Barb Voyage!: SAINTLY HEIGHTS!

SAINTLY HEIGHTS FIELD TRIP!

San Gabriele, Nestled in the Embrace
of the Appenine Mountains

Church of St. Gabriele

Growing up Catholic, Saints were never strangers to us. At an early age, perhaps 7 or 8, when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said,

“Veterinarian,” for many years, then, after learning what a gory job that would be, not just loving puppies and kittens, I changed my mind. I wanted to be a teacher, which, I did achieve.

Somewhere along the line, probably in about third grade, I wished I could become a priest, but knew that I lacked the proper plumbing for this position. Always in my mind’s forefront, however, no matter what “job” I chose, what I really wanted to become was - a saint. I never dared reveal this aspiration, lest I be considered pompous.

I joined the Legion of Mary when I was 10, and continued in this Devotion and Ministry until after High School graduation. The story of the “Legion Years” is a book unto itself. But suffice it to say, these were my roots, the foundation of the faith that would carry me through unspeakable periods of doubt, betrayal, sin, and depression.

Most Mondays of my elementary years were spent home with a sore throat and stuffy nose. That’s what mom’s “note” would habitually read. It wasn’t until I was in the eighth grade that my mother took me to a specialist who discovered I was allergic to trees, grass, weeds, dust, mold, and cats.

Having spent weekends riding my bike to Monocacy Creek, doing cartwheels and splits at Clearview Park, and climbing trees behind the railroad tracks, it was no wonder my Mondays were laden with snot. The pollens in Bethlehem, PA made it one of the highest-ranked ragweed areas in the state.

Despite being absent on Mondays, I managed to soar through school, excelling both academically and socially. Spiritually, though I prayed hard, went to confession and Mass regularly, engaged in service to the sick, elderly, and mentally ill, all through the Legion of Mary’s hour-per-week service requirement, I still fell short of what I considered “saintliness.”

I began a Bible Study series when I was 12, shortly after being baptized in the Spirit at a friend’s Aunt Patsy’s Prayer Meeting. On Thursdays at lunch, I would fill a classroom with eager Bible students, all having brought their lunches, and I would have them share reading different scriptures. This lasted about four months, the most memorable “series” of which, was my teaching on Revelations. Bold was I.

Having an affinity for Mary, the Mother of Jesus, I decided to start the “Rosary Club.” Every Saturday afternoon, (before or after a sports event), a group of at least twenty seventh and eighth-grade girls would meet in a classroom of our school, Notre Dame of Bethlehem. I was perhaps the first child to ever have been given a key to the school. There were no adults, and I was in charge.

We would pray the “Obligatory Promise and Indispensable Oath” I had written. My mother proudly typed up the words on our old “Brother,” and took them to work at the bank, where she had the privilege of minimizing them and making laminated copies for my club members. She also let us borrow my grandmother’s Blessed Virgin statue, which ultimately fell into the hands of my successor, Bernadette, regretfully never to be seen again.

During high school, I often wondered how I could have run the club differently, and ensure its longevity. It sizzled shortly after I held my final meeting. I guess not everyone is called to leadership.

Nonetheless, I continued to read about the lives of saints, and journal regularly, specifically reflecting on the Psalms. This practice continued for years after it began during Freshman year in Sr. Anita’s Religion class. Sister Anita was a Franciscan at St. Francis Academy (SFA), where I spent the best years of my life.

I had an affinity for St. Francis, who denounced the materialistic wealthy life of a fabric merchant’s son, and followed what he believed to be the voice of God, telling him to build a Church on the hill, and to care for lepers. The Church of San Damiano in Assisi, is, to this day, one of the most sacred places I have visited.

Francis and his handful of followers lived in small hand-hewn rock caves in the forest-y hills of Perugia while they built the Church, and continued in lives of poverty and prayer. When I first squeezed into one of these tiny “cells,” I felt as if God knew my heart, and would take care of me, no matter what life brought to my path. Never could I have envisioned the struggles that lie ahead.

I studied Clare, Francis’ cohort, who began the “Poor Clare’s,” an order of sisters, following the same basic rule of Francis and his all-male band. Blessed to have sisters at SFA who saw the benefit of knowledge, we studied religions of the world, visiting temples and non-Catholic places of worship that most Catholics would consider sacrilegious.

We read from the Torah, the Koran, and other great religion books of the world. We studied philosophers, mystics, gurus, and more. It was during these years that my Catholicism was embedded more deeply than math, English, history, or science. It was then that I wished I could be confirmed again, because now, even after having been baptized in the Spirit at age twelve, I knew.

In the Catholic Church, there are literally thousands of saints, many of whom come from Italy, the seat of Catholicism for centuries. For this reason, there are many of whom I have never heard, including Saint Gabriele of Our Lady, Mother of Sorrows.

Gran Sasso (Huge Rock)
2912 Meters
Highest Peak of
The Appenines Range

The town of San Gabriele is a mere twenty nine miles from Roseto degli Abruzzi, but the bus ride meanders through and around several mountainous villages, taking quite a convoluted route to the otherwise easily-accessible-by-toll-road seat of the Church of Saint Gabriele. After a wind-y, hour and a half, cliff-laden serpentine through the towns nestled beneath the giant rock called Gran Sasso, a gargantuan protrusion of the Italian alps, we arrived at San Gabriele.

