Virginia recounts her trip to New York. She meets long-time correspondent Br. Matthew at Mt. Saviour. On October 15th, she learns to her great relief that individuals with her type of CP rarely live to the age of twenty-five. As Virginia gets weaker, the aides at Good Sam receive orders to help her less. Typical of the constant battle between fatigue and determined Love is her entry of October 25th. She writes, "I'm so tired, Mother, your little unprofitable one, unless profit be found in regions where my weariness won't let me search. That doesn't matter; tonight I'm so yours and use the little strength left in me to smile."
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LOVE
Tuesday, Oct. 4, 1966
Lord, thank you for all instruments of your peace. Because my brothers and sisters are who they are, please help me to become what You want me to be for them.
It's been so long I should be able to write a volume tonight, but I'll not pretend to debase the Incarnation with mere human comprehension. Let my little Magnificat extend far beyond that till it is lost in the echo that is your own.
The pilgrimage, Mount Savior, the Nardonnes, my heart rambles on and on, wandering, happily lost in the beauty of my brothers and sisters. Yet I needn't sit here recounting for you what you know so much better than I. And it is very late. I've just finished reading the stack of mail that awaited me. But now there is a tired little hobo and a mother who cares. That's all; thank you.
Wednesday, Oct. 5
Where is our Father Jim? I just learned this morning that he left last Friday, rather suddenly, and was to have been back for the Holy Sacrifice Sunday morning. No one has seen nor heard from him. Please care for him and lead him where Jesus needs him most.
Holy Mother of priests, please make me a good little sister. Help me. What is happening to me, my body, my attitudes, etc.? Most of all don't let me demand any explanations beyond the pleasure of Him Who loves me. My stomach seems a bit messed up, and only today the left half of my lips has been numb. I want to ask why. Rather, help me to steep myself in concern for all my brothers and sisters, for Love.
Thursday, Oct. 6
Mother, I'm sorry, so very sorry about today. I'd exhausted my supply, and seemed draped in a nightmare of pain and tears. Now I'm tired and glad today was as it was because of Love.
Friday, Oct. 7
The Holy Species was exposed upon our table all morning. I had a ridiculous conflict when I entered our little chapel to watch with Jesus awhile, to contemplate His contemplation of me. It's nearly habitual for me to get upon my crawlers [knees] and, leaving my wheels behind, scooch to "my" corner up front, visibile to only Jesus and seeking only the happiness to remain in His Presence. Now our altar has been moved from the wall, and the distance from me to the monstrance much diminished. "If only I can touch the hem of His garment…." But my frailty saw not only my Love but others there today and guessed before it sadly heard their remarks. "She shouldn't be so close. She's in Father's way. Somebody tell her to get back into the wheelchair where she belongs, out of the way." But no one told me; perhaps it would have been much easier that way. Instead I stayed there and received the sharper notes of their disgusted glances. But He saw me too. He knew I was there because love impelled me to come closer. He seemed pleased, and then I knew that a thousand other words could never detract from His, "I love you." And if His Love desired me close it would take more than aggravated whispers, more than hell itself, to pull me from what I was clinging to, what embraced and will never let me go.
Saturday, Oct. 8
A note from Fr. ___ today. Somehow it's like the return of a nightmare that has never really stopped frightening me. He asks me to write to him; I shall. Forgive him? I've never found this necessary. There is but pity and horror and an impelling desire to be ever more a sacrifice for priestly priests.
Sunday, Oct. 9
It's night and quiet and there is but the song of raindrops to sing my own voiceless song of unshed tears.
Monday, Oct. 10
Now it's time for rest once more, and when I greet the new day there will be your name to make my song worthy of Him Who is our Light; He Who first lovingly called you Mother.
Tuesday, Oct. 11
Margie Nardonne phoned last night, just after I'd pecked my goodnight to you. Isn't she darling? O how I love her and the entire family. It was a thrill hearing Jeannine recount the name of each member of her family and so innocently include "Ginny Nardone." Margie's call brought so many things back to me, things I've been too busy or tired to remember. O so many wonderful memories and anticipations, for I'll celebrate Thanksgiving Day with them. What new dimensions does my poor Magnificat take on because I've fallen in Love with these? To all the anguish and joy this fall hurls me into: fiat.
