May He present the truth to your hearts…

A friend asked me to write this account, some of it is still painful to recall. I asked my priest about doing it and he said the same as my friend: “It may help others.”

I don’t pretend to fully understand all that has passed in my life. I am still working some things out. To include everything would be a burden for you - so I am asking God’s guidance to include only what needs to be written.

May the Holy Spirit use this story then as he might, and where my words are inadequate, may He present the truth to your hearts.

The best way to begin the day was to receive Our Lord…

I was born the fifth child into a family of eight. That is, six sisters and one brother.

My family was poor, luxuries were few. Our house was a three bed roomed council house with a large garden. It was cold and damp; the only fire was in the living room.

It was but five minutes walk from my grandma’s home.

Mum and grandma, insured that we all attended mass daily before school. There was a consensus, that the best way to begin the day was to receive Our Lord, Jesus to strengthen and protect us throughout the day.

When mass was over, breakfast would be toast and cold milk taken in the draughty wooden school hall before school began.

I remember reading Millie Molly Mandy stories along with the lives of the saints. Inspired by the latter I decided to become a saint, having read that saints lived off bread and water, I resolved to do the same.

But my effort was confounded on the first attempt, as I baulked on the sticky lump of dough which seemed to get stuck in my throat, and the water refused to wash it down.

Had that feeble attempt succeeded, I am sure my mum would have overruled me, and insisted that I live on no less than meat and two vegetables like everyone else!

We felt the devil would never unduly trouble us…

Like most things in life, our lot was a mixture of dark with light, good with not so good.

Like many other families, we celebrated Halloween along with the feasts of all saints and all souls.

We even played at throwing apple peel to foretell the first letter of our future-husband’s names. Being apple skin, it always fell in the shape of an “O” or an “S”.

“S” wasn’t too bad, we could think of plenty of names, but as for “O” we got stuck at “Oswald” and “Oliver”,

n Sundays, we were treated to comics and magazines after mass, and the inevitable Horoscopes presented themselves to be read.

We were so “ordinary”, that we felt the devil would never unduly trouble us, and that horoscopes and Halloween were a thing apart, Celtic folklore, full of fairies that didn’t really exist.

My brother and sisters knew that the devil existed. In the folk tales recounted by my Irish grandfather, he came with cloven hooves or as the angel of death.

We knew that the Ouija board should be shunned, and that spiritualism was against our faith.

I had a real dislike of anything which I perceived in my limited experience to be of the occult.

I remember those fears a kid has of witches and so forth hiding under the bed. These got worse when my parents could afford some Bunk beds, as I now had to sleep alone instead of sharing with a sister.

It was never easy to sleep because of the cold and dampness. I remember along with my fear of the dark, occasionally having strange sensations of being somehow drawn into a vortex in the centre of the room, which was most unpleasant.

I was a kid that did get easily spooked I think, and how that came about I don’t quite know.

The lady of light…

Now the next part of my story is difficult to recount, because for a long time I had great difficulty in accepting it.

One evening, we had been playing “snap” with cards in the living room, when a cartoon came on to the telly which everyone wanted to watch, so I was asked to return the cards to the lounge.

The light from the living room was just enough for me to see into the lounge, and place the cards on top of the cabinet beneath the image of the “Sacred Heart.” (It was quite brave of me to do so, having such a fear of the dark.)

As I placed the cards down, a bright light emanated from them. I peered into the light, and saw a beautiful woman before me. Scale became irrelevant; I was now where she was. I saw the light catch the slightest dimple in her cheek as she smiled at me.

In her right hand she held a set of large mahogany rosary beads, and her eyes were the same; large, and warm brown. She looked as though she had been crying just moments before, and had dried her tears in order to greet me.

With her right hand she gestured me to pay attention to the rosary she held, and directed my gaze to the crucifix. She spoke but I could not hear. She was dressed in a white veil of finest silk that moved gently as though caught by a light breeze. The veil fell to her feet, and obscured most of her body. Her demeanor was one of great modesty, and I could see behind the rosary she held, that she wore a belt or sash of pale blue. To me she was the lady of light.

I may have heard at this time the scripture of “a woman clothed with the sun.” though it was a long time after this incident; I realized the aptness of this description to what I had seen. There was no darkness, only light, and her garments were so bright they should have burned my eyes, but they did not.

Shortly I realized what I was seeing and ran away somewhat in fright to tell my family in the next room.

They just laughed. “Perhaps it was really the devil” one of them said. So I didn’t speak of it again for many, many years.

