The Wild Tears Fall

There is a certain condition in human nature that is familiar to every experienced human being across the boundaries of nations or time. It is that of a relationship grown cold due to a rift--an argument or an act that causes two people once deeply engaged in one another to grow apart. This is never so evident as when it occurs in marriage, where the two are still obliged to remain together. One has no difficulty in conjuring the image of a man and woman moving laconically past one another, each in his and her own shadowy world. They do not speak; the situation has grown comfortable. Maybe they have some notion of doing something in the future to rekindle the joy they felt as they began their lives together, but that must wait for the appropriate time. They have their personal plans, and day in, day out, they move steadily and solitarily towards different goals, though to all appearances, they stay together.

In the Renaissance, thinkers posited the idea that motion itself may be dubbed 'inert' as aptly as stillness is. It logically followed that sluggishness is found in actuality as well as in potency. Not yet abandoning the link between pure reason and reality, these philosopher scientists realized that such an idea would nullify any difference between rest and motion, and so to uphold the truth that our sensory experience indeed reflects reality, many nodded as Newton posited the notions of 'absolute motion' and 'absolute place.' Those scientists, so wanting man to be the measure of all things, likely mopped their brows with relief at such a solution. Somewhere there was an eternal standard to measure individual phenomena against, thus vouchsafing˜­ the credibility of man's reason.


However, the realm of human relations differs entirely. As each man is an individual endowed with sentient thought of the highest order, his personal course of action need not arise from a relation with any eternal measure. Determinists may say otherwise, but personal experience tells us that man does what he does out of free choice, and that this freedom is only lessened by the sleepy influence of inertia (for even acting on the compulsion of another implies that we choose compliance over the alternative of not complying). Whether it is true for physical objects or not, man is indeed capable of resting even as he acts, mindlessly following the course of habit.


'Heaven gives us habit instead of happiness' is the proverb stoically intoned at the beginning of Tchaikovsky's luscious opera, Onegin. As it is shown that story's prelude, the strength of habit is enough to conquer individual impulses, and in this story's case, it is for the better. The security of a repeating cycle helps one to heal after the bruises of disappointed romance.


One may say the same to be the case with the Church and the Society of Saint Pius X. The initial sunderance with Rome must have shook the earth under the bishops' feet, even as they were convinced that Canon Law ultimately justified them, even as it appeared to condemn them. The stigma branded upon them by the mainstream currents in the Church may have at first spurred them on, but after all this time, this condition has very likely become mundane.


Just as with the married couple mentioned before, there was an argument. It was an ugly argument--the sort that shatters lives and even worlds. Yet, the presence of mind in both parties allows the marriage to remain in existence, and the two decide to go seperate ways under the same roof, trusting in some misty future date for a true reconciliation. Habit reigns in place of happiness, and husband and wife are content with their domestic routines, superficial conversation, and nights of regular sleep. This life does not feed their desires. It is not a fulfillment of their vocation. It is an insult against the potential grandeur of their souls. Yet, it is also the easier thing to do. Habit is easier than happiness; routine is easier than romance. Inertia always has that upperhand over the practice of virtue.

That is why it would come as a shock to the wife, if as she prepares supper in the kitchen, or as she returns home from work herself, to suddenly come face to face with her husband and see that he is looking at her. He does not give way for her to continue what she was doing. He does not even follow his own routine. He says decisively: 'Things cannot go on as they have.' She finds now she will have to make a choice. To live with him as his wife, or not to live with him at all, because he will no longer stand for only receiving a part of her or for merely giving a part of himself.

The SSPX expected the barque of St. Peter to take a century or so to right its course, at the which time, they would seek a more visible reunion. Much like a practical wife, the Fraternity was ready to bide its time and wait for the situation to evolve. Romance however kindles revolution; it does not wait for evolution. 

Yet, this sort of passion and deliberate way of thinking may end in either triumph or tragedy. The husband's confrontation with his wife could bring about a wider rift rather than a reconciliation. As Archbishop Fellay himself has said: 

One must not think that things will be easy afterwards. To use the words of the Pope that describe the situation quite well: 'I know,' he said, 'that it would be easier both for the Society and for myself to leave the situation as it currently is.' This describes very well the situation, and also that the Pope himself knows that he, when he does it, will be attacked. And also that the situation will not be easy for us. That which will arise out of this situation will be with Rome or against it. Both of which will be difficult. 

