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" Originally published in the December 1997 issue Dear Mom and Dad, Christmas has me thinking about the time I drove you out to the Orthodox monastery in Blanco, Texas, to witness the miracle. It must have been 95 degrees that day, but the dozen or so silent monks still wore their heavy floor-length wool robes. I was wearing shorts, and the nun there handed me a pair of burlap culottes to cover myself with before I entered the sanctuary, where an oaken icon of Mary, mother of Jesus, was weeping myrrh. It was the only time I&amp;#039;d ever worn culottes, and they were too big, so I gathered the waistline in one hand as we shuffled into the pew, so they wouldn&amp;#039;t fall down. We sat and watched as the monks dabbed cotton balls on either of Mary&amp;#039;s cheeks and then wrapped the saturated cotton in foil to give away to visitors. The tears of Mary could assist in miracles, and this was the bounty that you had come for. Craig was at home with AIDS and needed anointing.  Your faces don&amp;#039;t usually give away much, but when you&amp;#039;re in a prayer, all that changes. I don&amp;#039;t know what you see when you pray or where you go, but the looks on your faces after you received your myrrh, or whatever it was, and offered your prayers of thanksgiving were of such serenity that it made me a little envious.  But I was just the chauffeur on this miracle. You have always been eager to head off toward the most recent sighting, and millions of others travel far and wide to follow such things. Miracles are happening all over, from the Blessed Virgin&amp;#039;s appearances in Medjugorje, Bosnia, to the tortilla factory in San Antonio that not so long ago issued forth the now-famous Tortilla of Turin with Jesus&amp;#039;s face on it. As I write this, you are in Conyers, Georgia, where Mary is currently appearing in an open field.  At a question-and-answer session after we had gotten a chance to observe the icon up close, with its tears that looked like clear sap running down a tree, most of the talk centered on the meaning of the myrrh. Why was Mary crying? What was the message? The discussion was incomprehensible to me because it assumed belief. I wish I could believe in ghosts, as you do. I wish I could believe in apparitions. I wish I could believe in miracles. But I can&amp;#039;t. The drive to Blanco with the two of you was lovely, though.  A few months after that summer day, I took a trip out to another small town, Marlboro, New Jersey. There was a man living there named Joseph Januszkiewicz, and on the first Sunday evening of every month, he saw the Virgin Mary in his backyard.  This particular Sunday was spectacular, blue and crisp, and by the time I pulled into Marlboro, the sun was just starting to dip below the tree line in a sky with no clouds. Because the town fathers had tired of the miracle, all the roads to and from Joseph&amp;#039;s place had been closed, so I parked downtown and walked the two miles, following the handmade APPARITION---&amp;amp;gt; signs.  You&amp;#039;ll remember that I had broken my knee in that freak Frisbee accident and had just graduated from crutches to cane. I guess that made me feel that much more like a pilgrim \u2014 not quite like the old penitent women I remember from St. Jude&amp;#039;s, who would crawl to receive communion, praying in Czech with gravel embedded in their bloody knees, but I was sincerely working for this experience.  As a pilgrim, I was uninvited, just as were, I assume, all the other people I met along my way. As are the pilgrims who visit any sacred site. Engraved invitations did not arrive in your mailbox, announcing that the mother of God was descending on a cloud in Medjugorje or appearing in a pasture in Conyers, Georgia, yet you heard and you picked up and went. Faithful people find out from other faithful people, and they just go. Well, I&amp;#039;m not faithful (I read about Joseph&amp;#039;s apparition in The New York Times), but there I was, in the New Jersey countryside, leaning on a cane, concentrating so that my kneecap would stay where it belonged, offering up my suffering, as you have often asked me to do, to sick and dying relatives.  As I approached the site, hobbled and slow as I already was, I slowed further, procrastinating. When I got within a block or two, I could see and hear an unbelievable gathering in Joseph&amp;#039;s backyard. It was early yet, but there must have been a thousand people. I was hesitant to join the crowd.  