My Medjugorje Experience
I had been asked by my pastor, Fr. Don, to meet with him and share my ‘ Medjugorje experience.’ Medjugorje is a small village in what was then Yugoslavia and is now located in Bosnia. In 1981 it was reported that six young visionaries had received an apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This phenomenon still occurs today.
“Tom, I’ve been given the entire amount in order to make the pilgrimage to Medjugorje, but I’m still not sure whether to go or not. That’s why I’ve invited you here. I know that you’ve been there and I’m interested in hearing about your experience.”
“Father, I hope you won’t be disappointed, but my Medjugorje experience really happened back here in the states, and of all places it happened on my mail route,” (and rightly so, for my spiritual journey started while delivering mail many years before.)
[I had been dating a girl seriously for over a year and a half when without warning she broke off with me. It happened suddenly on the Eve of Thanksgiving, and to this day I never saw her again.
At that time I had been working full time at the Post Office while taking a full load of Art classes at the local Junior College. I remember going through a depression, feeling a lot more like a mailman than an artist when the breakup occurred, deepening my depression. I remember walking my mail route and pondering my situation. It was winter, with snow on the ground and little or no contact with my postal patrons, giving me much time to think.
In those days I was so deep in thought that I wondered sometimes how the mail got delivered, but it always did, and in right order. My dreams of being the best illustrator in the world, having a beautiful blond wife, an expensive home, and a fast sports car, started to look very shallow. There had to be more to life than this. Each day I began to see more clearly how my attachment to these things was causing me much pain. As the days and weeks went by I continued to give up my mental attachment to these things. After I gave up the relationships and my attachment to worldly wealth I remember going through the process of letting go to destructive attitudes and thought patterns. I even remember exactly where I was on my mail route when I gave up the last thing. I remember looking for some next thing to deal with, but there was none. It was then that I had my first ‘spiritual’ experience.
My mind seemed to open up, and I understood things with the utmost clarity that I had no way of knowing. I saw why things on the Earth were the way they were and couldn’t be any other way. I saw the interconnectedness of everyone and everything. I even saw the lawfulness of things like wars and how they were the outworking of the many transgressions we commit. I not only knew these things with my mind but with some deeper part of my being.
The experience was a bit frightening. I felt that for some unknown reason I was allowed to see behind the veil to a world of, what I referred to as, the ‘wise elders ’(a term I never used before or since). Maybe it was the ‘communion of saints’ or the combined wisdom of those that had gone on before. I don’t know, anyway, I felt I really shouldn’t be there.
I remember reaching the end of the block and crossing the street. As I looked up to the sky I saw in thick neon blue letters the word “TRUTH”. I thought this too was odd for the catchwords of the day were ‘peace’ and ‘love’.
This I have to say was the beginning of my spiritual journey. That very day I went out after work and bought a transistor radio, anything to bring me down and put my feet back on the ground. I remember how comforting even listening to commercials felt.
From that day forward I began to read and talk to anyone that might help explain what had happened to me. The years that followed I pursued my art degree with less than perfect enthusiasm. Later my search led me on a hitchhiking journey across the U.S. where I started to experience the leading of the Spirit. I renewed this journey each summer and learned many invaluable lessons along the way. On one such journey I met the Lord in a personal way, but when I was urged later that summer to continue learning in this way I walked away. After that I tried jobs in Emergency Medicine, volunteer work, and finally ended up back on a mail route, having come full circle to where it all began.
I was going through an even deeper depression, feeling like I failed somehow, which brings me to my Medjugorje experience.]
Father Don fidgeted in his chair placing one leg under himself, Indian style. He seemed distracted. I felt he was disappointed, hoping to hear tales of personal miracles in a far off land; but he had asked me to come and now felt obliged to hear me out.
My Medjugorje Experience, I believe, really began before my knowing; before I ever heard of the six young people seeing visions of Our Lady in the hills above this small Yugoslavian village. I was again on my mail route, coming out of one of the condo buildings. [The very condo building where I later purchased one of the units, and where I continue to live at this writing.] There was a young man sitting out front by the pond. He was wearing faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and playing a guitar. It being a warm sunny day and not having taken my break yet I decided to introduce myself. He did not speak much English but I made out that his name was Jasthrov. He held out his guitar and made a motion asking if I played. I nodded and he handed it to me. It being such a warm bright day and sitting in front of the pond watching the sunlight dance off the water, I decided to sing a song by John Denver called “Sunshine”. As I finished he smiled approvingly and I handed the guitar back to him. After that day I only saw Jasthrov in passing, always wearing his jeans and flannel shirt. He was living with his brother in another building located in a different part of the complex.
