The early Church often used the language of sport to identify those whom it held up for emulation. And so the early ascetics and hermits were referred to as athletes, and the analogy is not without merit. For just as athletes must train and discipline themselves in order to achieve their goals, so those seeking to grow in holiness must do likewise. No athlete at the beginning of his career is as proficient then as he will be in his prime. It takes time, it takes years of training; it takes perseverance and hard work. The dedication to the task at hand may be as whole-hearted in the young athlete as it is in the mature one, but the results are not yet as consistent and predictable as they later will be. The habits necessary for success have not yet become part of the very fiber of the young athlete’s being. If such is the case for those striving for athletic perfection, it is equally true for those striving for the perfection of life that we call sanctity.

Virginia’s journals, her "Letters to Mother," allow us the rare opportunity to glimpse, almost from the inside, the life of one who made the decision to live for God alone. We witness her daily struggle to make the very habits of sanctity, the virtues, second nature. But the Virginia we first meet in the letters of 1962, the young girl of nineteen, is not yet the mature woman we encounter in 1966, near the end of her short life. In 1962, and in the years immediately following, Virginia is very much like the young athlete (wheelchair bound as she was, this comparison would tickle her no end). Her resolve to live only for Christ is fierce; her willingness to make any sacrifice is unwavering. And yet we discover that at this stage in her spiritual journey she was still struggling almost daily to perfect the virtues which in later years she radiated so intensely. This of course is not to suggest that Virginia ever entertained the notion that at some point in her life she had finally "arrived." No, she continued to the end of her life to see areas of her life that she desired to improve.

It is with great trepidation that I attempt to suggest what appear to have been some of the elements that comprised Virginia's spirituality, for I was her friend and not her spiritual director. But I do so from the conviction that perhaps the insight of friendship is a valuable perspective from which to reflect upon the process. Also, I firmly believe that I will not stray far from the truth if I stay close to Virginia's own words. For in truth, her "Letters to Mother" are like no other document that I know of in the Christian tradition. They are as intimate as Augustine's Confessions, but not as philosophical; they are as immediate as Teresa of Avila's autobiography, but more down to earth; as spiritual as The Imitation of Christ, but more personal. They reflect a spirituality that was not fostered within a clerical or religious institution. Virginia reveals to us a path to sanctity that is carved out of the contemporary world of cars and shopping centers, telephones and greeting cards.

I would like to begin this exploration of Virginia's spirituality by drawing upon a quotation from C. S. Lewis' The Four Loves. In this passage he is making a distinction between the human's resemblance to God by reason of what we are by nature, and the resemblance to God that a person can attain by seeking to become one with God in will. He writes, "Creatures are made in their varying ways images of God without their own collaboration or even consent. It is not so that they become sons of God. And the likeness they receive by sonship is not that of images or portraits. It is in one way more than likeness, for it is union or unity with God in will…. Hence, as a better writer has said, our imitation of God in this life--that is, our willed imitation as distinct from any of the likenesses which He has impressed upon our natures or states--must be an imitation of God incarnate: our model is the Jesus, not only of Calvary, but of the workshop, the roads, the crowds, the clamorous demands and surly oppositions, the lack of all peace and privacy, the interruptions. For this, so strangely unlike anything we can attribute to the Divine life in itself, is apparently not only like, but is, the Divine life operating under human conditions."

It will become evident almost immediately to anyone who reads Virginia's "Letters to Mother," that hers was a life such as C. S. Lewis describes. Her workshop was the typewriter, the discussion group, the impromptu encounter. And God's little hobo knew much of roads, since she traveled wherever and whenever she was asked. Her life was filled with people, at times even crowds, putting demands on her time; some seeking private conversations, others advice; some requesting prayers; others seeking solace. When she retired to her room, the clamor did not cease, it changed form: correspondence. Yes, hers was a sanctity achieved within the hubbub of daily life, and in the sense in which Lewis means it, there were interruptions and a loss of peace and privacy. But of course, at a much deeper level, there was profound peace and unshakable joy.

We will never know what private, loving converse occurred between God and Virginia prompting her to make the decision to live for Him alone. Decisions such as that are shrouded in the mystery that is God's special relationship with each individual. And in Virginia's case, that decision occurred several years before she began to write her "Letters." By the time we meet her in her "Letters to Mother," she had been living a consecrated life for several years. To revert back to the analogy with which I began this essay, Virginia can be likened at this time to the young athlete. The decision to abandon her life totally to the will of God had been made, but what that would require of her, the effort and choices that that would involve, were as yet unknown. But what is central to our consideration right now is the decision itself.