Today Holy Mother Church celebrates your Divine Maternity. I love this feast, though in my heart's liturgy it is rather perpetual. There is nothing I delight in calling you more than "Mother;" my beloved Lord and Brother Jesus Christ must have pressed this, His own delight, so indelibly upon my poor heart. I'm glad.
Wednesday, Oct. 12
Julie came today. We attended the Holy Sacrifice at St. Joan of Arc's, watched the kiddies at their play, then had a sandwich at Frisch's. I'm sorry that my burdened heart became so obvious. O Mother, it is heavy. Yet help me to grow that I might contain each bitter drop to be transformed in Jesus' Love. Please.
In today's mail came some pictures of my dear Matthew and Mt. Saviour. How many wonderful memories return with them. My first encounter with Matthew's smile when, while placing my host on the paten for him the feast of St. Matthew, I looked up and saw him there bearing a cross and knew him. Dear Fr. Martin, M.D., and his pills and "Doctor's orders" and kindnesses, a shy, frightened flower named Br. Elias who loves the sunshine and longs to bloom but trembles instead, my Brother who fed me one day and let me know with no gesture but Love that he too was filled. Please help me to become a good little sister, for them.
Thursday, Oct. 13
Mother darling, I spoke with FR. PWAMANG on the phone today. He's in Muncie awaiting admittance to Ball State Hospital, and back surgery. Please take good care of him and lead a little hobo to him soon. Perhaps we'll not have many words. But I remember my hand in his and strength. Please let him find such consolation in the poor but total love of his little sister.
Friday, Oct. 14
Fr. Keith is here. He and Fr. Tom just came up a few minutes ago. Fr. Keith is to stay all night and offer the Holy Sacrifice for us in the morning. Then he'll drive me to see the John XXIII Study Center, and on to Muncie to my precious Fr. Pwamang. There seems so much I might tell Fr. Keith. My heart is burdened and breaking. Yet it seems that there is nothing to lift this from me, and when I find myself with someone like Fr. Keith, with his loving Wisdom, I want so much to explain myself to him, everything begins whirling in me and I begin sputtering trifles and there is misunderstanding and disappointment and a new loneliness because of the few I have left to whom I might confide what another doesn't know, no matter how much he wants to. I felt this tonight, in our brief exchange and tonight please help me to accept it now, tomorrow and each day I remain in exile. I know you don't forget me and to you I cry and am not scolded for being so weak as to weep.
Saturday, Oct. 15
Today we celebrate the feast of our precious sister Teresa. Somehow I knew this morning she had much in store for her little sister who loves her so.
Hartford City? It was grand. Father carried me to every room in his mansion, and at last I found "my corner" in his house, a tiny spot under your feet, so very close to the Blessed Sacrament. It's so small no one else will ever use it. I'm so glad for it. Please let Father look there now and then, under your feet, and know again I am with him always, and somehow in that security be warmed.
My Precious Fr. Pwamang is suffering intensely with each move. The doctor has given no analysis yet. It hurt so to find him like this. And in the unheard cry of helplessness we were to one another was our love borne to unguessed strengths.
O Mother, all this time I've felt so guilty about my laziness, listlessness, irritability. I've pushed and pushed and become irritated at my constant failures to meet the goals I set for myself; goals I once attained so easily. And at last I've heard what I've suspected all along. During my sojourn in the hospital it was disclosed that people with my particular case of CP seldom live over 25 years. Mother, do you know what this means? All this time I've been told CP is not progressive, and I felt as one who must have buried her talent somewhere, so I dug and dug trying to regain it, weeping because it was nowhere to be found. Every time I gain a pound or someone tells me how good I'm looking I condemn myself because my activity doesn't correspond. Mother, this knowledge is liberation from this torment. Each day I'll give my all, but when I examine it, when others criticize my dwindling offering, I'll rest in the peace of knowing it is my all and it is no longer mine but Jesus'. Please thank Teresa for this liberation sent on her feastday and ask her to let me soar with her to the sweet, agonizing furnace of Love.