Later, the following January in 1986, was when I first heard about the apparitions occurring in what was then Yugoslavia. A friend and I planned on hiking the trails of the Grand Canyon for the third consecutive summer but instead decided we could use a Spiritual shot in the arm, and decided to make the pilgrimage to this remote Croatian village. The trip was scheduled for the second week in September. As the day approached I felt like I was starting to receive signs of conformation about making the trip. A magazine I subscribed to, Southwest Art, had a painting in the September ‘86 issue, of a letter carrier walking through a front yard. It was done in an Impressionistic style and I could see it was somewhere in the South West by the adobe building in the background. It was a very bright and sunny painting entitled, “Good News”. I thought the subject matter strange in a magazine that depicted scenes of the old West, but as I related the find to family members they all took it as a ‘good omen’.
When I arrived in Medjugorje I heard stories of the many miracles seen by the pilgrims, the most common of which was the spinning of the sun. Although I saw what appeared to be a disc that partially eclipsed the sun allowing us to stare at it without hurting our eyes, I saw neither the spinning nor the many dazzling colors that other pilgrims saw. Other than what I call the “Miracle of the Sparrows,” (where hundreds of sparrows would flock from every point on the compass to the trees in front of St. James church shortly before an apparition each evening and become silent while Mary was appearing to the visionaries), I felt I saw little while I was there in terms of miracles.
As the days went on I would pray to the Lord asking Him why I was here. The answer was always the same,” You’ll know more when you get home.” But did I even have to make the trip, I thought. Again, the answer came back, “ You’ll know more when you get home.”
On arriving back in the States I felt changed somehow but still not sure what to do with the experience. The next day while delivering mail to one of the buildings in the same condo complex where I met the young man with the guitar, I met Wanda Warren, a woman probably in her fifties. She stood behind me as I sorted the mail. She seemed sad so I asked,
“How ya doin’ today?”
Most people could be dying but would still tell you they were OK, but the cloud of heaviness over this woman was different.
“Not too well”, she replied. “My daughter has cancer and has come home to die. She was getting very ill from the chemo therapy and decided to take herself off all medication so she can die with dignity.”
The heaviness of her situation seemed to engulf me and I wanted to comfort her with some of the new hope I brought back from Medjugorje but I didn’t know how to bridge the subject and the words didn’t come. She looked at me sadly, opened the security door, motioned goodbye, and disappeared into the shadow of the hallway.
As I left the building the emotion hung on me like a bear coat in the middle of summer. I wanted to help her but I didn’t know how. I had just spent ten days in a small village where new hope was cropping up everywhere, but how could I share this without people thinking I was crazy or fanatical.
“Just give her a medal,” a voice seemed to speak from the center of my heart. It wasn’t an audible voice but the words were clear. It sounded just like the voice that guided me through so many adventures those years on the road; the voice that instructed me and kept me safe; but here on my mail route? I felt hope rise within me.
Then I thought, ‘but I’m not a medal giver.’ It was my mother who asked me to bring her some blessed medals. She’s the one that likes to give medals, but not me. It’s just not my way.
That evening and the next morning the thought about giving the woman a medal would not leave me alone. All I knew was that whenever I felt prompting as strong as this while on the road if I didn’t obey I would soon feel the lack of God’s presence.
I looked through the bag of medals that I brought my mom. They were inexpensive; 5-8 for a dollar, cheaply plated with a silver or gold plating. As I was leaving the house for work I took one of the gold ones and placed it in my shirt pocket still feeling unsure whether I would go through with it’s delivery.
I deliberated all day until the time I pulled up in front of the building where I met Wanda. I decided I wasn’t going to do it. I just wasn’t a medal giver. It just wasn’t me. As I prepared to enter the building I realized that I had a small parcel for Wanda’s address, but it was for someone named Abbe with a different last name. I finished sorting the mail to the different units and pressed the buzzer for Wanda’s condo. She met me at the door and I held out the package.
“How are you doing today,” I asked.
“I’m hanging in there,” she said, and again the feeling of pain and sadness seemed to engulf me, only this time it felt more intense. It felt as if I was being held under water and my only way out was to give her the medal. So in an instant I found myself reaching in my pocket, handing her the medal, and blurting out something about the Blessed Virgin, visionaries, and the small Yugoslavian village where I had just been.
Wanda took the medal in her cupped hand and looked at me as if I had given her the Crown Jewels. Her eyes filled up with tears and she could not speak. I could tell that she probably didn’t hear a word I said. She looked like she would explode with emotion as she motioned goodbye and disappeared back into her condo.
As I left the building I felt the weight of my responsibility instantly lifted from my shoulders and once again that gentle voice speaking to the innermost part of my heart,” I told you to just give her the medal.”
“Alright,” I said, “I gave her the medal but if there is anything else you want me to do you’ll have to let me know.”
The next day was a welcome change. All the intensity of the previous day had dissipated and I was left with the feeling of a gentle breeze.