But then, eventually, somehow I was in among them. There were a dozen rosaries being said in different languages all around me, and the drone of Hail Marys from hundreds of voices sounded the way B-52&amp;#039;s must sound, coming in low. A stations of the cross made its way around the perimeter of the garden. Just outside the patio area on the beautifully manicured lawn was some impressive statuary, one saint I didn&amp;#039;t recognize and an almost life-size Mary with heaped bouquets of autumn flowers at her feet. Pushed up to the edge of Mary&amp;#039;s grotto was a group of, to be bluntly biblical, the halt and the lame. On this spot, the miracle was to happen, and these were the people most in need of a miracle.  I was honestly afraid. All of this was so familiar to me, but what was I doing here? You know, often on a noon walk around midtown Manhattan, I&amp;#039;ll head toward St. Patrick&amp;#039;s Cathedral, over on Fifth Avenue, which isn&amp;#039;t far from my office. There are always tourists there, and sometimes a special mass going on, but most often the church is almost empty. I have found nowhere else the feeling of peace that I get in a place like that. And so I lurk in that big, dark, stain-glassed building just to be around that familiar feeling, that sense memory of some indistinct time in my childhood when I was waiting for the Holy Spirit to take me, to catch a glimpse of the holy me when religion was still present and possible, before I gave it up. And so it was that I found myself in Marlboro, New Jersey, leaning against a tree, taking in a scene of fervor here, of rapture there, and, up by the house, from a tiny woman on a walker, a smile of beautiful transcendence in the golden hour before dusk.  As I scribbled a few thoughts on a pad, my cane hooked around my elbow, I noticed a group of about a dozen women studying me. Finally, a representative, a youngish woman, peeled off and walked purposefully toward me. I slipped the pad into my pocket. I was crippled and feeling alienated, and I was an easy target.  &amp;quot;Are you with the press?&amp;quot; she asked even before reaching me. Her tone was firm but not impolite. &amp;quot;No,&amp;quot; I said blithely, shaking my head. &amp;quot;Well, yes and no,&amp;quot; I followed. &amp;quot;No, not really.&amp;quot; I have always had trouble answering questions. And as a Roman Catholic, I have an obligation to admit guilt, even when there is none. &amp;quot;Listen,&amp;quot; I finally mustered, &amp;quot;I work at a magazine, but I&amp;#039;m here representing only myself.&amp;quot; This did not satisfy her. &amp;quot;There was a guy here last time from Paris Match,&amp;quot; she said, &amp;quot;and we had him removed.&amp;quot; Removed? And then it happened. I did not see it coming. I don&amp;#039;t know why, but they were the last three words I ever expected. &amp;quot;Are you Catholic?&amp;quot; she asked.  Now, a press blackout is one thing, but this woman was asking for the secret handshake, to see my papers, questioning my very Catholicity. My mind immediately fixed on two images from a long time ago: 1) Me receiving First Communion, short-sleeved white dress shirt, little bowtie, head cocked back, eyes clenched shut, mouth open to the point of dislocating my jaw, angels careening around the gauzy interior of my head \u2014 such is my anticipation of the body of Christ reaching my tongue for the first time \u2014 you guys standing prayerfully behind me. And 2) a couple of years later, me playing priest in the backyard in Highlands, Texas, conducting mass between the shed and the big pecan tree, holding an Oreo host up with arms extended skyward, cookie clasped between thumbs and index fingers, perfect form for any good young priest.  I pushed away from the tree, steadying myself with the cane. I looked at my inquisitor. My strongest impulse was to take tough-guy approach. Lady, you have no idea how Catholic I am. You couldn&amp;#039;t handle how Catholic I am. But I could not. Any issues of religious tolerance or freedom of blah-blah aside, her hunch was right. That wasn&amp;#039;t me anymore. So, even as I wondered what she could possibly do if I answered no, I said, &amp;quot;Uh, yeah, I was raised Catholic.&amp;quot; Pause. &amp;quot;I was an altar boy.&amp;quot; My tormentor slowly turned to face her cohort. There was a smile of relief on her face. &amp;quot;It&amp;#039;s okay,&amp;quot; she said, her palms opened to them in a gesture meaning that danger had passed, order had been restored. &amp;quot;He was an altar boy!