I went back into the lounge hoping she would still be there, hoping I could drink in her presence one more time, speak to her - But she had gone.

Fearing that the vision had been diabolic as was suggested to me, I hid the memory away, and got on with life as usual.

I could fall into sin as easily as the next person…

My senior school was a convent school. I was a quiet kid, and to my frustration, often called “mousey and timid”. I could fall into sin as easily as the next person though, and frequently did.

One benefit of the school being adjoined to a convent was the presence of a chapel.

I spent many of my free periods there as I didn’t feel I fitted in anywhere. Mostly I think I sat and poured my heart out to Our Lord as I knew He would listen.

As for friends, well, my family was poor, so I couldn’t keep up with the other girls when it came to leisure time or clothes. Many of the girls it seemed were sleeping with their

Boyfriends and that scared me. I wasn’t ready for boys, though I did have boyfriends just because I felt it was expected of me.

Academically I guess I was average, it’s hard to study in a house full of distractions and precious little privacy.

So the chapel was my haven, my place for peace and intimacy.

My favoured devotion (which my parents had introduced me to as a child) was the Novena to Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. I pursued this devotion weekly through my teenage years. The novena was held at church on Wednesday evenings, with exposition and adoration included. Reconciliation was made available before hand.

As I became a young woman, having heard of so many unhappy marriages; one prayer intention of mine was to be blessed with a good husband.

Saturday afternoon Holly wood musicals!....

My sisters were very pretty girls, and dressing to show off the fact was the accepted thing. Despite my early attempts not to conform, I finally did, as one does, to fit in. We all loved the glamour of the heroines in the Hollywood musicals, for the most part; it was innocent playing at dressing up. I quite liked the attention, though I was usually overlooked as my sisters were beautiful.

When I was eighteen and just on leaving school for further education, I met a boy from the neighbouring catholic school. Before long we were engaged.

Looking back, I think my main reason for doing so was that he also was Catholic. I thought he would be like my older brother, a life long friend and companion.

I was still not ready for an adult relationship - totally naive and unprepared for all things sexual. Men were alien to me.

My boyfriend had a very different outlook. I spent four unhappy years fighting him off, and trying to accustom myself to his advances. I kept telling myself that if I was to get married, I would have to get used to his demands and roughness. (Oh! Saturday afternoon Holly wood musicals, you have a lot to answer for misguided examples of the ways of men and women!)

I didn’t know why.....

A couple of years before I became engaged to this man, one of my sisters, Lisa, fell pregnant. My parents allowed her and the father to marry, though she was just turning seventeen.

Lisa was four years older than me, when I heard the news I cried and said “I don’t want her to marry him mum.” Though I felt strongly about it, I didn’t know why.

Because they were both so young, they often went out separately with friends (while mum babysat), then stayed over night.

Because of the lack of space, I was once again sharing a bed with one of my sisters. However, when she went off to work early on Saturday mornings, Lisa’s husband took her place.

I awoke many a morning shaking with fright aware of being touched. I was shocked, confused, and tried to reason that he had mistaken me for Lisa in his sleep.

One weekend I decided I would begin sleeping downstairs to avoid him altogether.

It was a bad decision, as he took that to mean I was waiting for him, and made some advances that woke me with a start out of my sleep again.

Realising he had made a big mistake; he made some excuse for having removed my blankets. When he left to join my sister I crept upstairs to my parents’ room and asked if I could sleep on their floor. In their half-sleep they rebuked me for waking them, and I spent the rest of the night huddled in a dark corner of their room.

Now I felt terrified in my own home, with no where and no one to turn to for sanctuary.

It may seem like my fear was inappropriate to the assaults, but I was a very innocent girl, and still very child like.

He locked up earlier than usual…

I hoped my fiancée could warn him off, and told him about the happenings. For a short time things went quietly, but my feeling of security was short-lived.

My boyfriend lived in a rough area, so there were many locks on the internal doors of his parent’s house. One evening with his parents gone, He locked up earlier than usual. This evening, he was not locking out potential burglars; he was locking me in, and attempted to rape me.

I think I must have panicked him with my screams (or perhaps he realized that his parents were due home,) so he let me out. I ran from the front door in horror without my coat.

In the thick freezing fog of that winter night, I didn’t get far before another man began calling after me and following me. I knocked on the door of the first house I came to. There was no reply. The drunken stranger came closer.

I knocked on the door of the neighbouring house, and the lady let me in, bless her. She had been waiting for her son to come home from a late work shift.