As I approached Wanda’s building I noticed what appeared to be a note taped to her mailbox. On closer inspection I read the words ‘to our mailman.’ The dying girl’s sister, Shari, who had also moved in temporarily to help her mother and sister through the ordeal, wrote the note.
“You’ll have to excuse my mother, yesterday. She was so overwhelmed by your kindness that she didn’t hear a word you said. You are welcome to come visit with Abbe anytime you wish.”
I had just finished reading the note when Wanda returned home from the store. She basically reiterated everything in the note repeating, “You’re welcome to visit us anytime.”
I assured her that the next day I would schedule my breaks so that I would have twenty minutes to visit.
As I left the building again I felt that insistent prompting, “There’s no time.”
In an instant I found myself returning finding Wanda still there talking to a neighbor. “I think I would like to see Abbe now if it’s alright.”
She led me into the condo and into the bedroom where Abbe was propped up in bed. She was young and very thin. She had lost most of her hair and a wig adorned a Styrofoam head on the chest of drawers. Shari explained that Abbe was most appreciative of the gift and immediately placed it on a chain with two small charms given her by her children. Abbe smiled holding the delicate gold chain displaying the three gold medals. “What does it say on the medal,” she asked. The words were in Croatian.
“I’m sure it says something about Our Lady’s blessing being upon the wearer,” I said, “but I can find out the exact translation for you. There are a couple of guys from Yugoslavia living in one of the Condos across the way, (remembering my friend with the guitar.) I’ll ask them.” I told them that I needed to leave but would see them the next day.
The next day I found myself back in my ‘bed of concerns.’ These people are probably thinking I’m a fanatic of some sort. I don’t think they’re Catholic. I’m not sure if they even believe in all this stuff. I can tell they are starting to look at me as someone special. I wonder if they think that I can heal Abbe. These thoughts and doubts made me wonder if I should even return. But, then again, I did say that I would return the next day. Well, maybe just this once. Then, I’m out of here.
I reached the building where Jasthrov and his brother lived and rang their buzzer. Steve appeared at the top of the stairs in his usual corporate attire.
“Can I help you,” he said.
“I hope so,” I responded. “ I was recently in your country. I purchased this medal there and was wondering if you could tell me what it says.”
He, too, was unsure as to an exact translation but said that he would check his Croatian dictionary and let me know.
“Tell Jasthrov I said hello,” I said as I was leaving.
“He’s at the hospital, today. He’s a doctor you know. He’s doing research while in this country on urinary tract diseases.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Where does he work?” I asked, identifying myself as a medical brother, having worked as an Emergency Medical Technician for three years.
“McNeal Memorial Hospital” he responded.
‘McNeal Memorial Hospital,’ I thought to myself as I walked back to my vehicle, ’that sounds familiar.’ Then realizing that it was where I was born.
I guess this is where my story takes another spiritual turn. When I was on the road and feeling close to God’s will for my life, He would reveal His presence through seemingly impossible coincidences. When He wanted me to pay particular attention to what was happening at the moment he would connect me in some way or another to my birth.
Later I stopped off to see Abbe and her family and again they greeted me with eager anticipation. I’ve got to let them know that I’m nothing special, I thought. I’ve got to lay all my cards on the table. So I began to share my concerns letting them know full well that if I hadn’t had the parcel that day I wouldn’t have even rang their buzzer.
“Do you know what was in that parcel,” Wanda spoke with a gentle concern. “We sent away for some healing tapes to help bring up Abbe’s spirits. That’s what you delivered that day.” This only seemed to reinforce in their minds that something special was going on.
Something special was going on. I knew it, but it was out of our conscious control. I was sensing it and maybe that’s what they were sensing too. From then on I would stop each day for an update on Abbe’s condition. I discovered that Abbe’s cancer originated in her kidneys and that it was diagnosed at non other than McNeal Memorial Hospital. As days went on the coincidences continued to abound letting me know that God’s hand was truly in this meeting. It took another couple days but I discovered that my friend Jasthrov was her doctor and made the diagnosis.
Although I continued my daily visits I never saw Abbe again. The day she died was my day off. I planned to go to the music store with a friend to shop for a guitar amplifier. About midday I felt an overwhelming sadness and called my friend to cancel our plans. I sat in a chair totally absorbed and feeling overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness. I new it concerned Abbe.
The next day my suspicions were confirmed. When I arrived at Abbe’s building I found a note above the mailbox, ‘To our mailman.’
“Dear Tom, this is to let you know that Abbe died yesterday. We are having a memorial service tonight. Please come see us.”
The empty feeling in me seemed overwhelming. I just felt it wasn’t supposed to end this way. I rang the buzzer and they welcomed me. There seemed to be a real sense of peace amongst them. I was the one with a big hole in my chest. They could sense that I felt bad; that I had failed somehow. Wanda and Shari sat on either side of me, reassuring me of all the beautiful things that had occurred around Abbe’s death, and since the time they had met me.