'Difficult'? A very diplomatic term. The enemies of this reunion want to wreck it completely. They are ready to split the Church over it. The heretics that once accused the SSPX of schism, are now entering into formal schism (to add to their heresy): 

A schismatic pope loses his position according to that same teaching of the constitution of the Church. At least, he cannot expect obedience...Instead of reconciling with the ultra-conservative, anti-democratic, and anti-Semitic SSPX, the Pope should rather care about the majority of reform-minded Catholics and reconcile with the churches of the Reformation and the entire ecumenical movement. Thus he would unite, and not divide. _Hans Küng (http://rorate-caeli.blogspot.com/2012/05/freak-extremes-meet-hans-kung-becomes.html)

Ultimately, those engaged in a romance must be willing to ask themselves if the other is enough. If their relationship is a great enough good to place above all other goods and all other relations. The Pope has decided that justice to the Fraternity is above the politics of diplomacy and that open arms to those outside the Church is a lie if those already within Her are not also embraced in love. His Holiness has decided to put his own house in order first, whatever the cost.

And how shall it end? That depends on whether one's trust in the good God is well-founded. Those with faith already have their answer.

The place: a deep, unknown region of an omnipresent sea lapping before a hoary cliff that reaches from the east of the horizon to the west, flooding into two great caverns. The vessel of woman wishes to navigate to through the passage, but alas! Atop the left portal is a great harpy. She bares her teeth and screeches against the dainty vessel, hanging by the talons of her hairy legs she stretches out long chipped nails, clotted with black blood, waiting for the wayfarers.

Atop the right, stands a gaunt giant. A cyclops--by the act of gauging out one of his own eyes--he heaves a might hammer above his round head, muttering words of blame and condemnation, ready to smash the bright barque floating on the doldrums.

Confronted with this ultimatum, the females on the ship begin debating, some wishing to placate the giant, others hoping to side with the harpy, and many who wish to said away and drown the ridiculous hope of reaching noble Ithaca, content to sail without direction on the wine dark sea, so long as they are free to move with the wind. Many of these three parties, sick of disputation, put out in dingies to pursue those foreboding inclinations, while the less decisive stare at the fourth party, which is contemplating the wall of granite before them. Happy with none of the propositions they stare and wait.

'What are you waiting for?' one of the wavering girls asks.

'For a third gate to open in the stone,' is the decisive answer.


A man once bought a still in an town where distilling alcohol was held not only illegal, but ungodly. Drinking spirits, wine, or beer was something for Catholics, 'Whiskeypalians,' and other miscellaneous heathens. Having had a good laugh over the idea of brewing his own moonshine, he simply used it for the innocuous purpose of covering a well. Still, any passerby would naturally suppose that some more iniquitous work was afoot.

One of the man's daughters was mortified and wanted her mother and grandmother to intervene. The grandmother, a woman possessing all the natural lore of a Native American and all the simple godliness of an apolitical Puritan, responded by painting the still and then planting flowers around it. Her rationale? It was Proverbs 15: 1, A soft answer turneth away wrath, But a harsh word stirs up anger.

She knew, as the modern Western woman does not know, how to live peacefully with men and with the world in general. What many philosophers have come to know rationally ('What is wrong with the world is me') she knew intuitively. Her task: to improve only what God had given to be in her grasp. Her strategy: the typical feminine mixture of beauty and pragmatism. If a thing could not be used to beautify or to improve life, then out it should go. If it didn't go? Well, one must do one's best to hide or decorate it. These two rules brought her through a life of hard work to, I believe, everlasting benediction.

In defense of the first rule's seeming passivity, a woman cannot combat qua woman. It is that simple. Direct combat means taking up the weapons of men and laying aside her own femininity. However adept a woman may be with the arms of men, they are still the arms of men. As the brilliant Molly Gustin (the only credible Platonic rationalist I have ever met) often said, women win by subterfuge, not brute force. One need only ask Delilah if scissors are as effective as swords.

