Many have considered relics to be a curiosity of another era, a time before scientific and industrial revolutions had come to the fore and challenged the more antiquated conceptions of magic and mysticism. But in today’s world, one rife with a rigorously rationalist approach to life, the mysticism of relics still holds an appeal for a wide array of Christians, namely Catholics and Orthodox Christians.

A relic is an object, preferably a part of the body or clothes, which remains a memorial of a departed saint. According to Roman Catholic Canon Law, there are three classes of relic: first-class relics are items directly associated with the physical remains of a Saint, e.g. a bone or hair; second-class relics are items which came into physical contact with a saint, e.g. a piece of clothing or a rosary; and third-class relics are objects which were touched and blessed by a first or second-class relic.

Relics are associated with many other religious traditions, other than Christianity, most notably in Buddhism and Islam. But early Christianity’s development in a polytheistic society, created a particular position for relics within the initial manifestation of the faith, something which has carried on to today’s Catholic practices.

However, relics aren’t relegated to ancient seats of early Christianity, like Rome. Come a little closer to home and you might be surprised. New York, a city with a rich and diverse religious history, has a surprising number of relics, strewn at various places of Catholic worship in town. This slideshow focuses on four different places, important to local Catholics — three shrines dedicated to recently canonized saints, and a church: Transfiguration Church in Chinatown, the Shrine of Mother Seton in Battery Park, the shrine of Padre Pio in midtown and the shrine of Mother Cabrini in Fort Washington.

Prayer and bathrooms are often not referred to in the same breath. But when Shayla Osborn mentioned the words in quick succession during a testimonial in the chapel of the Manhattan New York Mormon Temple at 125 Columbus Avenue, the Young Single Adult congregation broke into soft laughter.

“It is important for me to pray aloud,” said Osborn, a musical theater actress who came to the church turned out in an impeccable tan jacket and a black dress and perfectly coiffured hair. “I share my house with three other girls who are all non-LDS girls, and the only place I can pray alone is on the throne in the bathroom,” continued Osborn.

Osborn’s testimonial lightened up the chapel. The room was thick with cathartic energy that flowed during the testimonials of members, who were also observing a day of fast.

Latter-Day Saints fast the first Sunday of each month, skipping two consecutive meals and water. Members donate the money that would have been spent on meals to the Church. On the day of the fast, only the holy bread and water of the sacrament can be consumed. A testimonial – done on the day of fasting — is a “spiritual witness given to an individual by the Holy Ghost.”

It is testimonials like Osborn’s that help other members develop their spiritual life, according to those inducted into the priesthood of the Latter-Day Saints. “Sharing the gospel is emphasized a lot among Mormons. The more you share your beliefs about the Church, the more it helps you and the others,” said Mitch Michell, a young missionary from Idaho known as ‘Elder’ Michell, currently assigned to the Columbus Avenue church.

Manhattan New York Temple. | Photo courtesy of The AP.

The bishop — Paul D. McKinnon — who heads human resources for Citigroup – agrees. “Testimonials are a chance for everyone to express how they feel about the gospel. It is always an uplifting experience,” said McKinnon.

Osborn had read the Book of Mormon at her home on 52^nd Street and 9^th Avenue before she came into the church for the 1 p.m. service for singles between 18 and 30. She hadn’t planned to bear her testimonial – but was inspired to do so while at Church. “It is like a burning in your heart that you have to share. You can’t sit there anymore – you have to get up and share it,” said Osborn.

Though she doesn’t have an ounce of extra fat, Osborn says she loves food, which can make fasting hard for her. But fasting, she says, always helps her feel the spirit stronger. The strength of her conviction in the spirit came through in her spontaneous testimonial, when she addressed the congregation: “Since January 1, I have been spending time in prayer everyday. I can see how my testimony has grown dramatically since then…. I am so grateful to Jesus Christ for atoning for our sins. I am grateful that I get to see all of you here every week, even though everyone has busy lives. I love you all.”