“There were people in this living room that hadn’t talked with each other in ten years having meaningful conversation,” said Shari. “We are all at peace with it.”
“We’re having a memorial service for Abbe tonight, and we would like it if you would come and sit with our family.” Said Wanda.
Still feeling a need to fill the emptiness I was feeling I said, “Wanda, I play music at my church, maybe I could play something during the service.”
“No,” she said, ” you don’t need to do that. Just come and sit with us.” She could see that things were not all right for me, that I was having a hard time. She gave me a long heartfelt look into my eyes and said, “If you’d like to play something for the service then we’d love for you to.”
Later that evening on my way to the service I realized that I had no idea what I should play. I hadn’t played at a funeral before. The only song that kept coming to mind was ‘The Rose’ originally sung by Bette Midler. I also decided to sing a song called, ”Quiet Breeze” by Marty Haugen.
When I arrived at the funeral home I was ushered into a room with a closed casket with a single yellow rose on it, along with some photos of Abbe. She was the only one I know that asked to be buried in a plain pine box and got their wish. Literally it was a plywood casket painted gray. I could see the grain of the wood through the paint.
I was told to meet with the minister about music. He showed me three places in the service where he wanted me to play. I told him of the two pieces I had chosen.
“Do you know ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot,’ “ he asked?
“Actually I do know it,” I said. “But do you think it’s appropriate.”
“Sure, we use it all the time for funerals. Good, then everything’s set.”
Again I felt God’s hand in this. ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ was the first song I ever sang in a church.
[Several years before I had stopped to see Fr. Tony, a priest friend of mine, who was pastor of a poor predominantly black church in Hopkins Park, IL; east of Kankakee near the Indiana border. It was Good Friday and he was just leaving the rectory on his way to the church for the afternoon Service when I arrived.
“Do you have your guitar with you,” he asked.
“Yes”, I said.
“Good, you can bring it along and play something during the Service.”
I grabbed my guitar and walked along with Fr. Tony assuring him that I didn’t play church music.
“That’s OK,” he said. ” Just do some John Denver or something. These folks are easy. They’ll love you.”
I didn’t know what I would do on this most serious day, almost until the time I did it. The song ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ came to mind so when Fr. Tony nodded to me after reading the Passion I began: “Swing Low……………………”
There was a very thick presence of the spirit at that moment and I don’t think I ever heard the words of that song like I heard them that day. The folks in the pews swayed back and forth humming the melody with a thick gospel flavor. I felt like I was on the movie set for ‘The Color Purple.’ It was truly one of those blessed moments.]
Here I was asked to do that song for the funeral of my newfound friend. I could tell God was present here too and the Spirit was just as thick. I sang all three songs. ‘The Rose’, too, seemed most meaningful.
The days that followed I would stop by Wanda’s condo and talk with Shari. I asked where Abbe would be buried so I could visit the grave.
“She was taken to Texas to be buried,” she said. “Abbe was from Texas and will be buried near Amarillo.”
Again I felt the hand of God. Several years before I had the worst experience of my life; I became ill with a severe neuralgia on the top of my head and decided to go to a fasting clinic in Brownsville, Texas. I fasted for sixteen days on water and had the most negative spiritual experiences. I felt that I had nearly lost my life in the process. Could the Lord be telling me that it was time to bury the memory of this experience along with Abbe?
It was about a month later when Shari said in one of our conversations,
“You still don’t understand do you? Abbe asked for several things at her funeral. One was to be buried in a plain wooden box, which she was. She also asked that there be no flowers except for one single rose I was to give her, so your song was perfect. And the third thing was absolutely no organ music. She hated organ music at funerals. If you hadn’t brought your guitar she would have had no music. So everything was perfect.”
Fr. Don listened as I related my Medjugorje experience but seemed somewhat disappointed when I told him that Abbe had died. Perhaps he expected a miraculous healing.
“Yes Father, Abbe did die. It was on my day off, October 7th.”
“ Do you know what that day is,” he asked?
“No, I don’t,” I replied.
“In the Church calendar October 7th is ‘The Feast of the Most Holy Rosary.’”
I could see that by Fr. Don making this discovery, it lent more credence to my testimony.
Fr. Don did make his pilgrimage several years later. He told me that while he was there he made one of the pictures on the wall in the home where he stayed a focal point for his daily prayer. It was there that he noticed my signature on the bottom of the drawing, (a pen and ink study of Michelangelo’s ‘Pieta’ that I made into an etching years before and given to my host family during my first trip to Medjugorje. I entitled it, “Let it be.”) He said it was comforting to have this connection so far from home.
It’s been years since my Medjugorje experience, and since I related it to Fr. Don, but it’s had an eternal effect on my life and consciousness. Never before or since has the Lord touched so many parts of my life with one sequence of events. So many coincidences that only the Lord could have orchestrated them. In one experience He let me know that He had been there all along, and is still with me today.