Monday, Oct. 24
Just returned from a week in Muncie, Mother darling, and I'm very glad to be here giving all this week has given me, made me. It was restful; in fact, your little hobo was very lazy. I'm glad for the opportunity to exercise such vagabond traits. Mother, I'm tired. It's hard to begin again shoving. I've just unpacked and read my mail. Now I must get into my nightie somehow. Why is it so hard? There just doesn't seem to be enough strength left at the end of the day. But Jesus' strength is sufficient and first things first, so here is my love note to you.
A week ago yesterday, Sunday afternoon, Ruth and I went people-watching. It was wonderful. We stood in the center of bustling T-Way and saw hurried paces, slowed and more leisured buyers, little ones filled with wonder and vitality, little ones grown much too serious and without a smile. But then something wonderful happened. There were several large tables of big plastic jack-o-lanterns toward the front of the store. Someone jarred one, and there was an avalanche of orange pumpkins. All attention was halted, turned to this "wonderful" accident. There was a smile on every face. Many rushed together to help one another replace the ridiculous things. It was a beautiful thing, a little Incarnation, and I'm sure "Peanuts" will forgive me for forgetting "the Great Pumpkin" entirely and in my heart enjoying a medley of Christmas carols.
SISTER HONEYBUNCH and Alvine came to Muncie yesterday evening and left about noon today. My darling Sister, O I'm so glad for our reunion. Please tell Jesus so, again.
The statue? Fr. Jim Bates just gave it to me today. I do love it. It's so you, and me, and everyone. The crude, toil-worn woman has rather negroid-mexican features. Is it age or merely toil that has put such creases in her face, such a tiredness in the stoop of her shoulder? She is an Incarnation and a Calvary; her weary hands lie open to receive or give and never calculate the difference. Her face is lifted with raindrops and GOD upon it. And now she seems what prayer is: "God, I am and you are and this is everything." You see, she's kneeling near my plaque of Br. Charles' Prayer of Abandonment. She seems to say it so well. Please let her teach me.
Yes, it's very late. I've unpacked and perused the mail. Quent, Jacques, Sr. Teresita, Br. Elias, frater Christian…so many and still the thrilling wonder grows in me, "There is not one I do not need." I'll rest now, for them, faith and faith alone telling me that somehow they in their love, have condescended to need me.
Tuesday, Oct. 25
I'm so tired, Mother, your little unprofitable one, unless profit be found in regions where my weariness won't let me search. That doesn't matter; tonight I'm so yours and use the little strength left in me to smile.
Wednesday, Oct. 26
Yes, Mother darling, I know it's very late. But I've just had a chat with Mary and it was important. There are so many, many things I don't understand here at Sam. But at least a few have been made clear to me. The aides are not to help me. I should be able to bathe independently. No one is to wake me in the morning, and if I miss the Holy Sacrifice or Communion, I'm entirely to blame. I'm becoming more and more lazy. I need no assistance on the toilet. I'm not to be summoned for supper, and these midnight snacks are forbidden. Every move I make is watched and condemned. Just a few minutes ago Sr. Aquinas was peering in my door. I'm accused of not retiring as I should, but no one considers that I'm either too weary or too embraced in pain to get myself ready for bed. Mother, what am I to do? Please let me leave this prison. Yet my people are here with "life" sentences; is their little sister better than they? I'm sorry. Please ask Jesus to ignore my thoughts, words and actions right now, and look only at my desire. It alone remains pure.
Friday, Oct 28
Just this moment I glanced out the window and saw the full moon displaying the Cross. "From Your presence where can I flee?" Please let love transform everything into adoration.
It's early to retire, I know Mother. I'm tired. So for a little while I'll cease this pushing and be carried in Love's repose. Please thank Jesus for night and darkness that alone brings Wisdom.
