Santa Maria & The Village of Miracles

Prologue

The Village of Altamonte

Andalucía, Southern Spain

Summer, 1981

~

How could he be so stupid? He felt physically sick … sick at the thought of the stain, the tainting of his reputation and family name shamed for eternity. Descended from two of the most noble and royal of Catholic bloodlines, Deacon Benedicto Gonzalez-Navarre was ruined. Fast-tracked by powerful family friends and with sponsorship from the highest echelons of the Catholic Church, he had until today been making great headway for someone so young. His career, meticulously mapped out from birth, lay in tatters.

For one who had risen so quickly, his fall from grace was sure to be swift and brutal. He stood to lose everything. It was over!

Exhaling wearily, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. Although the church was cooling quickly, and the wooden pew hard and unforgiving, he was numb to the chill and discomfort, his mind elsewhere …

Why am I even here?

He had been perfectly happy working in the Archbishop’s private office as Social Secretary. They were happy, carefree days. The Archbishop had the most social of salons and Benedicto merrily and efficiently oversaw a whirl of receptions, lunches, and private dinners for Spain’s social, political and - occasionally – religious elite. But his cushy number had ended abruptly one afternoon.

“Time for a parish posting, Benedicto,” they had said, smiling. “It will help you experience what life is like outside Madrid. It’s an easy parish in a beautiful, but quiet, white village high in the mountains … and old Father Luis could do with the help.”

Like a fool he had reluctantly agreed.

“The Village of Miracles!” he snorted dismissively. “Damn you, Altamonte!” For the first time in years his controlled, icy exterior slipped.

As the sun set and the church cooled, the young deacon began to shift uncomfortably. His always immaculate hand-tailored black cassock stuck to his sweat covered body. Standing, he placed both hands on the pew in front of him and paused for a few moments. Once steadied he slowly shuffled between the pews and crossed the aisle towards the simple shrine opposite, his confidence and arrogance extinguished. His normally erect, lean frame was now hunched protectively inside his creased and sticky cassock.

Sitting down in an old wooden chair, he stared at the Shrine of Santa Maria, the revered and Most Holy Martyr of Altamonte. Inside was a small centuries old glass flask containing a dark, indistinguishable lumpen mass of her congealed blood. What had earlier that day glistened in its holy and liquid crimson glory was now just a dark lump.

Closing his eyes, he bowed and shook his head slowly from side to side, his jet-black hair flopping across his brow. His fine features were now creased in horrible, concentrated pain as he replayed in his mind the events of recent days …

The Catholic Faithful of centuries gone by would - as was tradition - collect artifacts associated with the many holy men and women who preached the Gospel, often at their peril. A piece of bone, cloth, or in this instance, a flask of blood, would be preserved as revered relics to remind The Faithful of those who had made the ultimate sacrifice for their faith.

In the case of Santa Maria, things took a holy and miraculous turn. One year, on the anniversary of her death and like clockwork every year thereafter, the normally congealed mass of blood, which was kept in a small shrine in Altamonte’s village church, miraculously liquefied for a few precious and holy days. From that year on, pilgrims travelled to witness this most wonderful and famous manifestation of faith. And in celebrating the life and death of Santa Maria and The Miracle of the Blood of the Saint, a great festival culminating in a grand High Mass was established.

The ever-ambitious Benedicto was determined not to be forgotten by his sponsors and mentors in Madrid. He missed the city and hated this sleepy, dusty, village and its uncivilised, uncouth inhabitants. He was determined to return to his rightful place at the centre of power, glamour, and fun! So, he set about seeing how he could turn what was, in his opinion, a ridiculous peasant miracle to his advantage and get back to Madrid before he was forgotten.

The opportunity presented itself quicker than Benedicto had hoped for. When the Spanish broadcaster TVE contacted Father Luis about filming the festival and its glorious miracle, the young telegenic Benedicto threw himself eagerly into the project.

That morning, people from the village and beyond turned out to watch the young deacon being interviewed on the steps of their church. As if by clockwork, the miracle had manifested itself the night before and there was an air of excitement in the village. By now pilgrims from afar were arriving having heard the news of the miracle’s annual manifestation. Everything had been carefully arranged for the TV crew to film Benedicto, catapulting him from the doldrums of the countryside into the limelight …

But then came the fateful moment that would bring Benedicto’s world crashing down around him. The crew asked if they could film in the church, actually film the flask inside the church, to show their viewers The Miracle of the Blood of the Saint.

Father Luis counseled against it but eventually gave in to the insistent and over-bearing arguments of Benedicto. “It is the way forward,” Benedicto argued with even more confidence and self-importance than usual. “Television is the new medium of communication,” he thundered, “the church must move with the times!”

Realising he was losing the argument, Father Luis looked at his watch and, as was his habit most days, wandered off to the local bar leaving Benedicto to his modern ways.