She allowed me to ring home, but no one picked up the phone. By now it was getting very late. I almost wanted to beg the lady if I could stay in her house until the dawn broke, but I knew I couldn’t. My only option was to ring my boyfriend’s home and return there.

I became bewildered by adults and marriage. My parents had chosen to sweep my brother-in- laws misdemeanors under the carpet for the sake of his young wife and baby daughter.

I wondered if the Christian thing to do was to forget what my boyfriend had done, after all he’d had a long wait, it had been a long relationship and I was still a virgin.

I spoke with him about it and he confided to me that he had raped another young girl in the past, so we split up.

I felt very much like soiled goods, and although I had freed myself of him, I could not free myself from the grief of betrayal, and broken trust.

My anxieties increased until I found it difficult to swallow or eat, and my weight fell from nine stone to six and a half. My gums would bleed, and I would suffer headaches and fatigue.

I remember one day saying to God, “I am sorry, I cannot do this anymore, and I am going to find out about the world, before it gets me first.”

So there it was: I was brushing off the Lord, in favour of the world.

My church days were gone…

My younger sister was at college. She was as bright as a button, had a brilliant intellect, was pretty, and fun to be around. Most of her friends were gay, because her long-time school friend had a gay brother.

Being around these people seemed all very grown-up and that appealed to me.
My church days were gone; my prayer life if there at all was minimal. At work I was given a set of Tarot cards as a present. My curiosity in their symbolism meant I quickly picked up the ability to read them. I even surprised myself at how easy it was. A friend of my sisters could read coffee grounds (I think she learned this from her Hungarian mother.) Again, I found that symbols jumped out of the cups people gave me and I could easily give them a reading. (I threw the Tarot cards away before long, they felt strange to me. I found later they had belonged to a suicide victim.)

I decided I wanted to be as sophisticated as my younger sister, and gave up my job to return to higher education. (I had been there once before, but the unhappy relationship with my fiancée, and problems with the assault had put too much strain on me for me to continue with the course.)

A psychic of some kind…

By and by I managed to make a fresh start. I gained a place on a degree course at a college not far from my oldest sister’s house. My mum and dad let me stay a while at their house, but the painful memories were still there and I had to find somewhere else to live. During my stay, I discussed with my mum that I was somehow able to foretell some things, and that I could sense atmospheres and spirits in houses.

Typically faithful, and unable to see any malice in her children, her answer was:” God fits the back for the burden”.

My grandmother had had a great devotion for the souls of purgatory, and somehow they had become synonymous in my mind with the souls I had seen, and perceived to be the same.

The father of lies…

It was during this time I began to receive counseling via the college to help me through my past traumas. I began to eat better, and my counsellor was a good woman. (God sends his healing in many subtle ways.)

I was classed as a mature student at college, and there was only one other “mature” student in my class, so we gravitated together. (Though I wasn’t altogether sure if I liked her or not.)

It so happened that her mum was a Catholic, and a psychic of some kind. Paula alluded to having these “gifts” herself. She also told me that the priest had o.k'd. the use of her mother’s “gifts” as long as she didn’t charge for them. I trusted in what she said and believed it to be true. (Satan is the father of lies….)

I thought her mum was a good soul, and as her cancer was advancing, believed naively that she would be preparing spiritually to meet her maker. I think I had mistakenly associated all suffering with saintliness.

I am not going to relate all my psychic experiences, because I don’t want to promote Satan in any way. Even at this point in my story, I can see the relentless and insidious ways in which he infiltrated my life. He sets out to corrupt youth and turns us from the one true God to Gods of other kinds. I can only blame myself, for that moment some years earlier, when I had decided to stop trusting in God, and look to the world to console me. What pride! Who could possibly take on the world single handed!?

Her soul symbolized by a tiny bird…

My younger sister whom I adored invited me to a party. She was living at a friend’s house, somewhere in Yorkshire, and all the usual gang was invited.

Next morning after the party, everyone was waking up from their armchair beds, stirred by the noise of vacuuming and house work.

As we awoke, it was noted that one of the large pre-Raphaelite prints had begun to sway on the wall. My eyes were drawn to it again and again. We dismissed vibration from the vacuum cleaner as a possible cause as the arc of movement became more dramatic.

I knew a bit about art, the image depicted Beatrice at the moment of death, her soul symbolized by a tiny bird, was depicted flying upward to the corner of the painting as if to escape.

I felt very ill and almost passed out. A young bisexual man, named Nick seemed to be aware of what was happening. He took me out for a walk in the fresh air.