Should a woman however prefer the sword and win an argument in that 'liberated', forceful manner she has been taught to embrace from the 1960's on, she causes resentment in the man she argued with. If this man is someone whose love or fellowship she desires, then she has lost, for if he concedes the point, he may come to see her as a colleague, not a companion. Or he may concede resentfully, closing off his tenderness from her.

Then again, he may concede, but this still does not prompt him to act on his concession (e.g., yes, he agrees that he should clean up the dirt he tracked into the room...but it lays there still). Then again, he may concede, act on the concession, but grumbling all the time before he retreats into a sulky mood. Or worst of all, she may have succeeded in breaking him. She has demolished the ego which drives him to accomplish things and turned him into a compromiser that just wants some peace and quiet, even if he must become a slave to get it. Surely, even the most strident feminist would not want her great achievement to be a hen-pecked cockerel. After all, that would make her a hen.

So what to do then in an imperfect world that one does want to better? After all, God has given us free will, and He has not drawn a map of what is in our power to change: Behold I send you as sheep in the midst of wolves. Be ye therefore wise as serpents and simple as doves. (Matthew 10:16)

A girl must listen to her kinswomen. She must regard the teachings of wise philosophers, and of course, she must cultivate her own common sense and heed the voice of her intuition over that of her lower passions. For as much as the Left may argue otherwise, much of the feminist credo is merely the tripe of our base instincts. To nag, to be shrill, to let the victim have it, and not to be docile, pleasing, or content with 'superficial' solutions--this is not courageous! This is self-indulgent. Outside the anomalous homes inhabited by male tyrants who actually employ their fists, the line feminists advise women to take is depressingly banal and--in the sense of both age and precedence--conservative.

In a search to validate the cream of tradition, as opposed to the dregs, I stipulate first, that one must recognize that the dichotomy between men and women is only one dichotomy. Perhaps it is the most important one, but it is still only one. As E. M. Forster observes in Howard's End (albeit through an unsympathetic character) that 'equality' between men and women is no feasible social solution, because men never even had equality amongst themselves (for those who have not read the book, I am interpreting 'equality', as used here, to imply not only the equal possessions of wealth and power, but of talents and abilities as well).

As exciting as the Left would make it out to be (i.e. that human discord is always a desperate struggle between groups for the supremacy of black and white ideals) one must remember that life is more often a dispute between individuals. The lady berating me for leaving my bicycle in the corridor (where it disturbs no one) would not likely be moved by appeal to an argument of universal sisterhood.

Introducing the second point: however hard and unfeeling Henry Wilcox, the character cited above, may have been, he at least understood that happiness is a primary thing, and one that we all desire as the fruit of our deeds. He would not have subordinated the clear notion of happiness to the vague idea of 'progress.'

So in this argument, noble tradition succeeds by default if the individual takes G. K. C.'s advice and dismisses secondary notions (e.g., progress) in favour of the primary ones (e.g., happiness), for who should want the first without the second, and who will not gladly take the second without the first? Is one a troglodyte for this? Well, the Left says we are animals, so we may as well follow our natural destinies and enjoy the simple, attainable things over ideals so abstract we do not even know what they look like. One can fill one's house with strife over the hideous piece of technology one's husband has bought, or smile and put up one's hair. What would your cat do?


There is now a general outline of the realm of what is possible. First, it concerns how women deal both with men and other women, so we females should not take particular umbridge. Second, the proper course of action will also cultivate the soil to produce the fruit of happiness. However, where men and women part ways, is in the shape of their motions.

A man wishes to project, to take his skill, his specialty, and see what path it might take from the valley to the peak. A woman moves in circles, seeking to improve her environment as a whole. A modernist may be tempted to sneer at this, but they should recall that such circles can be quite large. A woman's family and environs might consist of a single household or of a vast empire. What matters is that she continues to operate as a lady.

Take the situation with several women living in the same house. It usually ends that only one of them takes it upon herself to clean the bathroom. It's not fair, but she has already tried talking with her roommates gently and reasonably, and they still do not do their share of housework. What can the conscientious one do? Nag? Well, this may or may not work, and it will sow discord. Let the bathroom get filthy? She will quickly discover that the filth tortures her far more than the people she is attempting to punish. Or she can clean it herself, accepting this duty as her lot. This acceptance will lead to contentment and, therefore, a greater chance of happiness.