I think it is probably fair to say that no one becomes a saint against his or her will. At some point in the process the individual has to will to walk down the path of total abandonment to the Will of God. And we find ample evidence of Virginia's resolution to do just that. In that remarkable reflection upon her severe illness during her senior year in high school Virginia wrote: "Months in hospitals, all 58 pounds of me struggling for a drop of strength; even my brain dehydrated so that I couldn't read or converse much. One day I lay there and saw the crucifix, and told Jesus if He wished He could leave me thus always. But that was the day He chose to begin my return to health. He had awaited my abandonment, that's all." Her "Letters" are filled with prayers requesting the grace to attain the ideal of total abandonment to God's Will. The very first day that Virginia began her "Letters to Mother," she writes: "A postcard arrived today from your faithful servant, Father Munro. He reminded me of your cry of abandonment: 'May it be done unto me according to your word!'" She then writes, "Teach it to me, not in lip service but let it be imprinted indelibly upon my heart." (Feb. 26, 1962) For Virginia, any such request is never to be understood as anything other than an expression of her deepest longing, her most ardent will. There is hardly a page in her "Letters" that does not echo that request, that fierce resolution to live for God alone.

Once the decision to live for God had been made, there still remained the open-ended question as to how that was to play itself out in Virginia's life. When we first meet Virginia in the 1962 entries, her future was very unclear to her. She still had great hopes of becoming a nun, although month by month that hope began to diminish. Nor could she be sure about her future living situation, and what made it more difficult was the fact that so many of the decisions that would affect her future were to be made by others. Throughout all such turmoil and uncertainty, Virginia's trust in God's providence was absolute. Having given her life over to God's Will, she had absolute faith, absolute confidence that God would direct her life along the path that He Himself had marked out for her. Her February 27, 1962 entry reads in part: "Please obtain for me the graces to accomplish what God asks of me. Take my weakness and give me His strength! By the way, God made characters like me too, and though He really has no need for me, I'm sure that He has created one and He will lead me to it in His own good time." All of her life Virginia radiated this kind of trust in God's Love and Providence.

The reader will quickly discern how central to Virginia's life was the Sacramental life of the Church. She longed to begin each day with Mass and Holy Communion, and felt a sense of deprivation when unable to do so. Notice how frequently, from the very beginning of her "Letters," she mentions either attending Mass or wanting to attend Mass but for whatever reason being unable to do so. For example, the following comment: "It hurts to know that I shall have to miss Mass and Holy Communion so often…and pray now for a deeper appreciation of the Holy Sacrifice of which I shall be deprived." (June 7, 1962) And when she knew not where she was to reside after her summer as a guest in the home of Leo and Velma Tanzilli, the only stipulation she set for her new place of residence was that it be someplace in which Christ was present in the Blessed Sacrament. She writes of a possible new home, "There I would find what I've always wanted wherever I go, my Beloved in the Holy Eucharist." (July 28, 1962) Virginia also dearly loved the Sacrament of Confession, and mentions often the strength and direction she received from its reception.

Another important aspect of Virginia's spirituality is revealed in her attitude toward the possibilities afforded her by each and every day. When C. S. Lewis uses the word "workshop," he is referring to the workplace. But in another sense, each day was Virginia's workshop, that is, the place in which she worked to perfect her art, the art of Loving. It is evident from reading her "Letters" that she viewed each day as full of opportunities to practice the virtues she so longed to bring to perfection in her life. Each day afforded her situations that allowed her to measure her actual spiritual growth against the ideal she had set herself. The joys and sorrows of each day, the physical suffering which she mentions often but does not dwell upon, the dashed hopes and daily disappointments are viewed not only as invitations to the practice of the virtues, but as the very stuff that makes holiness possible. It sounds almost trite and trivial to say that, unless one comprehends the level at which Virginia understood it to be the case. In other words, hers was a spirituality that was thoroughly grounded in the events of everyday life.

For Virginia, everyday life was not something to escape in order to achieve perfection, it was something to be celebrated, because it provided all the opportunities a person ever needed to perfect herself. She writes to one correspondent on her 24^th birthday, "No wonder I have twinkie toes; they're all curled with the excitement of life." Each day offered opportunities for spiritual growth that Virginia sought to capitalize upon. For example, a trip to visit a convent she hoped to join provided the opportunity for this prayer: "Dear Mother, I need some very special care this week. And I love you. Queen of the World, smile upon even this wretched soul and teach it the art of Loving God, of serving Him continually, of knowing that whatever may happen is for the honor of Him and the good of my poor soul." (March 30, 1962) A holy card she had seen in a friend's daily missal, a card containing a 'Litany of Humility,' prompted this prayerful reflection on virtue: "If I should ask for anything that I may not have, just help me to utter your FIAT without trying to reason it out. Yes, even in this request that I might learn meekness and humility. What Father Keith told me the other day about confidence certainly applies to this also. But can I learn to desire to have even a poverty of these virtues, of clinging entirely to Him, desiring not even the possession of confidence and humility except what He wishes to give me? I can, but only with your help. Please, Mother, I need you to help me to empty myself entirely so that, like you, I may bear Christ." (June 4, 1962)