&amp;quot; Instantly, I was enveloped in a circle of friends from Union, New Jersey, all in their late thirties or early forties, all of whom had come here three times before and all of whom had things to show. Proof of the miracle. There were silver rosaries that Mary had turned to gold. One woman said that her hair had turned gray, like Moses, or at least Charlton Heston. Fat photo albums spilled open to me. Page after page after page of pictures of the sun. At first, I didn&amp;#039;t understand. The woman next to me, who was in a state of beatified hyperventilation, excitedly traced a pattern on the photograph for me. Here&amp;#039;s her veil, she said. Turn the page. Here&amp;#039;s the crown of thorns. Turn the page. Here&amp;#039;s Jesus&amp;#039;s cross. I&amp;#039;m not a photographer, so I can&amp;#039;t really criticize, but I do know that rule number one is never to point your camera at the sun. Bad photography happens. Wasted film. Glitches. Or, in this case, miracles.  These photo albums reminded me of a book you once sent me. It was called Now Is the Time, and it was filled with the same kind of photographs. Inside the front cover was a sweet inscription in which you acknowledged that you didn&amp;#039;t expect me to believe and in which you warned me of the coming Chastisement, the precursor to Armageddon. The pictures in the photo albums were virtually identical to the ones in your book. Pictures that a reputable photo lab would not charge you for. Not that I needed proof \u2014 I&amp;#039;m not looking for proof. But these were not apparitions.  Another of the women, directly across the circle from me, was talking about how last month, at the precise moment that Mary went back to heaven and the apparition ended, a million spangly stars had traced and frolicked across the sky over Marlboro, New Jersey. God&amp;#039;s grace was like a planet exploding! she said. And all of these women had seen, and some had even photographed, the Virgin.  For the last several years, I have known the two of you to go to anywhere the Virgin appears, or to drive hundreds of miles to a place where an icon weeps, so that you can be nearer to God. If you&amp;#039;ve ever actually seen the apparitions yourselves, you&amp;#039;ve never told me of it, and I don&amp;#039;t think that&amp;#039;s ever been the point for you. But here, all around me, were worshipful people come to replicate Joseph&amp;#039;s miracle. If he sees, they must see, too. And so they do. All a miracle takes, it seems, is the ability to claim it. If you think one has happened, it probably has. Combine Catholic mysticism with the can-do spirit of the American century and you get some very result-oriented pilgrims. You get Marlboro. You get Conyers, Georgia. Miracles on demand. Miracle quotas. Suitcases bulging with miracles, the mystery literalized, comprehended, and taken home for cataloging.  I thanked the women for their kindnesses and gimped away depressed. I&amp;#039;m not quite sure what I expected. That Jesus would swoop down on me in suburban New Jersey, heal my knee, and steal my soul? That the Virgin would appear to me, too, as she had to everybody else in Joseph&amp;#039;s backyard? Of course not. It has been a long time since I&amp;#039;ve gone to mass or even thought of myself in that way. But I did not expect that the alienation between the person I once thought I was going to be and the person I am now would be made so complete. I guess I can&amp;#039;t go home again. As a young, earnest Catholic, I&amp;#039;d always loved the mystery of faith. But you&amp;#039;re not supposed to solve the mystery. It ruins everything. At least it does for me. All these miracles are just expressions of somebody&amp;#039;s desire. Mine, yours, God&amp;#039;s, the ladies from Union&amp;#039;s, somebody&amp;#039;s. What&amp;#039;s the point? Believing in these things doesn&amp;#039;t make us better people. Not believing in them doesn&amp;#039;t make us worse. The Marlboro moment was a milestone in my life as a nonbeliever.  Why does it matter that you think she appears? Why does it matter that I don&amp;#039;t? Just what, or who, is Mary, anyway. I mean, besides being responsible for the profoundest modern rift with the Protestants (who, let&amp;#039;s face it, are just jealous because nobody ever appears to them, which is another thing I&amp;#039;d like to talk to y&amp;#039;all about sometime). Sort of like Hillary Clinton used to be to the Republicans \u2014 Hey, who elected her? Who died and made her God? She meddles, and her official role is unclear, but she lends a compassionate ear, is someone who will actually show up and tell you what what&amp;#039;s with mankind. Not so the frosty Trinity, who remain, like Father, like Son, like Holy Ghost, so damned inscrutable.  