The fictional Captain Jack Sparrow once observed, 'The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do.' It may be a truism and a painfully obvious one, but human beings often cloud logic with ill-recalled experience and reality with muddled ideals, rather than using the former ones to judge the latter. This makes for a befuddled head. Occasionally, one needs to dig up Aristotelian syllogisms to think straight, which is why Aristotle is a giant, and Bertrand Russell is a dwarf on a ladder. Before the complex, always state the simple.

The bathroom cleaning roommate eventually achieved peace of mind by realizing what she could and couldn't do. She couldn't change other people, but she could alter the course of her own feelings. One may argue that her relationship with her cohabitants will never be close because of this, but that is not so. In altering her reactions, she has accepted them as they are. They may not be friends, but they are at least congenial. She may be doing a little extra, unpleasant work, but her living quarters are all the more pleasant for it.


John Medaille, writing for The Remnant, noted the similarity between the words cosmetics and cosmos in one of the most chivlarous essays I have ever read about women (the title is 'Women, Cosmetics, and the Cosmos'). The article's idea is essentially: woman cannot better the entire cosmos, but she can better her immediate surroundings; if she does so, she will receive a certain measure of consolation. When a feminist and human rights activist was attempting to help unjustly imprisoned women in a country torn by upheaval, she was astonished that they asked her for trivial things like makeup. It was not until her own imprisonment, that the modern visitor understood why the unfortunate ladies had so dearly wanted lipstick.

Like altering her abode (be it home, room, cubicle, or desk), putting on her face can do much in helping a woman to encounter whatever situation God sends her. I could not write this essay peaceably before making my bed, and I cannot count the number of times another woman has asked me if I had a little lipstick in my purse. 'I'm just having a bad day. Maybe it will perk me up.'

In condemning these inclinations passed down by our foremothers, the Left, alas, is not alone. Some of the Church's saints (and some of her great disappointments) have had very harsh things to say about women and their desire to decorate themselves and their surroundings.

Similarly, too, do even the servants [122] of those barbarians cause the glory to fade from the colours of our garments (by wearing the like); nay, even their party-walls use slightingly, to supply the place of painting, the Tyrian and the violet-coloured and the grand royal hangings, which you laboriously undo and metamorphose. Purple with them is more paltry than red ochre; (and justly, ) for what legitimate honour can garments derive from adulteration with illegitimate colours? That which He Himself has not produced is not pleasing to God, unless He was unable to order sheep to be born with purple and sky-blue fleeces! _Tertullian, On the Apparel of Women

Well, at least he ended as a heretic, so there's no need for ladies to feel guilty about any purple scarves they may own, but St. Jerome also reproaches women:

No; you should choose for your companions staid and serious women, particularly widows and virgins, persons of approved conversation, of few words, and of a holy modesty. Shun gay and thoughtless girls, who deck their heads and wear their hair in fringes, who use cosmetics to improve their skins and affect tight sleeves, dresses without a crease, and dainty buskins; and by pretending to be virgins more easily sell themselves into destruction. _St. Jerome, Letter 130

Ouch. However, this excerpt is not as clear as the first. A woman might fringe her hair without 'affecting tight sleeves' or she may employ cosmetics tastefully and do so without exposing her bosom. The godly man has made the mistake of branding everything a ditzy or shameless girl does as wrong. Goodness! is brushing one's hair even allowed?

St. Augustine, et al. hold the same dismal views. Such writings as these can drive a contemplative woman to depression, an unconvinced woman to indifference, and an irreverent one to flippancy. Yet, I am convinced these reactions would probably surprise the aforementioned men. As unkind as their words are, I am sure they would have been abashed on beholding the tears of a girl they had just berated for wearing flowers in her hair. Very likely, many of them thought women would feel liberated if they did not have to care about their looks. Alas, being a saint does not in itself qualify a man to grasp feminine psychology.

