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The Vigil of Corpus Christi
I write in the presence of my Jesus as Master. For me, entirely for me. He has returned after so long, entirely for me.
You will ask, “What do you mean? You have been seeing and hearing Him again for almost a month,413 and you say you have Him after so long?” I shall reply once again with what I have stated orally and in writing on several occasions.414
One thing is to see, and another, to hear. And, above all, one thing is to see and hear for others, and another, to see and hear entirely for myself, exclusively for myself. In the former case, I am a spectator and a repeater of what I see and hear, but if this gives me joy, for they are always things which infuse a great joy, it is also true that it is a joy which is, so to speak, external. The term poorly expresses what I feel so distinctly. But I find no better one.
In short, realize that my joy is like that of someone reading a good book or seeing a beautiful scene. The person is moved, savors it, admires its harmony, and says, “How lovely to be in the position of this individual!” Whereas, in the latter case - that is, when hearing and seeing are for myself – “this individual” is then me. The word I hear is for me; the figure I see is for me. It is Him and me, Mary and me, John and me. Alive, true, real, close. Not in front of me and as if I were seeing a motion picture passing by. But alongside my bed, or circling around the room, or leaning against the furniture, or seated, or standing, like living people, my guests - all of which is quite different from a vision for everyone. In short, all of this “is mine.”
And today - rather, since yesterday afternoon - Jesus has been here, in his usual robe of white wool, basically ivory white, so different in weight and shade from the splendid robe appearing to be made of immaterial linen, and so white that it looks like spun light, which covers Him in Heaven.415 He is here, with his beautiful, long, tapering hands, of a white color tending towards old ivory, with his handsome face, long and pale, where his dominating, gentle eyes shine, of a dark sapphire, with his thick eyelashes of a hazel color sparkling with reddish blond. He is here with his long, soft hair, of a reddish blond more intense at the illuminated points and darker in the depths of its folds.
He is here! He is here! And He smiles at me and looks at me writing about Him. The way He did in Viareggio. And as He no longer did after Holy Week,416 giving me all that desolation, which became a fever, almost of desolation, when, to the pain I felt over being deprived of Him there was also joined the pain of being deprived of living where at least I had seen Him and could say, “He leaned here; He sat there; He bent over here to rest his hand on my head.” And where my parents had died. Oh, those who have not experienced this cannot understand!
It is not that we demand the possession of all of this. We well know that they are gratuitous graces and that we do not deserve to have them, nor can we demand that they last when they are granted to us. We know. The more they are given to us, the more we annihilate ourselves in humility, acknowledging our repugnant wretchedness, as compared to the infinite Beauty and divine Wealth giving itself to us.
But what do you say, Father? Doesn’t a son wish to see his father and mother? Doesn’t a wife wish to see her husband? And when death or a long absence deprives them of seeing the others, don’t they suffer and find comfort in living where the others lived, and if they have to leave that place, don’t they suffer twice as much because they lose even that place where their love was loved by the absent one? Can those suffering from this pain be reproached? No. And can I? Isn’t Jesus my Father and Spouse? Dearer, much dearer than the dearest fathers and spouses?
And judge his being such for me from the way I endured the death of my mother.417 I suffered, you know? I still cry because I loved her, in spite of her character. But you have seen how I overcame that hour. Jesus was there. And He was dearer to me than my mother. Must I tell you something? I have suffered and now suffer more over my mother’s death, which took place eight months ago, than I did then. Because in these last two months I it was without Jesus for myself and without Mary for myself, and even now it suffices for me to be left for a moment by Them, and I then feel my desolation as a sick orphan more than ever and plunge back into the harsh human pain of those inhuman days.
I am writing under Jesus’ gaze and thus do not exaggerate or deform anything. Besides, that is not my system. But even if it were, it would be impossible to persist therein under this gaze. I have written this here, where I usually do not, because in the visions of Mary418 I do not mix in my poor self, for I already know I must go on describing her glories. Wasn’t her motherhood a crown of glories at all times?
I am very ill, and writing weighs heavily upon me. Afterwards I am washed out. But provided I can make Her known, so that She will be loved more, I do not count the cost. Do my shoulders ache? Does my heart yield? Is my head in agony? Does the fever grow? It doesn’t matter! May Mary be known, entirely beautiful and dear, just as I see Her out of God’s goodness and hers, and that’s enough for me.419
413 See the text for May 17.
This entry for June 7 is preceded in the original notebooks by episodes extending from “The Edict for the Census” to “The Birth of the Lord,” written in the period June 4-6 and included in the Preparation cycle.
414 See, for example, the entry for May 13 in The Notebooks. 1943.
415 See the vision on January 10.
416 The period of desolation beginning on April 7.
417 See the dictation for October 4-5, in The Notebooks. 1943.
418 The visions pertaining to the major work on Christ’s life.
419 This entry is followed by passages included in the life of Christ which are omitted here: “The Adoration of the Shepherds,” “The Visit of Zechariah” (June 8), “The Flight into Egypt” (June 9), and “The Conclusion of the Hidden Life” (June 10), along with other related commentaries and annotations.