A worshipper’s secret

By Neha Prakash 

If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.

The Catholic priest recites a passage from the Gospel according to Mark.

But, this house stands divided between two men.

In the front, above all else, as a sign of eternal sacrifice, hangs the Cross portraying Jesus’ body. It casts a shadow high and inspiring, not so large to occupy the entire wall, but nonetheless daunting. When Irish Decastro enters the chapel she immediately genuflects to Him. She has entered His, and only His, house of worship.

She recites the Rosary while awaiting mass. During the prayers, her attention is focused and guided.

Glory be to the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.

It is only after receiving Communion — the body of the savior — does Decastro’s attention turn to the other man occupying this house.

Because, it is said, God himself has allowed this man into His house — St. John the Baptist Church at 210 W. 31^st St. in Manhattan.

You gave Padre Pio the singular grace of sharing in the Cross of your Son.

While images of Jesus are found encircling the church in the form of carvings and paintings, Pio’s likeness stands in only two places.

In the rear, surrounded by red and white flickering candles, he stands tall and inviting to patrons who have come to worship at the feet of the Lord; the savior he also shares. He is also venerated in a shrine along the wall. Beneath intricately carved scenes of Christ’s Passion, his bust sits draped in deep brown wooden robes awaiting his own visitors.

After eating the bread of the Eucharist, Decastro crosses herself and then moves to the side of the room where the bust sits, to meet with her old friend, Padre Pio. His bust sits lower then her, not large in size, but his presence is large enough to encompass the entire chapel. She must bend to reach him.

She approaches her acquaintance eagerly. Though she has been meeting with him for years, her excitement is enduring.

Many do the same; they come to him in droves, because he is said to grant all. He is the patron saint of those who suffer. And who among us doesn’t suffer?

Decastro stands in front of him for a moment and gazes. She looks with the familiarity of a family member, but still the astonishment one may exhibit when being in the presence of a celebrity.

He returns the stare with powerfully wise eyes, painted on with intricacy, matched with life-like painted wrinkles in his brow. It cannot be mistaken that he has heard her prayer during mass, for many years, and relayed them to Christ the Lord.

She believes he already senses what is in her heart — a request, a wish, a hope. To speak the words aloud is a formality, a custom of tradition more than of necessity.

She reaches out and brushes her hand against a ruby sunburst on his chest and crosses herself. It is a sign of respect for his heart.

His heart is what has brought her back to this place for so long.

Then — just as a small child may whisper to Santa Claus what she longs for— Decastro leans forward and places her mouth to his ear.

She speaks, inaudibly, for several seconds. It is a conversation that must be had, to reveal the thoughts and secrets and desires that have been bubbling inside her since their last encounter. These words are meant only for her old friend.

One almost expects to see Pio’s head nod in acknowledgement and his concerned, hooded eyes blink in understanding. But he remains still in movement, outwardly unaffected by the words. In his years, he has heard prayers to heal every ailment, anxiety, fear or wound, physically, mentally and emotionally.

Her lips back away from his ear and move to his forehead. Familiar and quick, the kiss is a fleeting goodbye — until next week, when she comes to visit a friend, a mentor, and most literally a “padre” (father).

She moves to the case sitting to his left. Beneath a gold and bronze painted arch is a box unimpressive and unadorned. The container though holds something of great significance to the worshippers: Pio’s sock.

Considered a “second class relic,” something possessed by the saint, it is holy in itself. But the sock is stained with the blood of the great man, making it a “first class relic” and to the people of the church the closest they reach to meeting the man they revere.

She touches the box and crosses herself. She repeats the action to the box on Pio’s right, holding his bloodstained glove.

Then, once she feels she has spent the time she needed with Pio, Decastro’s gaze returns to his eyes.

“He is here to ask for your wishes, for the hopeless cases,” Irish says. “My sister asked for a baby for so many years, and now she has a baby.

“My wish? I don’t want to say…I can’t say.”

Because it is a secret, shared only between the two, spoken in a house shared by two.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, March 7th, 2012 at 5:04 am. It is filed under Neha Prakash, News, View From NYC. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.