As men with better understanding have discovered, a woman does not primarily dress to allure. She dresses for herself (and for other women). Why else would men hate so many popular fashion trends and hairstyles? Because they were not conceived with the fancies of men in mind! Men have written as much themselves here (see fact number 18). Such a revelation would have shocked the male saints who thought adornment had its roots in concupiscence (forgive me, ye pious men, but none of you could speak infallibly on such an issue).

For a woman, the idea of making her person more lovely has an objective charm. It helps to beautify the world for her. Thus, when a woman is in love, she will attempt to enchant the man as well as enhance her own environment. Such making-over as this has been defended by the greatest Doctor of the Church:

Nevertheless a woman may use means to please her husband, lest through despising her he fall into adultery. Hence it is written (1 Cor. 7:34) that the woman "that is married thinketh on the things of the world, how she may please her husband." Wherefore if a married woman adorn herself in order to please her husband she can do this without sin.

And concerning cosmetics for their own sake?

However, such painting does not always involve a mortal sin, but only when it is done for the sake of sensuous pleasure or in contempt of God...

On the horizon gleamed a magenta sun whose glory seeped like molten gold along the lines of lavender grey clouds. It would have been lovely if that gentle mist could but have lingered a few hours into our journey. In truth, it was the least it could do after the mischief it had caused in the night. I glanced at the clothes I had washed and left to dry the night before, now thoroughly drenched, and made my decision. 
 
There was nothing clean amongst my clothes, except the deep blue skirt I was wearing and the white top into which I would change along the way. Both of those items would be dirty before the day's end. Furthermore, we would have the day's Mass in Częstochowa, not along the way. Pecuniary issues further helped to settle the question. I would go back to Warsaw that very night, and what I had accomplished in nine days would be undone in a matter of three hours.

Music seeped into the morning air as I listened to our wake-up playlist for the last time. I hardly understood a word of the first song, but I laughed every time. It probably did wonders to squash any sort of grouchiness that may otherwise have arisen from weary pilgrims deprived of coffee.



Tents were being collapsed, and many were donning their white and blue or white and black garb for the entrance to Jasna Góra. Our Lady's icon would likely be wearing the Diamond gown, and she would be beautiful in her queenly attire, though my personal favourite was either the Millenium dress or the Totus Tuus robe. More people were hastening to pack in flurries of white, blue, and black when Piotrek sleepily strolled by in a T-shirt and pair of shorts.

'Not getting dressing yet?'

'Wha'? oh no, no. These people are crazy,' he gestured drowsily, yet demonstratively, towards the pristinely decked out individuals, 'by the time we get there, they will all be sweaty and dirty, they'll look like drunks--' Whereupon Piotrek illustrated his point with characteristic economy and humour by leaning against a fence that turned out not to be very well supported.
Bittersweet gaiety brewed within me as I reflected with pleasure on the past eight days and then on the fact that this ninth was the last. I supposed I would enjoy the first bath I had on returning home, but it did not seem so superior to bathing in a shed with a basin of water for washing one's self. I had missed cooking, but what I had been eating was of so little account on the journey that I could hardly say I pined for the activity. My bed...well that was a thing I looked forward to with relish, though again not every night had been uncomfortable, especially when surrounded with the best company.

It had all been nine days of reality, and Reality Itself is what Catholics worship. The Earth was a thing barren and unyielding until man made it his own with effort; every day was a weary journey, water did not rush from a natural spiggot that man might easily clean himself. A distance of nearly two hundred miles could not be covered by man's natural powers in three hours. Life, away from the inventions of modernity, was in essence more like what we had been taking part in on our odyssey through the plains of Poland--a daily, physical exertion alongside clear-eyed people, with God so close and present that one could feel His warmth through the veil of matter.

With backsides saturated with the heat of the sun, we slowly mounted the hill to St. Pio of Pietrelcina's sanctuary. Alas, it was disheartening to see the church devoted to a holy man of such a traditional bent was a monstrously abstract edifice. When I looked to see how others were reacting, I saw they were all facing away from the church in one direction. With a gawkish stare, I followed their gaze. Then I saw it, and I am sure I must have blanched in spite of my sun-burned visage.