“Tom, I’ve been given the entire amount in order to make the pilgrimage to Medjugorje, but I’m still not sure whether to go or not. That’s why I’ve invited you here. I know that you’ve been there and I’m interested in hearing about your experience.”
“Father, I hope you won’t be disappointed, but my Medjugorje experience really happened back here in the states, and of all places it happened on my mail route,” (and rightly so, for my spiritual journey started while delivering mail many years before.)
[I had been dating a girl seriously for over a year and a half when without warning she broke off with me. It happened suddenly on the Eve of Thanksgiving, and to this day I never saw her again.
At that time I had been working full time at the Post Office while taking a full load of Art classes at the local Junior College. I remember going through a depression, feeling a lot more like a mailman than an artist when the breakup occurred, deepening my depression. I remember walking my mail route and pondering my situation. It was winter, with snow on the ground and little or no contact with my postal patrons, giving me much time to think.
In those days I was so deep in thought that I wondered sometimes how the mail got delivered, but it always did, and in right order. My dreams of being the best illustrator in the world, having a beautiful blond wife, an expensive home, and a fast sports car, started to look very shallow. There had to be more to life than this. Each day I began to see more clearly how my attachment to these things was causing me much pain. As the days and weeks went by I continued to give up my mental attachment to these things. After I gave up the relationships and my attachment to worldly wealth I remember going through the process of letting go to destructive attitudes and thought patterns. I even remember exactly where I was on my mail route when I gave up the last thing. I remember looking for some next thing to deal with, but there was none. It was then that I had my first ‘spiritual’ experience.
My mind seemed to open up, and I understood things with the utmost clarity that I had no way of knowing. I saw why things on the Earth were the way they were and couldn’t be any other way. I saw the interconnectedness of everyone and everything. I even saw the lawfulness of things like wars and how they were the outworking of the many transgressions we commit. I not only knew these things with my mind but with some deeper part of my being.
The experience was a bit frightening. I felt that for some unknown reason I was allowed to see behind the veil to a world of, what I referred to as, the ‘wise elders ’(a term I never used before or since). Maybe it was the ‘communion of saints’ or the combined wisdom of those that had gone on before. I don’t know, anyway, I felt I really shouldn’t be there.
I remember reaching the end of the block and crossing the street. As I looked up to the sky I saw in thick neon blue letters the word “TRUTH”. I thought this too was odd for the catchwords of the day were ‘peace’ and ‘love’.
This I have to say was the beginning of my spiritual journey. That very day I went out after work and bought a transistor radio, anything to bring me down and put my feet back on the ground. I remember how comforting even listening to commercials felt.
From that day forward I began to read and talk to anyone that might help explain what had happened to me. The years that followed I pursued my art degree with less than perfect enthusiasm. Later my search led me on a hitchhiking journey across the U.S. where I started to experience the leading of the Spirit. I renewed this journey each summer and learned many invaluable lessons along the way. On one such journey I met the Lord in a personal way, but when I was urged later that summer to continue learning in this way I walked away. After that I tried jobs in Emergency Medicine, volunteer work, and finally ended up back on a mail route, having come full circle to where it all began.
I was going through an even deeper depression, feeling like I failed somehow, which brings me to my Medjugorje experience.]
Father Don fidgeted in his chair placing one leg under himself, Indian style. He seemed distracted. I felt he was disappointed, hoping to hear tales of personal miracles in a far off land; but he had asked me to come and now felt obliged to hear me out.
My Medjugorje Experience, I believe, really began before my knowing; before I ever heard of the six young people seeing visions of Our Lady in the hills above this small Yugoslavian village. I was again on my mail route, coming out of one of the condo buildings. [The very condo building where I later purchased one of the units, and where I continue to live at this writing.] There was a young man sitting out front by the pond. He was wearing faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and playing a guitar. It being a warm sunny day and not having taken my break yet I decided to introduce myself. He did not speak much English but I made out that his name was Jasthrov. He held out his guitar and made a motion asking if I played. I nodded and he handed it to me. It being such a warm bright day and sitting in front of the pond watching the sunlight dance off the water, I decided to sing a song by John Denver called “Sunshine”. As I finished he smiled approvingly and I handed the guitar back to him. After that day I only saw Jasthrov in passing, always wearing his jeans and flannel shirt. He was living with his brother in another building located in a different part of the complex.