A few months after I spent that Sunday evening in New Jersey, I heard that a team of investigators from the Diocese of Trenton had gone to Marlboro to look into Joseph Januskiewicz&amp;#039;s apparition. I heard that they declared that no miracle had taken place in Joseph&amp;#039;s backyard.  When I first moved to New York, I would sometimes find myself at bad parties with lots of snide, cynical, hyper-ironic academic or media people. More than once, I wound up drunk in a bathroom, tugging at my face in the medicine-chest mirror, wondering if it was actually me who had come to this thing. Well, for old times&amp;#039; sake, I found myself at one of those parties again last summer. I was talking to some people when, somehow, it came up that I was from the South. One guy who works at an entertainment magazine naturally asked me about fundamentalism, and then our party chat veered into faith generally.  I&amp;#039;ll never understand what really happened, but in less than a minute, we&amp;#039;d all been tossed into an undergraduate philosophical throw-down, me against them. And an arrogant atheist may be the worst kind of religious zealot around. I think early man must have thought up religion in the first place because wry irony gets so empty and tiresome after a while. I don&amp;#039;t have to tell you again that I&amp;#039;m not a religious person, not a believer, but these people couldn&amp;#039;t for a second understand the beauty of a mystery. And they mock people who wonder. You may not believe this, but I was talking to them about you, speaking proudly of the fervency of your faith and defending your miracles (which was surprising enough to me), when I had a minor revelation of my own.  My parents \u2014 staid, conservative, nonmaterialistic, not wildly imaginative, never risk takers in their lives (unless you count having six sons on a shift worker&amp;#039;s salary) \u2014 have, with no questions asked, packed a bag and flown halfway around the world to an unstable country to chase a specter, a ghost. Or driven for days to do the same thing. Or taken the subway from my apartment up to the Bronx to collect some holy water that&amp;#039;s been working miracles for somebody. These are, without a doubt, the most radical acts that I have ever witnessed up close. They are crazy, impetuous things to do. And unspeakably brave. Just thinking about it as I left this unpleasant party gave me a sort of contact buzz, a frisson of faith. And then it came to me: I have faith in your faith. I believe in your belief and in the miracle of your miracles. But they are not my miracles. I know that your fondest hope is for me to be faithful, too, but when you speak of Him to me, or tell me of the dire warnings that Mary delivers when she appears here and there, or when you ask me to pray, I simply don&amp;#039;t respond. I can&amp;#039;t respond, because my response would only hurt you. I can&amp;#039;t live up to your spiritual expectations for me. The most important thing in your world isn&amp;#039;t that important to me, and that sometimes makes me feel very lost. It&amp;#039;s as if you are offering me a great love that is going unrequited, or as if I am closing a heavy door on myself.  Besides, my relationship to the physical world around me is tenuous enough already. Why would I seek out ephemera? And how could I tell the difference? Your religious upbringing made me a decent person. It just didn&amp;#039;t make me a religious person. By making me a skeptic, you made me into someone who cannot join up, someone who will always have a bad time at an apparition but who will always defend apparitions at bad parties in Brooklyn. And I suppose that&amp;#039;s as close as I get to a creed.  Somebody told me that the filmmaker Stanley Kubrick once said that just the idea of ghosts and apparitions enriched his life. That was all. He didn&amp;#039;t need further demonstration, and, in fact, that would probably mess things up. And that&amp;#039;s as close as I get to a declaration of faith.  By the way, I just heard that Joseph Januszkiewicz left Marlboro, New Jersey, and moved to a little town out of state. I don&amp;#039;t know whether She went with him. Merry Christmas. I know you&amp;#039;ll say a little prayer for me. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/news-politics/a9349/mother-mary-comes-to-me-1297/>