Osborn’s next testimonial just might be in front of her three “non-LDS” roommates. “They respect my religion, and are planning to visit the church soon.” The visit should help explain Osborn’s bathroom routine better to them.

Pope Benedict XVI during a papal audience at St. Peter's Square in Vatican City. | Photo by Trinna Leong.

“A mother who went to communion came back home and her son, seeing her, quickly asked, ‘Is He inside you?’”

“The mother said ‘Yes’ and the boy knelt in presence of Christ who is in her.”

The Rev. Deo Rosales told that story to a group of 30 middle-aged women at a retreat for professional women at the New York headquarters of Opus Dei in Midtown East. The women sat quietly as the priest lectured in a calm monotonous tone that barely showed any emotion.  His message, as illustrated in the story of the child and mother, was that the women should pay special attention to the Eucharist because it is the center of Catholic worship. He preached about the virtues of attending mass while weaving in the historical importance of the ceremony the mass.

“The greatest event in history,” Rosales said, “is the sacrifice of God.”

Opus Dei, a conservative lay organization, is the first and only Personal Prelature of the Catholic Church. Personal prelature is an institution in the Catholic Church comprising of a prelate, clergy and laity.

However, the mostly-private organization has many followers, including some influential wealthy supporters who have kept its 16-floor building on Lexington Avenue and 34^th Street open and active. Every Saturday afternoon, lay members meet for a recollection session at either Murray Hill Place, the headquarters or Alderton House, the residential hall for women and retreats are held several times a year for members of different demographics. For example, young professional women and older married professional women have their own separate retreats, twice a year each.

Father Rosales is an Opus Dei priest and a Chaplain at Schuyler Hall, a center for young men that work toward helping youths go through professional and character development. During the meditation, Rosales repeatedly emphasized the importance of mass because of God’s contributions, and reminded the congregants to not forget or sideline the mass.

“In the bloody sacrifices of the Holy Sacrament, Christ turned his flesh into bread and his blood into wine,” he goes on explaining.

Just as the Super Bowl was available to sports goers worldwide, Rosales felt the same with God.

“Last Sunday, the Super Bowl was important for some people,” he said, drawing comparison between sports and religion.

“That event was made present to thousands of places through television so many people can participate in it,” he added. “Just as how sports is available everywhere, God made his presence everywhere. Through space, through time.”

His congregants, all were dressed immaculately, sat quietly throughout the meditation session, which was attended by married women, most of them mothers.  ,.

Rosales provided many examples to convey his point, while quoting Pope Benedict XVI and Josemaria Escriva, the founder of Opus Dei who was elevated to sainthood by John Paul II. .

“As Pope Benedict said, ‘Only a communion with Christ does the world become a mirror of what we see it to be.”

The Opus Dei chapel where the group met is unlike what one would see in a Baptist church, which is often loud with plenty of joyous singing. Here, no one speaks during meditation except for the priest and the congregants sit solemnly, not even muttering a single “yeah” or “praise the Lord.”

The focus was on Rosales and his words.

“Christ is more than a symbol. The Eucharist should be the center of existence in each of us,” he emphasized more than once.

In some ways, the meditation session served more as a reminder to congregants on their basic practice in particular while attending the mass.

“Hopefully you are not asleep in mass,” Rosales said. “ Hopefully you fight against distractions. Hopefully you review the readings before you go to mass. Hopefully you are not late, early at least. Prepare yourself. Be hopeful in receiving our God. With joy. Welcoming Him.”

Father Rosales told another story to capture the audience’s attention.

“There was this man taking a walk with a friend. When they passed by a Catholic church, he tells his friend, ‘Oh I have this custom of paying respect to the Blessed Sacrament, would you like to come in with me?’ His friend said ‘No’.”

“When he came out, his friend jokingly teased him and said, ‘So what did he tell you?’”

“He said, ‘He told me that he’s waiting for you.”

With that, the crowd laughed softly, hardly hinting toward the type of uproarious laughter one would see in Nazarene or Baptist churches.

Father Rosales then wraps up the session and knelt a few feet away from the tabernacle. He said the closing of the “mental prayer”, a form of prayer where one meditates on God’s words.