Later, the following January in 1986, was when I first heard about the apparitions occurring in what was then Yugoslavia. A friend and I planned on hiking the trails of the Grand Canyon for the third consecutive summer but instead decided we could use a Spiritual shot in the arm, and decided to make the pilgrimage to this remote Croatian village. The trip was scheduled for the second week in September. As the day approached I felt like I was starting to receive signs of conformation about making the trip. A magazine I subscribed to, Southwest Art, had a painting in the September ‘86 issue, of a letter carrier walking through a front yard. It was done in an Impressionistic style and I could see it was somewhere in the South West by the adobe building in the background. It was a very bright and sunny painting entitled, “Good News”. I thought the subject matter strange in a magazine that depicted scenes of the old West, but as I related the find to family members they all took it as a ‘good omen’.
When I arrived in Medjugorje I heard stories of the many miracles seen by the pilgrims, the most common of which was the spinning of the sun. Although I saw what appeared to be a disc that partially eclipsed the sun allowing us to stare at it without hurting our eyes, I saw neither the spinning nor the many dazzling colors that other pilgrims saw. Other than what I call the “Miracle of the Sparrows,” (where hundreds of sparrows would flock from every point on the compass to the trees in front of St. James church shortly before an apparition each evening and become silent while Mary was appearing to the visionaries), I felt I saw little while I was there in terms of miracles.
As the days went on I would pray to the Lord asking Him why I was here. The answer was always the same,” You’ll know more when you get home.” But did I even have to make the trip, I thought. Again, the answer came back, “ You’ll know more when you get home.”
On arriving back in the States I felt changed somehow but still not sure what to do with the experience. The next day while delivering mail to one of the buildings in the same condo complex where I met the young man with the guitar, I met Wanda Warren, a woman probably in her fifties. She stood behind me as I sorted the mail. She seemed sad so I asked,
“How ya doin’ today?”
Most people could be dying but would still tell you they were OK, but the cloud of heaviness over this woman was different.
“Not too well”, she replied. “My daughter has cancer and has come home to die. She was getting very ill from the chemo therapy and decided to take herself off all medication so she can die with dignity.”
The heaviness of her situation seemed to engulf me and I wanted to comfort her with some of the new hope I brought back from Medjugorje but I didn’t know how to bridge the subject and the words didn’t come. She looked at me sadly, opened the security door, motioned goodbye, and disappeared into the shadow of the hallway.
As I left the building the emotion hung on me like a bear coat in the middle of summer. I wanted to help her but I didn’t know how. I had just spent ten days in a small village where new hope was cropping up everywhere, but how could I share this without people thinking I was crazy or fanatical.
“Just give her a medal,” a voice seemed to speak from the center of my heart. It wasn’t an audible voice but the words were clear. It sounded just like the voice that guided me through so many adventures those years on the road; the voice that instructed me and kept me safe; but here on my mail route? I felt hope rise within me.
Then I thought, ‘but I’m not a medal giver.’ It was my mother who asked me to bring her some blessed medals. She’s the one that likes to give medals, but not me. It’s just not my way.
That evening and the next morning the thought about giving the woman a medal would not leave me alone. All I knew was that whenever I felt prompting as strong as this while on the road if I didn’t obey I would soon feel the lack of God’s presence.
I looked through the bag of medals that I brought my mom. They were inexpensive; 5-8 for a dollar, cheaply plated with a silver or gold plating. As I was leaving the house for work I took one of the gold ones and placed it in my shirt pocket still feeling unsure whether I would go through with it’s delivery.
I deliberated all day until the time I pulled up in front of the building where I met Wanda. I decided I wasn’t going to do it. I just wasn’t a medal giver. It just wasn’t me. As I prepared to enter the building I realized that I had a small parcel for Wanda’s address, but it was for someone named Abbe with a different last name. I finished sorting the mail to the different units and pressed the buzzer for Wanda’s condo. She met me at the door and I held out the package.
“How are you doing today,” I asked.
“I’m hanging in there,” she said, and again the feeling of pain and sadness seemed to engulf me, only this time it felt more intense. It felt as if I was being held under water and my only way out was to give her the medal. So in an instant I found myself reaching in my pocket, handing her the medal, and blurting out something about the Blessed Virgin, visionaries, and the small Yugoslavian village where I had just been.
Wanda took the medal in her cupped hand and looked at me as if I had given her the Crown Jewels. Her eyes filled up with tears and she could not speak. I could tell that she probably didn’t hear a word I said. She looked like she would explode with emotion as she motioned goodbye and disappeared back into her condo.
As I left the building I felt the weight of my responsibility instantly lifted from my shoulders and once again that gentle voice speaking to the innermost part of my heart,” I told you to just give her the medal.”
“Alright,” I said, “I gave her the medal but if there is anything else you want me to do you’ll have to let me know.”
The next day was a welcome change. All the intensity of the previous day had dissipated and I was left with the feeling of a gentle breeze.
As I approached Wanda’s building I noticed what appeared to be a note taped to her mailbox. On closer inspection I read the words ‘to our mailman.’ The dying girl’s sister, Shari, who had also moved in temporarily to help her mother and sister through the ordeal, wrote the note.