In the distance was the seat of the Queen, the spire of the Bright Mountain. At last, it stood within our view! Eight and a half days of walking, and now we were nearing journey's end. We crossed ourselves and broke out in a joyous Salve Regina.
(thanks Krzysztof! :)

Descending the hill, we made towards our last stop, and all took to the water closets to put on Our Lady's colours. I regretted my infantile grasp of Polish quite passionately as we convened in the open field to hear Father Grzegorz's final address. Many times passing through encampments we could heart priests bantering and chit-chatting on the microphone as they addressed the groups. Though there was no fault in this, it did mean that the cleric was not always saying something one ought to heed.

With our priests it was different. As someone had pointed out to me earlier, every word they said was meant to either inform or instruct. Not a syllable was wasted. Thus, I knew that as he was speaking to us in the glare of the sun, he was not going on about anything trivial or obvious, and I deeply wished that I could understand him. When he finished, we all lined up to have the event commemorated in film.
Now the last six miles (nine and a half kilometres) began. I was asked if I wished to carry a flag. Having but held one on the entire journey, I eagerly accepted. I was presented with the larger standard of Lech's white eagle, and I was to stand on the left of the procession while Our Lady's standard, an indigo field emblazoned with golden fleurs-de-lys, was upheld on the right of it.

Andrzej, a doctor who had lived in New York, was standing next to me and observed with good humour that I was carrying a strictly Polish standard and chivalrously offered to relieve me of it when it grew too heavy. I knew that it would eventually as I tried to balance it upright in the wind, but I purposed to carry it as long as I could. Commencing our march in prayerful song, we made towards Jasna Góra.

As we walked the longest trek of our journey, I took a moment to look meditate on the icon's history. St. Luke had been listening to the Gospel as told by Our Lady. A Greek very likely raised according to the empirical wisdom of Galen and Aristotle, an enemy of Oriental mystery, particularly when it came to the health of man's body, he must have sat with flabbergasted awe before her--the Mother of the Great Healer, He who had cured both flesh and spirit.

The pious doctor would have listened to the soft-spoken, regal woman with zealous docility rather than hurling thoughtless, importunate questions at her. As Simeon had prophesied:

Behold this child is set for the fall, and for the resurrection of many in Israel, and for a sign which shall be contradicted; And thy own soul a sword shall pierce, that, out of many hearts, thoughts may be revealed. (Luke II:34-35)

Her heart had been brutally stabbed, but ours would be exposed. Therefore when she stated each event of the Gospel in her simple way, he would not have pressed her for her thoughts at the time. Allowing her contemplations to remain a mystery, he merely recorded:
But Mary kept all these words, pondering them in her heart. (Luke II: 19)

So it is when one contemplates the icon he painted. Her beautiful eyes are heavily-lidded, as on Juan Diego's miraculous tilma, as in the paintings of the sainted Fra Angelico. Her fair mouth is closed, as she stares out towards us, her right hand gesturing to the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

One of two paintings made by the hand of the Evangelist, this one sojourned from Jerusalem to Constantinope to Bełz to the Pauline monastery in Poland where she now resides. Yet, as venerated as she is by the Polish people, her image was not to have any more peace than she had had on Earth. On her way to Poland, the army carrying her image was attacked by Muslim Tartars. Perhaps it was a random shaft, or a way of showing his disdain for the Divinity of Christ, but one archer left a mark in Our Lady's face. A horizontal scar in the centre of her cheek.

The Easter of 1430, a band of Hussite ruffians, whether for reasons of heresy of simply those of greed, stormed her chapel, stripped her image of the decorative gown adorning it, slashed her beautiful face twice, broke it in three places, and left it in bloodied mud.

Restoration was a gruelling, comprehensive process undertaken in Kraków. The restorers decided to leave the two long slashmarks stretching from her jaw to just under her right eye as a reminder.
Thirty-six years later, the King of Bohemia attacked the Bright Mountain. This convinced the Polish monarchs to begin fortifying the famous Marian shrine. Thus it became a Fortalitium Marianum.

