ASKING ARCHANGELS
BY
ROBERT WALLACE PAOLINELLI
I went to pray
one day at the cathedral in front of the Holy Virgin, to whom I often went to
light candles and to supplicate her. I
can't honestly say that what I have asked for ever came to pass; but at least there
was someone to whom I could turn to in my times of need. Aside from being a bachelor
I am also an orphan, and I only have one good friend and he lives in another
city and we don't get to visit often.
But Mother Mary was always there for me. I went one particular morning with a simple
request in my heart:--
I had a boss
who was driving me crazy. I was ready to
resign, which would mean throwing away a good job which
had turned into a nightmare. Nevertheless I wanted that ogress boss to leave, to be
offered a job in some distant place, an opportunity she would be a fool to
refuse--and rid the office, and my life, of her unwholesome presence.
Per usual, I
purchased six candles and lit them, one at a time; and in lighting each one, I sent up my
petition, then knelt and said a few spontaneous words, then recited several Ave
Marias, then some Our Fathers. I bowed my head in silence for a while. During this meditation
I heard a voice. No, it was not the
voice of the Blessed Mother;
on the contrary, I recognized the voice; it was someone I knew.
I opened my
eyes and turned my head. It was as I had
expected: a diminutive woman whose name
was Gabriella; she
owned a small dressmaking and alterations shop in the neighborhood. I knew her because although she was an
excellent dressmaker, and she also did a fine job with
men's clothes.
I had done
some business with her off and on for a couple of years and knew her voice
well. I got up from my genuflection.
"Hello,
Gabriella, I said in a soft voice, "nice to see you. I didn't understand what you were saying to
me; I was lost
in my meditation.
"I said,
you're wasting your time;
she doesn't work."
I was
flabbergasted to hear this. I would not
tolerate this blasphemy. "Doesn't
work? What on earth do you mean?" I
asked, raising my voice in the quiet chapel.
"She only
likes the candles and the flowers and all those rosaries and hurt knees we get
from begging her. But she doesn't come
through; you
can take it from me, young man. Didn't I always fix your pants? Didn't I always give you a fair price and
told you when I thought it was better to buy a new jacket than to repair the
one you brought me last winter? Didn't
I?"
She was right, she had done all of that for me. However, I
retorted: "Yes, and I appreciated
that, but what does that have to do with your blasphemy--about asking Holy Mary
for help."
"Blasphemy? Now
you sound like an inquisitor. Listen,I always told you the truth
and always charged you a reasonable price--even gave you a discount once. Do you remember?" I always tell the
truth."
She was making
me feel a little guilty. "Yes, I remember,
and I'm not an ingrate, but I can't see what this has to do with my
prayers."
"Well the
point of all of this is that I always treat you right and give it to you
straight and I say you're wasting your time in this chapel. You want help? You go to Saint Michael the Archangel and
Saint Raphael, Archangel. Now when you
want something, they're are the ones you should go
to." She tugged at my sleeve and
before I knew it, I found myself in the chapel at the other end of the
cathedral wherein stood two statues, about six feet tall, made out of white
Italian marble, carved in the classical style of Saints Michael and Raphael,
Archangels.
Before each
archangel was a prieu dieu
with a runner in front where one could light devotional candles.
She handed me
two cards on which had been typed two invocations: one to St. Michael, one to St. Raphael. "You light only one candle, and say
these words and when it gets to the part where it says "name your
favor," you just say what you want.
Don't be shy, and don't hold back. Just open your heart. These archangels only want honesty. Now you take St. Raphael, he's
also known as the "medicine of God."
So if you need help when you're sick, don't
wait for the doctor--you call on St.Raphael, he's
always there. He makes house calls, if
you know what I mean," she said impishly.
I was
beginning to like her and not think her at all blasphemous, just eccentric in
her views. But
I had to smile at what she was saying. I
tried to control my smile, however, and she noticed it.
"You
don't believe me. That's
okay, I didn't believe it myself when I started many years ago. I'll tell you
something, but don't laugh. Will you
promise?"
"I
promise."
"For
years my grandmother and mother venerated the Virgin. You can't imagine how many Ave Marias were said in our house--even before I was born, and
now I'm seventy-two and I didn't leave home until I was almost thirty and
imagine how many I said myself in my own house, later, as well. But through the
years I noticed that the more I prayed to Her and the more I truly believed she
could help and the more I pleaded for her intervention and mercy, I got no
results. Just like the kids say today,
zip," and she snapped her fingers.
"Well, one day the wind is blowing and I was taking some money out
of my wallet and a dollar flies out of my hand.
Can you imagine, one dollar? And let me tell you, young man, one dollar
back in those days meant something--not like today where we've got to work like
mules to earn five and that five is worth about what one dollar was when I was
a younger woman--so I ran after the dollar.
Thank God, it went under a car and got caught on the tire; imagine, I got on
my belly and almost ruined my good coat to get that dollar. When I got hold of it, I stopped a minute to
catch my breath. And while I'm resting,
a gust of wind brings a piece of paper, just a plain piece of paper, it looked
like it came from a school binder and on it was written in pencil: IF YOU WANT YOUR DREAMS TO COME TRUE, PRAY TO
THE ARCHANGELS MICHAEL AND RAPHAEL. That's all it said. I
don't know why I grabbed it, but I did, stuck it in my
purse along with the dollar and forgot about it. Well, I was having some trouble with my
former husband in those days over a lot of things, especially
the kids. Anyway, I went to church
everyday and lit candles to the Virgin Mary.