“You’ll have to excuse my mother, yesterday. She was so overwhelmed by your kindness that she didn’t hear a word you said. You are welcome to come visit with Abbe anytime you wish.”
I had just finished reading the note when Wanda returned home from the store. She basically reiterated everything in the note repeating, “You’re welcome to visit us anytime.”
I assured her that the next day I would schedule my breaks so that I would have twenty minutes to visit.
As I left the building again I felt that insistent prompting, “There’s no time.”
In an instant I found myself returning finding Wanda still there talking to a neighbor. “I think I would like to see Abbe now if it’s alright.”
She led me into the condo and into the bedroom where Abbe was propped up in bed. She was young and very thin. She had lost most of her hair and a wig adorned a Styrofoam head on the chest of drawers. Shari explained that Abbe was most appreciative of the gift and immediately placed it on a chain with two small charms given her by her children. Abbe smiled holding the delicate gold chain displaying the three gold medals. “What does it say on the medal,” she asked. The words were in Croatian.
“I’m sure it says something about Our Lady’s blessing being upon the wearer,” I said, “but I can find out the exact translation for you. There are a couple of guys from Yugoslavia living in one of the Condos across the way, (remembering my friend with the guitar.) I’ll ask them.” I told them that I needed to leave but would see them the next day.
The next day I found myself back in my ‘bed of concerns.’ These people are probably thinking I’m a fanatic of some sort. I don’t think they’re Catholic. I’m not sure if they even believe in all this stuff. I can tell they are starting to look at me as someone special. I wonder if they think that I can heal Abbe. These thoughts and doubts made me wonder if I should even return. But, then again, I did say that I would return the next day. Well, maybe just this once. Then, I’m out of here.
I reached the building where Jasthrov and his brother lived and rang their buzzer. Steve appeared at the top of the stairs in his usual corporate attire.
“Can I help you,” he said.
“I hope so,” I responded. “ I was recently in your country. I purchased this medal there and was wondering if you could tell me what it says.”
He, too, was unsure as to an exact translation but said that he would check his Croatian dictionary and let me know.
“Tell Jasthrov I said hello,” I said as I was leaving.
“He’s at the hospital, today. He’s a doctor you know. He’s doing research while in this country on urinary tract diseases.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Where does he work?” I asked, identifying myself as a medical brother, having worked as an Emergency Medical Technician for three years.
“McNeal Memorial Hospital” he responded.
‘McNeal Memorial Hospital,’ I thought to myself as I walked back to my vehicle, ’that sounds familiar.’ Then realizing that it was where I was born.
I guess this is where my story takes another spiritual turn. When I was on the road and feeling close to God’s will for my life, He would reveal His presence through seemingly impossible coincidences. When He wanted me to pay particular attention to what was happening at the moment he would connect me in some way or another to my birth.
Later I stopped off to see Abbe and her family and again they greeted me with eager anticipation. I’ve got to let them know that I’m nothing special, I thought. I’ve got to lay all my cards on the table. So I began to share my concerns letting them know full well that if I hadn’t had the parcel that day I wouldn’t have even rang their buzzer.
“Do you know what was in that parcel,” Wanda spoke with a gentle concern. “We sent away for some healing tapes to help bring up Abbe’s spirits. That’s what you delivered that day.” This only seemed to reinforce in their minds that something special was going on.
Something special was going on. I knew it, but it was out of our conscious control. I was sensing it and maybe that’s what they were sensing too. From then on I would stop each day for an update on Abbe’s condition. I discovered that Abbe’s cancer originated in her kidneys and that it was diagnosed at non other than McNeal Memorial Hospital. As days went on the coincidences continued to abound letting me know that God’s hand was truly in this meeting. It took another couple days but I discovered that my friend Jasthrov was her doctor and made the diagnosis.
Although I continued my daily visits I never saw Abbe again. The day she died was my day off. I planned to go to the music store with a friend to shop for a guitar amplifier. About midday I felt an overwhelming sadness and called my friend to cancel our plans. I sat in a chair totally absorbed and feeling overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness. I new it concerned Abbe.
The next day my suspicions were confirmed. When I arrived at Abbe’s building I found a note above the mailbox, ‘To our mailman.’
“Dear Tom, this is to let you know that Abbe died yesterday. We are having a memorial service tonight. Please come see us.”
The empty feeling in me seemed overwhelming. I just felt it wasn’t supposed to end this way. I rang the buzzer and they welcomed me. There seemed to be a real sense of peace amongst them. I was the one with a big hole in my chest. They could sense that I felt bad; that I had failed somehow. Wanda and Shari sat on either side of me, reassuring me of all the beautiful things that had occurred around Abbe’s death, and since the time they had met me.
“There were people in this living room that hadn’t talked with each other in ten years having meaningful conversation,” said Shari. “We are all at peace with it.”