An excited Benedicto stood in the church, its gloom lit bright by the huge, hot TV lights. Barely able to contain himself, he stood by the Shrine of Santa Maria speaking eloquently and confidently about Altamonte, the church, Santa Maria, and the wondrous miracle. Yet despite hours of filming, Euprepio, the director, was impatient for more.

“More light, please … and you,” Euprepio motioned at the mouse-like minimum wage make-up girl, “more make-up for the deacon, I can see he is sweating already.” Whilst the make-up girl busied herself around Benedicto, Euprepio hissed at the cameraman, “Get in closer, Eduardo, let us see the redness … the deep redness.”

Pausing, he added theatrically, “And its bloody translucence … its miraculous beauty.”

The church was getting darker as the sun set.

“We need to see the miracle,” Euprepio hissed impatiently.

The crew, camera, and their huge hot lights, moved in further for a series of long close ups. Again, Benedicto enthused eloquently and confidently, sweating under the lights.

“Closer. Closer. More light, more light. Get the lights closer,” whispered Euprepio intensely.

But whilst Benedicto was mid-flow something strange happened. “Euprepio, something is wrong!” hissed the cameraman.

Getting no response, he implored urgently, “Look … the flask. Look at the blood … it is boiling!”

They all looked at the cameraman who was by now putting down his equipment and pointing at the flask. Almost as one they turned and looked at the flask. Moving closer, they saw it …

Benedicto, eyes wide, raised a hand to his mouth as it to stifle a cry.

They could not believe their eyes …

**********

Raffa

The City of Málaga

Andalucía, Southern Spain

Many years later, in 2003 …

~

After yet another crazy liquor-fuelled session, Raffa again lay semi-conscious in the hospital emergency room. Like ‘Groundhog Day’, his life had taken on an eerie and dangerous familiarity. He would drink himself into a stupor, sometimes end up brawling, and on occasion get locked up for the night. The grim inevitably was that he would find himself here again being pumped out and cleaned up.

And then he would go and do it all over again.

Even by Raffa’s standards it had been a big one. Had it been a day long bender … or several days? Who knows, he thought.

All he knew was that the whole episode must have been one crazy mash-up of drinking, brawling, and God knows what else. Yes, it had been a big one and here he was again.

But even in his semi-conscious state, Raffa could tell that tonight things were different in the hospital. Where were the bright lights and urgent chaos of the emergency room? No nurse to drunkenly flirt with whilst she was searching for a useable vein. No weary doctor sighing ‘It’s you again’.

So instead of the usual, Raffa found the unusual. This time they weren’t bothering. No one was bothering.

He could hear the orderlies talking. They’d seen it before – seen him before – and they’d see it again. “Leave him,” sneered one of them. “No one cares about people like him. And besides, there are more urgent cases … better people!”

So, the orderlies went for their coffee and cigarettes and left him.

Every now and then a nurse would rush past, averting her eyes as she went about her hurried, more urgent, better business. Unlike the orderlies, the nurses wanted to help, to ease Raffa’s suffering however caused. But they were busy. Busy and tired … busy, tired, and short-staffed.

And there were others to consider, others to prioritise … the elderly and infirm … children, the terminally ill, and the more deserving emergency cases … those who had not chosen to be there.

Unable to speak, his mouth and throat ached with dryness, his body damp with sweat.

Help me ...

Still no one stopped. Instead he lay alone in a half-lit hallway listening to the urgent sounds of the more deserving being treated.

Then Raffa did something he had not done in years. He wept. Not the usual pathetic, drunken sob. No, this was different. Lying on a stinking trolley surrounded by the sounds and smell of fear and the inevitable, he cried.

And then he felt a hand gently brushing his brow and a cup of cold water pressed to his lips. In the semi-darkness Raffa could see a man ... a priest?

“Who are you?” croaked Raffa.

“I am Father Romero and I am here to help you …”

When Father Romero spoke, Raffa felt a warmth come over him like he had never experienced before. He had never known love nor felt its unconditional embrace.

As Raffa sobbed and retched, Father Romero held him, caring nothing for his stink or wretched state.

And whilst Father Romero held his hand, the Catholic rote learnings of Raffa’s childhood years resurfaced as he confessed.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …”

Every muscle in his body strained as the years of shame, dishonesty, deceit, and disgust poured out of him. As the night wore on, Raffa and Father Romero spoke more. Although exhausted, Raffa craved the company of this man who had shown him the love and care he had never had during his chaotic life.

As dawn broke, Father Romero rose to leave. “Nurse, please ensure this man is cared for. I will be in later during the day to check on him,” he said in a polite but firm manner.

Raffa gripped Father Romero’s hand tightly. “Why?” he whispered. Father Romero smiled. "Everyone deserves a second chance, Raffa. Get some rest and I will see you later.”