Tabernacle Altar
In Side Chapel Where
Giovanni's brother
Was Married

The original Church is an acoustic masterpiece. Having the entire place to ourselves, as it was not even 8AM, I sang a verse of “Oh Lord, I Am Not Worthy,” and, then sat the exhausted couple in the first pew to pray and wait for the 9:30 Mass. I roamed the compound, purchasing a few refrigerator magnets and a rosary in the gift shop.

Giovanni and Carolina

After Mass, we wandered over to the new Basilica, a modern, grand, cross-shaped Church, with a simple but beautiful center altar. Beneath this space of worship lies the crypt of Saint Gabriele, a 24-year-old young man who died of tuberculosis, but not after “cleaning up” his worldly act, becoming a Passionist brother, bringing many into the priestly vocation, and inspiring his elders with his other-worldly depth and wisdom.

There are two things about Gabriele that impressed me;

The first - after failing several times to keep his promises to God to enter religious life (once, from an early illness, and again, after being spared death), he went on a pilgrimage. As a statue of Mary passed him, he heard a clear, audible, human voice asking him what he was still doing “in the world.” He immediately began his Passionist journey, against his wealthy parents’ wishes.

The second - when on his deathbed, he asked that all his writings be burned (except his prayers), so that no one would consider him proud or haughty. He wished not to bring glory upon himself, but only to God and His Mother, Mary.

Down in the crypt, a warm glow pervaded the area reserved for a glass coffin holding a statue of a “resting” Gabriele.

“Is-a that-a him-a?” asked Giovanni, breathing heavily after what I considered an easy 8-step descent to a bench near the “body.” I had seen “incorrupt” bodies of saints before, but I knew that this was not one. Carolina managed to find out from a resident nun sitting nearby, that indeed, this was NOT the saint’s body, but a statue which held the bones of Gabriele.

People knelt, wept, prayed, and stared. My mind wandered. Bones. Do they carry energy? Are they, in and of themselves, sacred? Why do people go to cemeteries? How could this young kid have had such an impact in so short a time? Are all of the miracles attributed to him in the upstairs museum, truly miracles due to his intercession?

In the museum, letters, memorabilia, pictures, newspaper clippings and gifts adorned a long room dedicated to the recording of Gabriele’s intercession and the gratitude of many people;

- A bus en-route to San Gabriele careened into the guardrail, clinging over the edge of a bridge - every life was saved from a deathly drop into a deep chasm.

-The picture of a young man standing next to the mangled motorcycle from which he was “lifted” by a young man his own age, Gabriele, who was nowhere to be seen once the victim was freed.

I lit two candles,
for special intentions
of my wounded heart,
and prayed fervently
or Divine Intervention

- The photo of a newborn baby destined for death, tubes in its mouth, nose, and throat, beside a picture of that very child, three years later, healthy and cured, with no medical intervention or explanation. There were hundreds of miracles, attesting to the intercession of Gabriele.

I thought about my children, all around Gabriele’s age, and my early desires to become a priest and a saint. I thought about how I let them down, and how I failed to live my faith over the years.

But I also thought of how grateful I am that I had them, that they are all still alive, as am I, and that, like Monica, who prayed for her son, Augustine, for 25 years, I will continue to pray for my children’s forgiveness of me, and personal growth into the best humans they can be. None of us is perfect - this is a “state” reserved for Heaven.

We left the shrine fighting. Giovanni insisted the bus was picking us up in front of the Church. Carolina and I both heard the driver tell us to go down the street for the ride home.

After a quick lunch, we wobbled down the street, listening to Giovanni’s ranting, only to be picked up by the very bus driver that brought us here. Not a word was said, as we boarded, exhausted. We didn’t, however, have tickets!

About two miles away, the bus pulled over, and the driver motioned me to get out, go across the highway to a gas station, and buy tickets for our trip back to Roseto. I nearly died!

But I obeyed, laughing the whole way, running across a blind intersection, purchasing the tickets, with difficulty, and returning to the bus. All on board, thankfully, understood - and laughed along.

Arrivederci, San Gabriele!

By the time we arrived home, after the kind bus driver dropped us off right in front of our villa, Carolina and Giovanni zonked out for nearly three hours. I realized that there was no way either of them would be able to join me on future shrine adventures. I too was tired, having been Giovanni’s crutch, as he leaned heavily on me to walk, despite his Rossignol “walking stick.” (a leftover ski stick he had found in the garage)

We are going to the medical supply store on Monday for a real man’s supportive cane with a cuff. Though I am sensitive to the old man’s pride, I am also cognizant of my own fibromyalgic body’s limits. I am still recovering, my muscles thrown off balance, and my recently injured wrist sore.

But I wouldn’t have traded this saintly day for anything. A memory was made, and another experience of the saintliness of us humans was discovered. Plus, I learned about Gabriele.

The new Church was filled with bronze sculptures, depicting the work and inspiration of Gabriele during his short life.