Almost two centuries later, General Muller of the army of the King of Sweden, with a force of 3,000, was standing without the monastery calling upon it to yield. With only 170 soldiers, 20 noblemen, and 70 monks at his disposal, the abbot refused to surrender. Thinking to take the 'henhouse' quite easily, the general found himself exceedingly humiliated when forty days of fighting, resulted in victory for Our Lady and defeat for him. This miraculous success encouraged the entirety of Poland to halt the Swedish deluge. A year later, it was vowed that Our Lady of Częstochowa would be crowned Queen of Poland. With a papal blessing, this coronation took place in 1717 A.D.
A few miles into our trek, I ceded the flag. Even in the midst of my elation, impatience was beginning to burn inside me. As I cheerily waved to the onlookers, I could imagine the horrified expressions that would have met such a procession in my native land.

That moment I tried to see Our Lady as our separated brethren see her, devoid of her universal maternity and queenship. I found the exercise only intensified my devotion to her. If she was not given to us as our Mother, if she was not crowned Queen of Heaven, then imagine the debt the human race owes her! If any of the sacrifices she made had been asked of an ordinary woman, the hardest heart would feel the greatest attachment to such a creature. The sacrifice of a stranger is less expected and not even required, whereas that of a mother is.

In all fairness and with the keenest desire for Christian unity, I can never concede the Protestants any ground concerning Our Lady. This woman was chosen from all time to bear the God-man. The Angelic salutation is the only instance in Scripture were a heavenly emissary praised the recipient in such terms. Where God nods, I kneel.

She carried the burden of Simeon's prophecy, and that sooth-saying priest himself implied the necessity of her pain for the salvation of souls. My heart has been laid bare before God, and so that could be, her Immaculate Heart was pierced with a sword. Contemplating her as she is, merely human, provides one with the justification of glorifying her.


Linking hands to hold our group together, we entered the Gate of Victory then passed through the narrower Gate of Mourning. Weaving through the shrine's lanes, passing the entrance to the grand Basilica, we turned to the right and processed down the centre aisle of the Chapel.

I was weeping when I looked for the fifth time upon her face, seeing it for the first time as I should. I, a weary, dirty child that wanted her mother, yearning to know what she ought to do to please her, and too often blind to that maternal hand gesturing towards the Child on her arm. She was staring at me now, with a beautiful visage that might have belonged to any race on earth, with eyes that might have been swollen by weeping. Clemency is in her face, yet this merciful, tender nature only renders it the more hungry to see souls turn to her Son.

And He looks on us with a gesture of benediction, a face disposed to illuminate and to save. One however cannot gaze into their faces together. If one meets eyes with the image of Christ, hers gazes out into the beyond, into the masses of those who do not yet love Him. If one meets her eyes, she abjures the onlooker to contemplate Him. She that is not is turned perfectly towards Him that Is.

There is one mitigating consolation on contemplating the Passion of the Christ, and that is the presence of His Mother throughout His sorrows. It is our consolation when we fail to live as good Christians, that somewhere in Heaven is a creature that has never displeased God, but loves Him perfectly. That was my greatest token of gratitude as I knelt before that immemorial icon; it remains so as well.

I do not know how long we remained before the image before proceeding to the penance chapel where we had Mass. As I knelt waiting for Mass to begin, I fell asleep in the feverishly warm room. Happily, the beginning of Mass more than roused me from drowsiness and, but for the homily, I could savour all of the Sacrifice. In conclusion to the Vigil Mass of the Assumption was the O prima Virgo prodita:

O prima, Virgo, pródita O Virgin who of all God's work E Conditóris spíritu, From His creating breath came first,
Prædestináta Altíssimi Predestined in thy womb to bear
Gestáre in alvo Fílium; The eternal Son of God most high.
Tu perpes hostis fémina Thou art the woman fore-ordained
Prænuntiáta dæmonis, Victorious o'er man's enemy,
Oppléris una grátia Uniquely filled with heaven's grace, Intamináta orígine. Unblemished in thine origin.
Tu ventre Vitam cóncipis, The life by Adam's sin extinct, Vitámque ab Adam pérditam, That Life thou didst in thee conceive,
Diæ litándæ Víctimæ Clothed with man's flesh and perfected
Carnem minístrans, íntegras. A Host divine for sacrifice.