“I thank you, my God, for the good resolutions, affections and inspirations that you have communicated to me in this meditation. I ask your help to put them into effect. My immaculate Mother, Saint Joseph my father and lord, my guardian angel, intercede for me.”

A priest at a gurdwara in Queens, New York carries scarves to cover the Sikh holy book Guru Granth Sahib (in red) | Photo courtesy of The AP.

A young woman walks into a low-ceilinged room. She pauses to shift the baby wiggling on her hip, then glides forward on the carpeted path.  She passes congregants seated cross-legged on the ground to her left and right, staring at a spot in the front of the room. Many of the men are in dress shirts in muted shades, but a few boldly colored turbans and bright orange handkerchiefs stamped “Manhattan Sikh Association” sprinkle some heads. The women, many of whom are seated on the right, alternate between traditional wear and the jeans-t-shirt combination with a scarf draped over their heads.

In front of the room stands a low stage, and a woman sits atop it, reading from a book that is shrouded in a beautiful, intricately ornamented deep sky blue cloth. Its design is mirrored in tasseled burgundy velvet suspended above the stage.

The young mother clasps her hands together, a prayer passing silently from her lips. She hesitates, shuffles her baby around to face the stage, and then drops to her knees in prostration. As her forehead touches the floor, she brings her child’s face to the ground as well, much to his dismay.  He bursts into tears, not realizing that he’s just received one of his first lessons in Sikh rituals, one he’ll continue to observe for years to come.

This bowing is called matta take. The object of the devotion through this act is the Guru Granth Sahib – the Sikh holy scripture. The Guru Granth Sahib is much more than a book, though; it is considered the 11^th of 10 human Gurus, or spiritual teachers, in Sikh history, and it’s treated with as much respect and reverence as a living Guru. And on this rainy Thursday night at the Manhattan Sikh Association center, the woman, her child, and the entire congregation have gathered for a service to do just that – to express their devotion to and meditate on the spiritual content of this scripture.

The association holds monthly services, called divans, at their Midtown location, 104 East 30th Street. At other Sikh gurdwaras, these divans happen more often, but the center is still new, meant to fill the gap for young local professionals. The association has been around for three years, but this new center has only been open for a little over a year.

The service takes place in the building’s long basement hall. The walls and ceiling are a blinding white, not bothered with ornaments or pictures. The only object of attention, the only object worth attention, is the Guru Granth Sahib, perched above and in front of the devotees. The beautiful colored linens that adorn it contrast sharply with the white sheets that cover the back wall, from which a mirror peeps through.

The first matta take is performed as soon as devotees enter the gurdwara. They drop some dollar bills on the spread in front of them – these will later go into maintaining the center – and clasp their hands together. As they close their eyes, whispering words of gratitude and prayer, they slowly bend down and touch their foreheads to the ground – a sign of ultimate submission and humility to the word of God.  The white sheets covering the blood red carpets bundle under their knees, the steel bracelets on their right arms graze the floor, and seconds in the real world become minutes in the spiritual one as private words pass from devotee to his Lord. Then, one final stand, one final touching of hands, a nod to fellow believers, and the matta take is done.

The bowing will be repeated several times throughout the program – twice between singing the hymns and reciting passages from the Guru Granth Sahib and once as the book is being taken back to its separate room. Simran Singh, who read aloud from the scripture during the procession, says the root of the matta take comes from the way Sikhs view the Guru Granth Sahib. The word for the service, divan, was originally used to describe a royal court in the Mughal Empire, and the way the temple, or gurdwara, is arranged replicates that setting in many ways. “Bowing before the scripture indicates a recognition of the Guru as a royal sovereign,” says Singh. Thus, he says, the raised placement of the Guru Granth Sahib, its lavish wrapping, and the waving of a fan, or chor, over the scripture when it is not being read.

As the service comes to a close, the man waving the chor closes the Guru Granth Sahib, covers it in a white cloth, ornaments it with the wraps, and carries it out of the room on his head. As he passes, congregants drop to the ground in a wave, sending their last respects of the day to their holy Guru with their final matta take.

