and receive us at the hour of death.”
A few moments before his passing, the dying man,
who seemed to be asleep, suddenly smiled, turned his head to the left, and
fixed his gaze on a point. As if moved by a profound emotion at a vision, he
gave a deep sigh of love, and in that attitude—still smiling, holding the
Crucifix and the Mater Dolorosa in his hands—passed from this life to the next.
Thus the holy young man died at the age of
twenty-four, on the morning of February 27, 1862. He was buried in the church
of the Congregation in Isola del Gran Sasso. Thirty years later, his body was
exhumed. On that occasion, through the simple contact with his relics, a
miraculous healing occurred of a young woman reduced to the last stage of
pulmonary tuberculosis. Countless miracles followed through his intercession.
In 1908, Pope Pius X inscribed the name of Gabriel
of the Virgin of Sorrows among the Blessed, and in 1920 Benedict XV solemnly
canonized him. Pius XI extended his feast to the whole Church in 1932.
PRAYER – O God, who taught Saint Gabriel to honor with devotion the
sorrows of Your most sweet Mother, and through her raised him to the glory of
sanctity and miracles, grant us, through his intercession and example, the
grace to share intimately in the sorrows of Your Holy Mother, and through her
maternal protection, to obtain eternal salvation.
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