Merces piáclo débita Death, once the wages owed to sin, Devícta mors te déserit, In its defeat deserteth thee;
Almíque consors Fílii Thou, consort of thy dearest Son,
Ad astra ferris córpore. In body to the stars art raised.

Tanta corúscans glória, Higher, resplendent, glorious, Natúra cuncta extóllitur, Woman most perfect doth ascend: In te vocáta vérticem Our human nature doth in thee Decóris omnis tángere. The peak of every beauty reach.

Ad nos, triúmphans, éxsules, O Queen triumphant, turn thine eyes Regína, verte lúmina, On us exiled from heaven and thee
Cæli ut beátam pátriam, With thee to help us may we reach
Te, consequámur áuspice. The happiness of home in Heaven.

Jesu, tibi sit glória, O Jesus, who wast Vigin-born, Qui natus es de Vírgine, May every glory be to Thee, Cum Patre et almo Spíritu, The Father, and the Spirit so kind,
In sempitérna sæcula. Throughout the ages evermore. Amen. Amen.

I sighed. Impending persecution or a new springtime? Sorta scriptura or popular tradition? Then I had to smile, for I had unconsciously slipped into amateurish soothsaying. It were better not to look for portents of the future at all.

Testing my feet, I decided that evening it would be time to get the blisters lanced and my digits wrapped. Scores of fellow sojourners were already walking about with their feet bound like those of a mummy's--the bandages either peeking above their boots or bulging through their sandals. One surely must have seen the same sight in the Middle Ages.

The whistle came, and we were off again. Our Marian cross, seated above fresh flowers and grasses bobbed on before us through the street and into the rocky paths of the fields. When the mist burned away and left is helpless before the sun, the noble gentlemen directing the traffic of our group often had to beg us to run. Yet no matter how parched the mouths, I found that many had the strength to sing one song, which progressed in magnificent steps as do The Twelve Days of Christmas, one layer falling upon another in a grand procession and in the end exploding like the blast of a trumpet:

A ty żaczku nauczony, któryś jest ze szkół wybrany powiedz co jest:
dwanaście, dwunastu Apostołów, trzynasty Pan Jezus,
jedenaście, jedenastu proroków,
dziesięć, dziesięć przykazan boskich,
dziewięć, dziewięć, chorów anielskich,
osiem, osiem miłości boskich,
siedem, siedem Sakramentów,
sześć, sześć grają lelyji przenajświętszej Maryi,
pięć, pięć ran cierpiał Pan,
cztery, cztery listy ewangelisty.
trzy, trzech patryjarchów,
dwa, dwie tablice Mojżeszowe,
jeden, jeden Syn Maryi co w Niebie Króluje jest na ziemi Pan.

You educated students, tell me what is:
twelve, twelve apostles, thirteenth is Our Lord Jesus.
eleven, eleven prophets,
ten, ten commandments,
nine, nine choirs of angels,
eight, eight beatitudes,
seven, seven Sacraments,
six, six lilies of the most holy Virgin Mary,
five, five wounds of the Lord,
four, four gospel letters,
three, three patriarchs,
two, two stone tablets of Moses,
one, one son of Mary who reigns over the heavens and the earth.

Later, we were told to take out our weapons. The first of our daily rosaries began, and I recalled that it was the thirteenth of August. Ninety-three years ago today, Our Lady was to appear to the the three little seers of Fatima. But the children did not come. The mayor of Vila Nova de Ourém had abducted them and through various means of pathetic bullying attempted to make the young shepherds deny what they had seen. Three simple children were threatened with all sorts of outlandishly brutal punishments (though those familiar with the Spanish Civil War know that the Socialists are more than capable of torturing the innocent faithful), and yet they refused to divulge any secrets or to deny the veracity of their visions.

Surely the Queen of Heaven knew the plight of her little ones and their forced captivity, yet she still went to Cova de Iria. There was thunder and lightning, the sound of her guard making its way to the holm oak. The world about it shimmered with an iridescent glow, and a soft cloud hovered above the tree. There was the Mother of God waiting, and the conniving of men had detained three of her servants from honouring her visit.

Six days later, Our Lady appeared to them in a field different from their appointed place. She assured them that miracle she promised would take place on the thirteenth of October would still occur, though it would be lessened due to their absence.