Opus Dei. | Photo courtesy of The AP.

The chapel was dimly lit as female believers started walking in, each pausing to kneel on one knee before moving into the pew. One of them, a pregnant woman in her late twenties carefully bent down with her right hand holding onto the bench and her eyes looking straight ahead to the tabernacle.

Genuflection, an act of devotion by touching one knee to the ground is symbolized in the Catholic Church as a mark of respect in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. These days, however, it is uncommon to find most practitioners genuflecting in churches. At most, churchgoers cross themselves upon entry into their place of worship.

In Opus Dei’s New York headquarters at 139 East 34 Street, all the believers who came for a spiritual retreat in the center genuflect.

“Every time I enter the church, I see the Blessed Sacrament as the person I look up to,” said Isabel Munarriz, 29, an attorney based in the city.

“It’s not a piece of bread, it’s a person who is there,” she added.

Though seven months pregnant, Munarriz does not skip the act. Before each mass during the three-day retreat, she helped set up the altar for prayer and cleared it when the service was over. She would walk up to the front of the altar, bend down before walking into the room in the corner of the chapel to take the ciborium, a metal cup to hold the bread and chalice, a goblet to hold wine to be used during the Holy Communion. After she placed the items on the altar, she genuflects again before heading back to her seat.

This simple act of bending one’s knee is done at least ten times throughout the day during the young professional women’s retreat organized by Opus Dei in its Midtown East center. From its meditation sessions to daily mass, each practitioner never failed to genuflect.

“There was a time I curtsied instead of properly genuflecting then my mom told me, ‘Isabel, you need to do it on one knee, it’s respect!’” Manurriz said with laughter.

The earliest historical record of the practice of genuflecting goes back to the Persians who used it to pay their respect to their king. Over time, the Western world caught up with the act and its usage spread in churches during the Middle Ages. Christians however first bowed low to bishops before the ritual of genuflection to the Blessed Sacrament was introduced and gained prominence as an obligatory act in the fifteenth century.

Members of Opus Dei still view simple ritual acts in Christianity as important and strictly adhere to its practices. Genuflecting is no exception.

“It’s an encounter with Jesus. A sign of respect,” said Manurriz expressing her views on why she genuflects in churches.

“It’s like a greeting and a goodbye. Genuflect is a different way of communicating. I try to do it with my heart,” added Manurriz.

For each believer, the lighted candles by the tabernacle marked the presence of Jesus Christ in the chapel and it is the first thing they look for upon stepping foot into the room.

“If you enter the church and see the candles are lighted, you know the Blessed Sacrament is there so you greet him by genuflecting,” said Rose Marie Cosio, 40, a banker who has been with Opus Dei for 15 years.

“When I’m in front of the altar, I’m in front of the king of kings. That’s the most important part,” Cosio added.

The Torah. | Photo courtesy of The AP.

On a rainy Friday night, two young men in their mid-twenties arrive early for prayer at Congregation Ramath Orah on 110th Street off Broadway in Manhattan. The synagogue’s main sanctuary, lit by four brass, twelve-pronged chandeliers, is painted a warm eggshell, divided along the middle by a thin white fabric, translucent enough to see the shadows of the other through the gender divide. There are 21 rows on each side, and the men fill them comfortably as the service gets into full swing; 35 men attended at its peak, with only six women showing up to pray on the other side.

As it was the beginning of Shabbat, the Torah remained dressed in its ark at the front of the room, protected by a grand red-velvet curtain with gold trimmings. Two gargantuan medieval chairs stand on the left of the holy vessel. The scroll will emerge the next morning; but in preparation, between Kaballat Shabbat and Ma’ariv, Rabbi Moshe Grussgott would give remarks to the congregation on the parsha of the week.

In opening his speech, Grussgott quotes a favorite film of his: Phil Alden Robinson’s 1989 “Field of Dreams.”

“I usually start off with an anecdote or a story to hook people and get their attention,” Grussgott says after Shabbat.