“We’re having a memorial service for Abbe tonight, and we would like it if you would come and sit with our family.” Said Wanda.
Still feeling a need to fill the emptiness I was feeling I said, “Wanda, I play music at my church, maybe I could play something during the service.”
“No,” she said, ” you don’t need to do that. Just come and sit with us.” She could see that things were not all right for me, that I was having a hard time. She gave me a long heartfelt look into my eyes and said, “If you’d like to play something for the service then we’d love for you to.”
Later that evening on my way to the service I realized that I had no idea what I should play. I hadn’t played at a funeral before. The only song that kept coming to mind was ‘The Rose’ originally sung by Bette Midler. I also decided to sing a song called, ”Quiet Breeze” by Marty Haugen.
When I arrived at the funeral home I was ushered into a room with a closed casket with a single yellow rose on it, along with some photos of Abbe. She was the only one I know that asked to be buried in a plain pine box and got their wish. Literally it was a plywood casket painted gray. I could see the grain of the wood through the paint.
I was told to meet with the minister about music. He showed me three places in the service where he wanted me to play. I told him of the two pieces I had chosen.
“Do you know ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot,’ “ he asked?
“Actually I do know it,” I said. “But do you think it’s appropriate.”
“Sure, we use it all the time for funerals. Good, then everything’s set.”
Again I felt God’s hand in this. ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ was the first song I ever sang in a church.
[Several years before I had stopped to see Fr. Tony, a priest friend of mine, who was pastor of a poor predominantly black church in Hopkins Park, IL; east of Kankakee near the Indiana border. It was Good Friday and he was just leaving the rectory on his way to the church for the afternoon Service when I arrived.
“Do you have your guitar with you,” he asked.
“Yes”, I said.
“Good, you can bring it along and play something during the Service.”
I grabbed my guitar and walked along with Fr. Tony assuring him that I didn’t play church music.
“That’s OK,” he said. ” Just do some John Denver or something. These folks are easy. They’ll love you.”
I didn’t know what I would do on this most serious day, almost until the time I did it. The song ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ came to mind so when Fr. Tony nodded to me after reading the Passion I began: “Swing Low……………………”
There was a very thick presence of the spirit at that moment and I don’t think I ever heard the words of that song like I heard them that day. The folks in the pews swayed back and forth humming the melody with a thick gospel flavor. I felt like I was on the movie set for ‘The Color Purple.’ It was truly one of those blessed moments.]
Here I was asked to do that song for the funeral of my newfound friend. I could tell God was present here too and the Spirit was just as thick. I sang all three songs. ‘The Rose’, too, seemed most meaningful.
The days that followed I would stop by Wanda’s condo and talk with Shari. I asked where Abbe would be buried so I could visit the grave.
“She was taken to Texas to be buried,” she said. “Abbe was from Texas and will be buried near Amarillo.”
Again I felt the hand of God. Several years before I had the worst experience of my life; I became ill with a severe neuralgia on the top of my head and decided to go to a fasting clinic in Brownsville, Texas. I fasted for sixteen days on water and had the most negative spiritual experiences. I felt that I had nearly lost my life in the process. Could the Lord be telling me that it was time to bury the memory of this experience along with Abbe?
It was about a month later when Shari said in one of our conversations,
“You still don’t understand do you? Abbe asked for several things at her funeral. One was to be buried in a plain wooden box, which she was. She also asked that there be no flowers except for one single rose I was to give her, so your song was perfect. And the third thing was absolutely no organ music. She hated organ music at funerals. If you hadn’t brought your guitar she would have had no music. So everything was perfect.”
Fr. Don listened as I related my Medjugorje experience but seemed somewhat disappointed when I told him that Abbe had died. Perhaps he expected a miraculous healing.
“Yes Father, Abbe did die. It was on my day off, October 7th.”
“ Do you know what that day is,” he asked?
“No, I don’t,” I replied.
“In the Church calendar October 7th is ‘The Feast of the Most Holy Rosary.’”
I could see that by Fr. Don making this discovery, it lent more credence to my testimony.
Fr. Don did make his pilgrimage several years later. He told me that while he was there he made one of the pictures on the wall in the home where he stayed a focal point for his daily prayer. It was there that he noticed my signature on the bottom of the drawing, (a pen and ink study of Michelangelo’s ‘Pieta’ that I made into an etching years before and given to my host family during my first trip to Medjugorje. I entitled it, “Let it be.”) He said it was comforting to have this connection so far from home.
It’s been years since my Medjugorje experience, and since I related it to Fr. Don, but it’s had an eternal effect on my life and consciousness. Never before or since has the Lord touched so many parts of my life with one sequence of events. So many coincidences that only the Lord could have orchestrated them. In one experience He let me know that He had been there all along, and is still with me today.