“The Virgin Mary,” the old Crab said, cocking her head to the side.
“Was reflected in nine panes of glass.”
“Like a gasoline rainbow,” the Crab said.
“Exactly.”
“My husband was showing me the same dream when you rudely woke me up.”
“Then it must mean something.”
Perhaps you will mock this series of events as religious mumbo-jumbo, the phrase you love to use when dismissing my beliefs and passions and dreams, and maybe you will wonder why we were not more amazed. Well, this was not the first time the old Crab and I had been sent the same vision. In fact it had happened dozens of times before—linking us as unlikely twins in Christ. And from experience, we have learned to act quickly when such visions come.
I tell you all of my secrets now, because . . . why not? What use do I have for secrets at this point in time?
And the Crab has big enough claws to scare away any doubting Thomases you might inform of our special talents through Jesus Christ.
Soon we were at the Crab’s desk, using her brand-new, fancy, and terribly expensive computer—Is there anything she will not ask her brother for? Has she no humility?—to search for images on the Internet, which, I admit, I know nothing about. Into a small box on the screen she typed a description of the vision we had seen, hit a button labeled SEARCH, and soon we were seeing pictures of our dream, exactly as it had appeared to us.
We found an article in the St. Petersburg Times called “For Mary’s Faithful, a Shattering Loss,” and from this we learned that what we had seen in our dream was once a real place, that Holy Mother Mary had appeared in Clearwater on a giant building, and that pilgrims from all over the world had gone to pray there and light candles. But we also learned that in 2004 someone had deliberately fired buckshot at the panels where Mary’s head appeared, shattering three glass panes and effectively “beheading” the Holy Blessed Virgin. Yet faithful people still flock to where she once appeared, albeit in smaller numbers, and pray the prayers of pilgrims.
The old Crab and I shook our heads. The unfaithful can be driven by the cruelest demons, set upon bringing darkness to this world once and for all, and so it is sometimes a great struggle to tend and spread the light.
“What does it mean, this vision?” I asked Mother Superior.
“I’m not sure,” she said, “but maybe you are meant to go on a pilgrimage, Sister Maeve—to this very shrine. Maybe God is setting in motion something that will tie up the loose ends in your life before you go. It is perhaps a great gift waiting to be opened.”
“Loose ends?” I said. “Are you referring to my son? Because he lives in Vermont, not Florida.”
“We must simply trust and obey,” the old Crab said, and I wondered if she hoped to get rid of me once and for all, sending me to Florida so that I might get sick and die there far from her jurisdiction, and then she would once again be the only nun in the convent with such a direct connection to Jesus Christ, the only woman to be blessed with visions. Mother Superior has always viewed me as a threat to her authority, even though I have never once challenged her in front of the other sisters, and believe you me, there have been plenty of opportunities, because Mother Superior is a proud old scuttling Crab whose gigantic claws are much scarier than her pinch.
But regardless of all that, the old Crab has since booked my trip, finding the money to pay for plane tickets somehow, providing me with a cell phone and maps of Clearwater. I must say she has been surprisingly kind and efficient about this, and when I asked her why, she replied, “I simply do as my husband commands.”
And so, God willing, tomorrow I take a leap of faith and go on a pilgrimage. I fly to Tampa Bay and will go to Clearwater to see the beheaded Virgin Mary and look for a sign.
I am hoping that I may see you there at this sacred place, maybe making a pilgrimage yourself, or maybe you have moved to Florida in search of warmer weather, or perhaps you have conquered the great demons who plague your mind and you are once again doing what you were called to do here on this earth: teaching, changing the lives of young people, inspiring them to do the good work God intended them to do, which is always the harder path and will require the guidance and encouragement of gifted teachers such as yourself.
You are gifted. God told me you were meant for great things when I carried you in my womb, and when I used to hold you in my arms and stare into your wondrous baby eyes, Jesus Christ would whisper into my ears the most beautiful reassurances, saying, “This one has a perfect heart. He will help many. He’s a teacher of the people, just like I was when I walked this earth.”
And then you grew up and became exactly what God told me you were meant to be, which was the greatest gift I have ever received—the most supreme present for which a mother can ever hope, her son fulfilling God’s purpose for him.
Regardless of whether you are teaching again, I would like to see you before I die, and apparently, according to that child of a doctor, Kristina, I have very limited time to accomplish this last remaining wish—to mend whatever rift has kept us separate for too long, however selfish that may seem to you.
So I send you this letter hoping for the best, and with an ocean of love flowing through my old veins.
Perhaps I will see you in Florida?
If not, I hope you will read these words and decide to break your silence.
My earthly flesh can’t help feeling as though this letter is like throwing a penny in a wishing well and expecting a real miracle to come flying out.
I am an old dying woman, Nathan, and I love you greatly—more than you can even imagine. You come from my flesh, and when I rocked you in my arms back when you were tiny, the two of us became forever yoked by love in its purest form.