For this particular parsha, on Terumah, Exodus 25-27, evoking the image of Kevin Costner walking through a cornfield has surprising resonance. “If you build it, he will come,” Grussgott reminds the congregation. This is a key message in the movie, but more importantly, the message of the week. “Meet God halfway,” Grussgott repeats, “and He will come.”

This week’s Torah portion was on the building of the mishkan, or Tabernacle, in the desert after the exodus from Egypt. “Jews were struggling about the elaborate plans of building this temple,” Grussgott explains. “Rabbis usually find allegorical meaning in these parshas.”

In his speech, Grussgott describes two different interpretations of the parsha: one that is figurative and one that is quite literal. Figuratively, Rashi, a medieval French rabbi who wrote extensively on Talmud interpretation, said Jews have a duty to make the home a hospitable place for God to reside, and that the mishkan represents that. But literally, Grussgott explains, Jews have historically built separate rooms for God, fully equipped with a desk, a chair, and a menorah for light.

And yet no bed is ever included in these rooms, he emphasizes.

“Do you know why?” he asks the crowd with a chuckle. “This is how rabbis make you feel guilty! They say, ‘you just read it! You don’t realize!’”

Grussgott finally gets a raised hand from the pews, and the participating gentleman answers correctly: it would be an insult to imply that God requires rest.

“When you have a beautiful Friday night meal, and the kids don’t have their smart phones with them and everyone is dressed beautifully, you create a structure that invites religious peace,” Grussgott explains. This is how Jews today can build mishkan in their own lives.

Grussgott’s lesson is short, and he speaks quickly. But in teaching his congregation through a miniature lecture, the weekly prayer is elevated to a practical education in how to live a more religious and spiritual Jewish life. It’s an opportunity for rabbis to connect the Book, usually separated from its people by ark doors and velvet curtains, with every day living.

“Not everyone there is going to be on that level,” Grussgott says. “I know that I have to be conscious to translate every Hebrew word. But I also want it to be challenging to those who are fluent, and active.”

Photo courtesy of The AP.

Sean and Anna Yun brought their 13-month-old daughter Vera to Redeemer Presbyterian Church on a recent Sunday for the child’s Christian rite of baptism. It was in some ways a very private and personal act, but the pastor, the Rev. Leo Schuster, used the occasion to teach a much broader public lesson.

Standing before a congregation of 2,000 people, most of them young like the Yuns, Schuster noted that the lesson was somewhat out of season but added that it is one that we need reminders of all year long.

“It’s strange to talk about this in February,” he explained. “We’re used to hearing this story around Christmas, but we’re starting this morning with his birth.  It’s this idea of the incarnate word. When Jesus took on human flesh and came down here it’s like he sent his final and best word.”

With that, Schuster took Vera into his arms, cradling her as she squawked and cooed. He blessed the child and asked for her parent’s acceptance of the holy act. Then he turned to the congregation and asked them, “And now do you, the congregation, undertake the responsibility in assisting their Christian daughter?”

“Amen,” the crowd responded.

Schuster dipped his hand into the basin and drew a cross on Vera’s forehead. He blessed her in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. He baptized her, demonstrating the divinity God bestowed on humans through the incarnation of Christ.

Turning to the congregation, Schuster explained that the rite established the core principle of Christian thought—God became a human so that humans could one day be with God.

“It’s appropriate when we talk about the way God entered the world the way he did,” said Schuster, “that we would welcome into the church a new child.”

“This is the beginning of Vera’s spiritual journey,” Schuster said.

He handed the squirming child, oblivious to the great gift she had just received, back to two proud parents, who were now beaming.

Then Schuster called Vera’s new church family to prayer:

“Father, we thank you for your gift of children. We give thanks that you came to us as a child to identify yourself with us. And now Vera is identified with you.”

Photo courtesy of The AP.

Early every morning, the Rev. Sammy Taylor rings the doorbell of 15 West 124th Street to say mass for the convent of the Franciscan Handmaids of Mary. Because the Catholic faith prohibits women from saying mass, the Sisters must have a chaplain officiate the service.

