A vision
I don’t normally talk about this.
Partially because I’m not sure if it technically happened. I mean, I was under the influence of some very, very powerful drugs at the time. I was in a drug-induced coma, fighting a bizarre infection that only one other person in the world had ever had–but we didn’t know that at the time. We didn’t know what was wrong with me. So for two weeks I was in Children’s ICU, in a drug-induced coma, while medical science pumped me full of almost every drug known to Man to figure out what was causing my body to rapidly shut down and infection to rage through my already scarred and battered lungs unchecked.
It was October of 2001. Fears of anthrax and bio-terrorism were alive and well, and I was being treated for those, too. It was, in general, a time of fear, of gloom, of the sense that the world was contracting around us. The Afghan ground war had begun. I was a sophomore in college–19.
I don’t remember precisely when the vision happened. Time in an ICU is very fluid anyway, and this was especially so for me. Previously I had dreamed myself in California, in a beauty pageant, shopping, and as part of a musical, where I had the lead role and was trying to convince my parents to let me quit school to take it. So visions and fantasies of things that were not happening were quite frequent, and very vivid.
But this was different.
My devotion to Mary has been well-cultivated. My father had a particular devotion to Our Lady of Fatima, and I’ve had a statue of that apparition since I was about 7 years old–Mary on the bush, with Lucia, Francisco and Jacinta kneeling around her, lambs at their sides (they were Portuguese shepard kids). Mary has always played a very large part in my Catholicism. My parents and visitors to my room prayed frequent rosaries, and noted that it seemed to calm my erratic vital signs.
In my dream I was going to Rome (something I have always wanted to do). We were on an airplane en route, and there was, for some reason, a small, dark chapel on board the plane, where confessions were being heard. I was in line, waiting for my turn with the priest.
And then there was a wonderful, radiant light in front of me. I wasn’t on the floor anymore, but hovering slightly above it. It was Our Lady of Grace, my (at that time) favorite image of Mary–the one where she’s in the blue cloak, arms extended, standing on the globe with the snake under her feet (the same image that’s on the Immaculate Medal). There were two angels, one on each side, the Raphelite ones we’re so used to seeing.
She spoke. “It is not your time–your mission has not been fulfilled.” (Yes, she said mission. Not my word.) She said some other things, but, sadly, I don’t remember them. This one sentence is all I remember.
I was filled with an incredible peace and lightness. Happiness. Total acceptance and I seemed to be swimming in grace–it was like her light was inbued with it. Like I could drink it in. It lasted a few more minutes, just her, standing there, with the angels, smiling. The only other time I ever feel even a touch of that is when I receive the Eucharist at Mass.
I don’t know if it actually happened. I don’t know if the drugs were just working on my psyche. But God works in mysterious ways, even in times when we’re not conscious (literally) of it. It was wonderful and calming and emotional. And even now, when I have bad days or feel like I have been abandoned, I can remember that moment and feel a shadow of that peace and repose that she gave me.
Real or not, it is the greatest gift God has ever given me–the idea that we all have a mission, we will see it through if we simply Trust In Him and do what He asks. All of us are precious and important to Him. And He will lift us up, even from the brink of death (and I am not exaggerating) to come back and serve Him better, to spread His love to His Children.
And that is why, after years of holding this inside and not sharing it, I have felt compelled to write it down and share it with you. I hope that it can help you in your relationship with God in some small way.
