March 29-30, 1945prev home
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My Joys
From midday on, I was utterly sad on Thursday because I was thinking, “There’ll be no Communion tomorrow.” With what I always suffer, especially on Fridays, and what Passion Friday has generally meant for me for fifteen years, to be left without my Food caused me sorrow. I was thinking, “Two years ago Father Migliorini brought me Communion at dawn on Good Friday. I was ill and he thus could.” And I assure you that I would have wished to be even worse of so as to be able to receive it. Along with sorrow over the relic of the Holy Cross which was taken from me after it was given by a woman who has contributed, with Satan, to causing me affliction, these are my secret - and deepest - sufferings.
Marta had gone out to visit the seven churches. I was alone. I was writing. And Mary’s desolation was fusing with the tears of poor Maria.
I was lifted from affliction by the joyful apparition of my Jesus, not martyred and bloody, but handsome, radiant in his white linen robe, as He is at the gladdest times in the visions. He came towards me as if He were coming from flowering countryside and smiled, holding something underneath the white mantle He had drawn across his chest and over his hands.
He said, “Little John, I wanted to call you ‘little scribe,’ but I won’t say this to you, for if you are the layman who, since the priests are not sufficient, teaches the truth about my mortal lifetime, you are not, however, a creature of harshness and ferocity as the scribes in my time were. Listen, little John. Father Migliorini cannot bring you Communion and you suffer. I am your Priest. I have kept you bent over my tortures, my agony. It is right for Me to give you a reward. Look: many years ago I was heading for the Cenacle at this hour to consummate the Passover and distribute the first Eucharist. Come and take this, little John.”
And, letting his mantle fall open, He showed me the ciborium He was holding in his hand. He became solemn and said, “I am the living Bread descending from Heaven. Whoever eats this Bread will no longer be hungry and will live eternally. This is my Body, which I give you in memory of Me. Take it and eat.” And He gave me a large host. I say “large” because it was as big as an ancient coin (a scudo). Its (spiritual and material) flavor was such that it filled me with delight. He caressed me and then said, “Now that you are nourished, write. I shall come back tomorrow.”
And this evening, at the same hour, He appeared to me again. I had been feeling ill since you were here and was unable to get over the crisis. I was in a cold sweat, very pale, and gasping, with constant dizziness and a darkening of my sight. And yet I was writing because I had to write.... Our Lady of Sorrows was moaning out all of her agony.
Jesus removed me for a while from so much shared moral and physical pain and, holding the chalice fully exposed, filled with red, vigorous blood - I would say “thick,” nearly boiling, for it foamed with strange bubbles as if it had just come out of an artery - He said, “This is my Blood, which I have shed out of love for you. Take it and drink.” And He brought the chalice up to my lips while drawing me towards it with his other hand.
I perceived the coldness of the metal against my lips and the smell of the blood in my nose. But I felt no repugnance. I pressed my lips against the smooth brim of the silver chalice and drank a sip of this divine Blood, which has all the characteristics of our own in terms of fluidity, viscosity, and taste. But it flows down into me, bringing me a delight which lifts me high up into joy. I would like to drink and drink.... For the more you drink, the more you would like. But reverence restrains me. And I contemplate that beloved Blood, smell its living scent, and admire its perfect bright redness. But Jesus has me drink twice more.... And He then departs.... And the taste and fragrance of that Blood of my Jesus remain in me.
I almost did not want to write this here, but in a letter which I was unsure about giving to you at once or letting you have at my death. For certain sublime moments are poorly and unwillingly articulated. Later, however, the idea of writing it down in a notebook and making it known to you immediately prevailed.
I am filled with supernatural delight.