Over the course of one recent winter morning, he spoke about the necessity for Christians to practice tolerance. His remarks that morning were based on the Gospel of Mark, which reads:

“ From within the man, from his heart, come evil thoughts: Unchastity, theft, murder, adultery, greed, malicious,

And deceit, envy, blaspheme, and licentiousness.

All these evils come from within, and they defile him.”

The teaching of the day had special resonance for Franciscan Handmaids of Mary, a predominantly African-American order of nuns, founded in Atlanta in 1916, to provide teachers for segregated African-American schools in the South.

After kissing the Bible, Taylor walked to the front of the altar, and began his sermon in a booming voice that did not seem to match his lean, wiry frame.  The reading preceding the Gospel this morning dealt with King Solomon, and his message of tolerance for others. For this particular religious community, tolerance has a personal significance.

“This month is Black History Month for us,” he said. “And as I talk about the wisdom of Solomon, I think about the wisdom of our brothers and sisters who have gone before us.  The wisdom, and knowledge of faith, and all those who were persecuted, raised in bigotry and hatred, they held on to their faith. “

“What a blessing we have, we are role models,” Taylor continued. “Kids today they don’t have any role models but sports figures. But we have a lot of role models.”

As he spoke, Taylor raised his arms, palms turned upwards, as if channeling inspiration from the air above him. “They should learn their history and they know that we have role models, people who were strong in their faith, and what came out of them was from the lips and the heart. They practiced what they preached and they kept in step with the Lord.”

Sister Maria Goretti, 80, leaned forward, rapt with attention. Her grey hair peeped out from under her navy blue habit; a walker was parked behind her chair. But her mind is sharp as ever. As a young woman who had recently joined the order, she was sent to Wilmington, North Carolina in 1953 to work as a teacher. Born and raised in New York, she was unprepared for the segregated way of life in the South. “I’m sorry, we don’t serve your kind,” she remembers people saying to her. “Your kind…that’s what they said.”

Sister Lilian R. Webb, 97, was also present, sitting two rows away from Sister Maria. They have known each other for over 60 years. Sister Lilian was also a teacher in Wilmington. She recalls walking into a church and seeing separate Holy Water “whites” and “coloreds.”

“We lived up in the North,” she said. “We hadn’t experienced any of that.”

As he got to the middle of his sermon, Father Taylor hit his stride and his voice became even more powerful. He stared down the Sisters in front of him as he asked a solemn question.

“How about us in our lives? “ he asked. “We can’t let history go down the tubes without understanding, learning and practicing what our brothers and sisters, our ancestors did before us.” He paused for effect. “And a lot of them was in this community.” Again he paused and looked around the room.

“Who left legacies for us to live by and practice and to walk each day of our lives? Today is the day of Saint Josephine Bakhita, an African saint, a saint that knows our struggles, a saint that said ‘Yes Lord, I will let nothing or no one break my striding unto you.’”

Saint Josephine Bakhita is the saint of human trafficking. In 1877, still a child, she was kidnapped from her home in the Sudan, and sold into slavery. She was eventually bought by the Italian Vice Consul to Sudan, who brought her to Italy.  Because Italian law didn’t recognize slavery, she was freed. She converted to Catholicism and devoted her life to caring for children.

“Let us do the same,” declared Father Taylor.  “Always be the sun for our brothers and sisters who are less fortunate than we are, always be concerned for the sisters in our community, the priests in the archdiocese. That message of Jesus, starts with each and every one of us, before we can do for anybody else. May God bless us. “

With that, the congregation knelt in prayer.

After the service, the Sisters gathered in the dining room downstairs for breakfast. As she nibbled on her buttered toast and fruit, Sister Maria reflected on what she heard:

“The lesson that I learned today from this Gospel, is that we are responsible to reach out to other folk,” she says. With a twinkle in her eye, she paused for the punch line. “We are told that we should love everybody. You don’t have to like them, but you love them.”

A shrine to Padre Pio sits alone in a Brooklyn neighborhood | Photo by Anam Siddiq.

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.