Time and again throughout her "Letters" we discover her taking time at the end of the day to assess where she has improved, where she has failed; what opportunities she availed herself of, which she let slip by. Each failure she uses as an occasion to beg for the graces that will make it possible for her to do better the next time. Each success provides the opportunity to offer thanks to God, since He is really responsible for any good that she may have done. For example, while waiting for word as to whether she would be accepted into a certain religious congregation, she writes: "As for any news, there is none at present. Same advice, be patient. O Mother, will your poor little child ever learn this lesson? Please teach me. I shall try much harder to heed this lesson. Forgive me for all my failures in this practice, and let me find this gem [patience] also to study in your crown." (May 16, 1962) On another occasion, after being instrumental in easing a friend's suffering, she writes: "I prayed that I might convey this message…and with the help of the Holy Spirit I really think I did it this evening…. Please thank Him for us, Mother." (June 3, 1962)

Turning now to an entirely different theme, I would like to spend a few moments reflecting upon the asceticism--and the opportunities for self-denial--that Virginia's handicap imposed upon her life. Virginia's cerebral palsy severely limited her mobility, her autonomy, and her ability to do things for herself. It is difficult for a healthy person to realize the extent to which such a disability shifts reliance away from oneself and toward others. Virginia required help with some of the most basic and personal tasks. We get a sample of this as early as the March 24, 1962 entry: "Linda Fishback washed and set my hair and helped me with my bath tonight." Such a simple, straightforward statement, yet the implications are profound. Virginia's dependence upon others had consequences not only in the physical realm, but in the psychological and spiritual realms as well. The physical dependence upon others translated, in psychological terms, into the frequent submission of her will to the will of others. Plainly put, very often in order for Virginia to receive the physical ministrations she required, she had to wait until others were free to help and willing to help. For example, she writes, "I wanted so badly to get my hair washed and set a little this evening, but there was no one who would do it. Guess they were too excited about the new Palladiums (yearbooks?) that came today and look much better loaded with autographs. It is so very difficult to find someone to assist me at this stage." (May 14, 1962) But notice how, in the very next sentences, Virginia uses this experience as an opportunity for spiritual growth. The passage continues: "Please give me the humility to keep asking, and to keep blessing even the negative responses. This is so very hard for your weak little child. Teach me, Mother, your beautiful humility." (May 14, 1962)

 It would not be totally unrealistic to imagine one of two attitudes developing in a person who had to depend so frequently upon the kindness of others. Such an individual might become resentful of that dependence and manifest anger toward those upon whom she depended, or she might become demanding and overbearing, viewing such assistance as her right. But I never knew Virginia to feel anything of the sort. She was always so grateful to anyone and everyone who offered her assistance, no matter how small. It may sound odd to say, but I am quite sure it to be the case that, no matter what people did for Virginia, they always felt that they received far more from the experience than Virginia did. This was certainly the case by the time I met her in 1965. I think it is partly to be explained by the fact that Virginia was blessed with such a lively wit and joyful personality. People simply enjoyed being around her. But at an even deeper level, I believe God used Virginia's dependence to draw others to her so that He might help them through her.

But Virginia's handicap did create a tension of another type in her life, the tension best expressed biblically in the different vocations of Martha and Mary. Virginia desired with all her being to be of service to others, and to be of service in as active a way as she possibly could. She expresses herself ardently concerning this in a passage from February, 1963. " I thank God for every opportunity to go out among souls and bring His Presence there. I give of myself, my strength, my time, my Love, all the glorious experiences with which God has conditioned me for such a vocation. And I beg that this self I wish to be consumed in the multitudes may be none other than Christ. How else might I serve? I can't imagine another way for me, for there is no other way. Jesus asks that His life be thus in me. 0 the eternal tragedy of refusing! No, I can't refuse." (Feb. 14, 1963)

And yet the obstacles to such service, imposed by her cerebral palsy, were severe. Undoubtedly she recognized the wisdom of Father Leclerc's remarks to her concerning this. She writes, " When Father Leclerc was here he told me that since my apostolate must be a limited one, I must back this great movement to the spirit of Br. Charles with my prayers. He has chosen me, and my role is that of sitting at His feet. I must never waste time by wishing for Martha's part. Mine is to sit there, and listen, and LOVE." (Aug. 22, 1962)