Alone again, Raffa went back over the events of the night and his conversation with Father Romero.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” he whispered to himself. “Even me ...”

Although exhausted and hungover, he again prayed. Raffa pleaded to be given one last chance, just one chance to put things right. How he’d do that, he didn’t know but it wouldn't be half-hearted. He longed to be a good man like Father Romero ... an inspiration to others. Yes, he would see Father Romero again and put things right.

As he drifted into an exhausted sleep, Raffa finally heard his Calling. As a boy, he had heard of people having their ‘Calling’. It was sometimes talked about in school or at church. His teachers, often in hushed and reverential tones, spoke of not just great saints and martyrs, but also ordinary men and women. God had somehow and for some unknown reason spoken to them. He had touched their hearts and deepest subconscious. It was inexplicable, supernatural, and instant! These men and women went onto lead pious, deeply spiritual lives, dedicated to God.

Could it be true?

And why me?

I’m a drunk, a vagrant … what does God see in me?

What does He want from me?

Although Raffa had led a life some may envy - one without responsibilities and an endless round of raucous liquor-fuelled sessions - he realised how desolate he felt. His heart was empty. He was unsatisfied, sad, and restless.

As the warmth spread over him, he asked Christ to enter his life, to lift him, save him, to help him become a better man.

He promised himself he would.

He promised Him he would.

And he did.

**********

Padre Raffa

The City of Málaga

Ten years later, in 2013

~

His Calling had come late in life, which made Raffa impatient! With lost time to make up, no task was too menial, no situation too harrowing, no hour too late or too early. Raffa had seen many within the Catholic Church selectively deal with people and problems, choosing those they felt deserving and ignoring those that were not. For too many empty years he had been on the receiving end of it, giving him the determination to help others irrespective of their background or failings. He made it his mission to focus on the poor, the disadvantaged, and the vulnerable. But it was the teenagers and young adults Raffa most identified with. Restless, directionless, and feral, they were his people.

He reflected on what might have been had he not been Saved. The liquor fuelled fights, the drugs and dishonesty leading to little more than one long catastrophic mess. It hadn’t been a life it had been an existence. The broken childhood, broken family, broken relationships, the broken everything. He had been a living nightmare for everyone and everything he touched.

But that night - ten years ago - in a gloomy hospital hallway, Raffa had changed. He had met Father Romero, a man who had shown him kindness, believed in him, who held him, gave him faith, and to whom he owed his life.

Until then, Raffa had never known love nor loved anyone himself. His father had disappeared long ago, driven to drink after the death of Raffa’s mother. Her family had shunned him – even blamed him – for her death during childbirth. His early life was a series of short stays with various relatives who, on tiring of his waywardness, would shunt him off somewhere else at short notice. Occasionally there would be an explanation but often not, just his bag and another unannounced, unfamiliar face arriving to collect him.

Eventually his relatives ran out of patience and he ran out of relatives.

His life continued its disruptive routine, only this time in orphanages and foster homes. This chaotic, unloved, uncared for existence pushed him further towards his eventual near self-destruction. As soon as he could, he walked out ‘to get a life’ and knowing no better, took to the streets. Raffa crashed from one dead-end job to another, from one doss house to the next, bar to bar, fight to fight. So-called love was rough and drunk, unprotected, and dangerous. Over in minutes, forgotten in a bottle. His life was empty, his existence spinning out of control.

But that evening everything changed. In a dark hospital corridor, he again experienced the hate and disdain of others. Yet by morning he had finally found caring, compassionate love. After countless barren years he realised how badly he needed the unconditional love of family and the comfort of friends. He had wept in Father Romero’s arms, vowing that his life would change, that he would become a better man.

The next years were the hardest of his life. Not only did he have to convince others of his belief and integrity, he also had to eschew his old habits and acquaintances. How easy it would have been to slip back into a life of drink, casual sex, drugs, and petty theft. His old life had been easy in some ways, as he had no responsibilities, no one to think about other than himself, nothing and no one to consider.

He had chosen a different path now, one of discipline, selflessness, honesty, and faith. Finally, against all odds, the years of study and commitment paid off and he was ordained. A newly minted priest, he was the lowest of the low in the Catholic food chain. With little money and virtually no possessions, Raffa survived in a tiny room at the back of his church. Every day he faced only desperation and despair amongst those he sought to comfort and support. Each day he tried to help ease someone’s pain, steer a teenager away from trouble, show someone that there was meaning to life.

Squinting in the afternoon sun, Raffa shouted encouragements to his Street First XI, or The Málaga Massive as they half-jokingly called themselves. As they kicked an old football around the dusty patch of grass that passed for a park, Raffa watched them and smiled. He felt relaxed, fulfilled, and happy.

at passed for a park, Raffa watched them and smiled. He felt relaxed, fulfilled, and happy.