Saturday, Oct. 29
Our poor Father Jim! He returned the night of the 15th, so tired, so ill. He'd been to see a doctor in Chicago who confirmed his suspicions of cancer. And for a while he remained quite despondent. But now he wants to do so much. He isn't able, Mother. To see him battle through the Holy Sacrifice is to behold the stark reality of Calvary. Perspiration pours from his poor face. He fumbles words and gestures. Still, he offers Jesus to His Father. Please see that these two beautiful "wastes" are essentially one.
Monday, Oct. 31
It was good to go to the "desert" for Quent's feastday. Of course, I wished to remain before Jesus' silent, compelling Eucharistic Presence, but after awhile pain forced me to my corner, where I watched and dozed when there wasn't enough discomfiture to keep me awake. A true desert it has been, and I thirst. But I carry with me a little prince and I am assured that soon we'll come upon a well and in drawing for one another be filled. So now I'll rest awhile, and then there will be dawn and another day to ask for Living Water from a Father Who but awaits our "yes" to respond, totally, with His Word.
Tuesday, Nov. 1
Here it is the glorious Feast of All Saints, and one little fella kept rejoicing my heart today. "Amahl!" Everywhere I heard his flute and his voice and of what he sang. So somewhere in that multitude casting their golden crowns before the Lamb, if you see one, very little, laying down a crutch, tell Jesus that's M'brother, and ask if it cannot be also my crutch, another something that prevents my total dependence upon Him.
Wednesday, Nov. 2
It's late again, I know, Mother. Once more I was too exhausted to prepare for bed, so fell asleep here in my wheelchair, my head on the keyboard of the typewriter. It happens too often, Mother. O I wish the girls could help me in the evening. The days are long and big, each of them. But I know Sister has told the aides to let me care for myself, so don't let me ask of them what they've been told not to do. Yet, sometimes I must. Forgive me and reward their loving hearts that jeopardize a job for the sake of kindness.
Mother, wasn't today beautiful, the snow I mean? O yes, it brings with it such dread. My people grow so cold and I, even with a lovely heater turned high as it goes, feel the cold. Do help us. But those dainty flakes, so white, each one seems to sing your name, and when the earth is covered with them it's so easy to hear all creation's Ave.
Thursday, Nov. 3
Your little sleepyhead has but a nod for you tonight, and she's glad Mothers are glad for little things.
Friday, Nov. 4
It's your little clown. All day I've been typing with one numb finger, just one. The other day it was my bottom lip that felt so large and let everything dribble. What a silly little thing you call your child. O but I know you do love me and I'm glad and long to respond totally to that love.
Fr. Keith phoned from Jacobs' and took me there this evening. What is there for me in a crowd? I can't sing nor can I speak to anyone above the din. But there is the wonderful privilege of simply being there and by that being making Love loved. There is nowhere a little sister cannot belong. Please teach me to respond to this truth.
[Shortly after this entry, Virginia was admitted to St. Joseph Hospital in Elwood because of her weakening condition. While at the hospital, she was invited by Ruth and Ted Kiefer to stay with their family. The last entry of Virginia's "Letters to Mother" was dictated to Ruth Kiefer, so the original is in Ruth's handwriting.]
Nov. 18
Once upon Eternity
Mother darling,
It is not evening. Or perhaps it is more dark than it has ever been when I pecked a love note to you. You see that I am not writing this myself. It is not my own now to exercise that child's privilege. So many things I presumed to use so freely, sometimes so forgetfully, are gone. Please don't find in me a note of surprise or objection. Rather, there is some silent Magnificat where your own song of praise was sung long before Elizabeth heard it.
There is so much screaming for expression, yet I've just had a friend mimeograph a letter to my dear ones. I shall not be writing to them. But perhaps they will see an empty corner or one wilted red rose and remember, and know with a new certainty the Word is flesh.
And you, Mother? You know as no one else of my love. You understand. I'm so grateful for your care, and feel it's quite unnecessary to ask my Mother to continue making me what I have always asked to be, only Jesus.
Now I give the last of these "scraps of useless paper." I wonder if somewhere there is someone who will write to you and know how much you are MOTHER.
End of Volume Nine
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