It was because of this sense of not being able to do everything she wished to do in terms of an active ministry that her participation in the work of Father Keith as his co-missionary was so important to her. She continues, [Father Leclerc] " told me that he would give me a very special assignment for Brother Charles. He told me that I would back Father Keith in his tremendous apostolate. What a privilege! And I, who had prayed for him so much before, now tried to double these meager but sincere offerings for him, knowing that God our Father would accept their lowliness because you, my Mother, would embellish them with your riches before you took such things of poverty to the divine majesty of the King." (Aug. 22, 1962)

Perhaps a word of explanation is needed about the theology behind the idea of being a co-missionary. There is a belief in the Catholic Christian community that all the faithful are members of the Mystical Body of Christ. This belief from earliest times has been expressed in the words of the Apostles' Creed: "I believe in …the communion of saints." In Mirae Caritatis Leo XIII writes: "As everyone knows, the communion of saints is nothing else than a mutual sharing in help, satisfaction, prayer, and other good works, a mutual communication among all the faithful…" Hence, for example, the weakness manifest in one portion of the believing community can be fortified through the prayer, suffering and sacrifices of another portion of that community. Virginia believed passionately in this teaching. At one point in her writings (Dec. 1, 1964), she refers to it as "that vast doctrine which so often explains my joy and my anguish." Thus, as Father Keith's co-missionary, Virginia offered her physical sufferings, her disappointments--even her weakness--so that Father Keith might be more effective in his ministry. It was a way for Virginia to participate more fully in the active ministry of the Church. And as such, it was a very important part of her spirituality.

This brings up another interesting fact about Virginia's spirituality. Over the years, as her vocation to be God's Little Hobo became clear to her, a vocation that involved accepting invitations to share her life with those who sought her out, people became more central to her vocation. I realize this statement requires some elaboration, since even a casual glance at the earliest entries of her "Letters to Mother" reveals the central place that people had in Virginia's life. What I mean is that in one sense she came to realize that her vocation was people. They were not a distraction, they were not an obstacle on the path to holiness, they did not comprise an interruption of her spiritual life: they were the way. But even as I write this sentence, I recognize the seeming paradox it implies. What Virginia willed was to give her entire life over to God, not to people. But somehow, in accomplishing the one, she achieved both. I think Virginia herself was struggling to express this paradox in a passage from her "Letters." She is talking about one of her friends, and says of her that she is "a darling person whom I love very much." That statement prompted the following reflection: "O Mother, who is there that I can't say that of? No one, for I love Christ so [so much] that all His members are becoming more and more beautiful. [my emphasis] AND poor creature that I am, I still beg Him to grant me more of His Caritas [Love]--and His Amicitia [Friendship]. This love that I cannot even now contain, teach it to grow till it becomes one with yours, one with Christ's, so that I no longer love any man, but Christ loves all men in me. DEUS MEUS, AMO TE!" [My God, I love you.] Virginia discovered that loving God, almost of itself seems to entail loving humans more as well.

In closing, it probably would be good for me to caution the reader about the deceptive simplicity of Virginia's "Letters." At one level, they are very much like any other young girl's diary; filled with the joys and sorrows of youth; the friendships, the disappointments and misunderstandings, the hopes and plans, the excitement of being alive. But it is also very important to remember that these are not diaries. A diary is usually written by an individual to record for his or her own amusement or edification the significant events, thoughts and feelings of the day. And ultimately a diary usually serves no other purpose than that of being an historical marker, used to remind one of the way he or she used to be or think, and to jog the memory when the time for reminiscence sets in. These are letters. Virginia is writing to inform someone else of what is going on in her life, and most importantly, what is going on in her inmost spiritual life. It appears to me that the mindset of a person jotting down a diary entry is quite different from that of the person who sits down to write a letter. Virginia, in her "Letters," is in constant dialogue with one upon whose love and mediation she relies for strength, guidance and growth. So, it is necessary to look below the surface of this record of daily occurrences in order to observe a young woman, totally abandoning her life to the Will of God, and recording the inner journey made possible by those daily events. So while at one level her letters are but a record of the daily occurrences, friendships and activities of her life, at an entirely different level this is a record of one young girl's journey to holiness and to God.

At one point in her "Letters" Virginia writes: "0 Mother, let me cry here, and laugh. Let the words I lisp fall upon a heart that understands, a wise heart that sees the weakness of the child it hears and 1oves her perhaps because she is so frail." (Dec. 18, 1962) My prayer for each of the readers of these pages is that Virginia's words will fall upon "a heart that understands." May Virginia's life be an inspiration and a blessing to each person who shares it with her by reading her "Letters."

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