After all, she was a mother, too; she could understand a mother's
problems better, say than St.Paul, who was never
married, or St. Theresa of Avila, who was a virgin herself and how could she
tell me about kids and husbands? So I was praying night and day and saying novenas and
attending Wednesday night rosary recitations and things weren't getting any
better. One evening I was cleaning out
an old purse and I came across that piece of ripped binder paper. I read it and reread it, put it in my apron
pocket and made myself a cup of coffee.
I was sitting in my kitchen with only one small lamp on. I decided, what the heck, so I went to a box
I kept postcards people had sent me through the years because I remembered an
old aunt in Italy sent me a postcard from the Vatican Museum with a picture of
Saint Raphael. So I found the picture, I
never throw things like that away. I can
get rid of the Grand Canyon and sunsets from Hawaii--I've got
lots of those through the years from friends.
So I got the picture, I propped it up against the
small lamp I got a candle and a bottle of holy water someone had brought back
from the River Jordan and had given me many years ago, which I used only on
very special occasions, so I sprinkled a little bit of that River Jordan water
on the St. Michael postcard, and then lit the candle. I sat down, I didn't
get on my knees, my knees were sore because I'd been spending so much time on
them in front of the Virgin. So I sat down and started talking to St. Michael the way I'm
talking to you, only it was kind of in a whisper--just like a church and I
remember it was about nine o'clock when I did that and then I heard a fire
truck with its siren blaring passing just outside the house and it kind of
startled me from my quiet conversation and I happend
to look up at the clock radio and saw that it was past ten thirty! Can you imagine that? An hour and a half talking
to that archangel as if he was my neighbor over for a cup of coffee."
"Well,
what happened?" I asked excitedly.
She looked at
me as if I'd asked something impertinent and said:
"Nothing happened, it was late, I had to open my shop early. So I washed my cup, put it away, blew the candle
out and went to bed."
"But
didn't you get a response from your talk with St. Michael?" I asked
"Of
course I did."
"Well--what
was it?"
"That's
none of your business. It was personal
it had to do with my former husband and the kids. You don't need to
know somethings.
Learn some manners, young man.
It's never too late to learn manners."
I felt
slighted and chastised. I had to say something Apparently
she thought I was prying into her personal life. But all I had really wanted to know was what
her petition had
been, and its miraculous outcome because of her intimate monologue with the
archangel. That was all.
I could tell
she was upset and I explained how I felt.
"I wasn't snooping,." I ended.
"Okay, I
apologize. But
it was personal, that's all I can say.
Now let me tell you about St.Michael. Be careful what you ask him for."
"Why do
you say that?"
"Because you may get more than you bargained for."
"What do
you mean?"
She hesitated
for a moment. "Come with me, let's
sit in one of the back pews and talk, anyway, my legs are getting tired. It's something I can tell you, it's not
personal."
We found the
farthermost pew, and from behind a fat, romanesque
column which hid us from view, she said:--
"A friend
of mine had a son in the Marine Corps.
He was a good kid, only a little hot-headed at
times and he got in a fight with a sergeant and they put him in the brig and he
was going to get a court martial, maybe serve time in Leavenworth--get a
dishonorable discharge. You know that would have been a great shame for the family, much
less the misery that poor young man would have had to suffer in
prison--imagine, he was just a kid, nineteen years old, they lived just a few
doors down from me for years--so his mother comes into my shop one day all in
tears and says her son is in the brig and he was going to be court martialed and maybe go to prison for ten years. I tried to console her. They got an attorney; he tried to get the kid off on some
legal business I didn't understand, but it didn't work and the court martial
was going to take place just the same, I
felt helpless. But
then I remembered St.Michael is a warrior, so
I told my neighbor to pray to him night and day for twenty-one days. I don't know why I
said twenty-one days, but I did. So she did and many times I went to visit her and helped her
pray. So one day she got a letter from
her son saying the chief witness for the prosecution had been killed in an
automobile accident;
then a week later she got another letter saying the sergeant, his
accuser, had fallen from a ladder and was in a coma. Then a week later she got
another letter form her son saying his unit had been ordered to Vietnam, and
that by a special order from higher-ups, he'd been released to rejoin his
company; and the next letter she got her
son was in Vietnam and for a couple of months she got letters, He'd been saved from prison; then one day she was informed that he'd been
severely wounded and was in a hospital in Hawaii, so she gets on a plane and
goes to stay with her son; and when he's better he gets a medical discharge and
they flew back to San Francisco and six months later the kid comes down with
pneumonia and dies on her. Can
you imagine? So be careful if you've got enemies.
Saint Michael asks a big price for his help. do you
understand?"
I thought I
understood and said so.
"No young
man, there is no thinking you understand.
Either you understand or you don't
understand. Now do you understand or
don't you?"
I felt she was
pushing my shoulders against the wall and I didn't
like it one bit and said so.
"I'm
sorry you're so sensitive about this; but some things just got to be
told. I don't
want you to get into any trouble. I
Always talk straight;
that's the way I am; don't
take it personally, young man; it's for
your own good. Don't doubt the power,
that's all I've got to say." She looked at her watch.
"I've got
to go; lunch
time is up, I've got to open my shop. Don't forget what I told you. And save your money
and your knees, like I told you.
Goodbye, young man, and, listen, now that I know you a little better,
I'll give you a bigger discount next time you drop something by."
The End