I explained to him that a spirit had told me that “there was nothing she could do…”

When we got back to the house, we related this to my sister. We had no idea up until then that the girl she shared the house with was widowed. Her young husband had died of a 24 hour virus, and she had asked him to sleep in the other room that night because his tossing and turning was keeping her awake.

It seemed the “message” was for the widow. “I couldn’t possibly tell her that …” my sister said, she has told me that if ever her husband were to contact her she would kill herself.”

To which, one has to question, was that message genuinely from her young husband who died suddenly - or a demon intent on destroying this grieving young woman?

At that time I didn’t conceive that demons could play on our compassion to their own ends, or that demons in the guise of tragic figures were more likely to be seen than any genuine purgatorial ghost. The natural curiosity of humans can be a dangerous thing.

Boy was I slow on the uptake! I recounted this tale to my friend Paula at college. Her advice was, “next time, why don’t you open yourself up to be able to sense fully the situation?”

His intensity was unbearable…

The “next time” came as another invite from my younger sister. Two of her gay friends, (especially Sam) were becoming increasingly troubled by the strange spiritual goings-on in their flat. Her appeal went something like this: “His partner Ricky is such a nice, guy, so gentle, and he has an M.A in art. So gifted and yet he can’t get any work…”

So off we went to visit them. I had hardly stepped foot inside their flat when I was witnessing supernatural manifestations, so I described what I thought I had seen.

“Please check out the bedroom for us…” pleaded Sam. I had not been there long when amongst others things I experienced the sensation of a swirling vortex of energy, a force pulling downward and into the centre of the room. From it I heard wails of despair and anger. I perceived arms reaching out of it helplessly caught up in its speed.I managed to snap my attention back into the “here and now” and removed myself from that room as quickly as possible.

As I regained my composure, I looked at Ricky; his countenance was overshadowed by a horned beast.

I told both of the men that what they needed was an exorcism, to have the place blessed and exorcised. Having no training in these matters, I had no authority to say that, but I felt the evidence was overwhelming.

Some days later we all met up in a local pub. Sam’s partner Ricky sat opposite me and glared at me the whole time. His intensity was unbearable, so I decided to leave and head for Jay’s house. When I got to the pub doorway I couldn’t leave, some entity with heavy tattooed arms held me and stopped me from going further. I was being bullied!

I turned about and stepped into the nearby ladies room. My mind arose to call on the aid of the Mother of God, and I sincerely prayed three Hail Mary’s. After this I had no problem in leaving.

I’d seen That  film…

When I told my sister about what had happened in the pub, it came to light that Ricky was a practicing Satanist. I had fallen slap bang into the devil’s snares, and following Paula’s advice had opened my self up to allow even more of the darkness in. Now I understood what the retreat priest at school was referring to when he called sin a “slippery slope!”

The paranormal phenomena around me rapidly increased, spirits tried to enter me. I can only describe this phenomenon as being violated spiritually. Paula’s mum told me I needed to be exorcised. That troubled me greatly…I’d seen That  film…

My sleep was constantly disturbed by knocks and bangs, I would awake and see dark skeletal shapes drifting from my bed, lights would be turned on and off in rapid succession, doors would push themselves shut as I tried to open them.

I spoke to my eldest sister who lived nearby the college. “You need to return to church” she said.

Thankfully, I listened to what God was speaking to me through her. I started my journey back to the protection of the Church. But it wasn’t easy. God does not remain where he is not wanted. He respects our free will.

I had developed a complete numbness about church. When I entered the college chapel I felt little. I feared entering the nearby Catholic Church in case my head spun around! How little I understood then. My fears were being leaned upon by the master of deceit, who was trying to tempt me to despair and give up all hope. He put many obstacles in my way.

God is the God of surprises!....

Around this time my bisexual friend introduced me to a rock band he knew. I auditioned and became the lead singer. It wasn’t a great band, but it was fun. I decided I needed transport to get around for band practice and such, and opted for a motorbike. I couldn’t even ride a push bike at that time.

Some young men came to my flat to teach me the basic motorbike manoeuvres; I was so inept, that they decided to take me to the training centre. Most learners rode to the test centre, but I had to ride pillion.

Once there, one of the instructors caught my eye. He has such a nice, kind smile. I immediately put any thoughts of meeting him out of my head. I was there to learn how to ride my motorbike, and I wasn’t looking for another relationship!

I looked a lot younger than my age, and one of the younger lads asked me to accompany him to the instructor’s annual “do”. I told him that as I was too old for him, we could go together as friends.

As the time for the dance grew closer, Bobby told me that he now had a girlfriend to take with him. ”No problem” I said.

“I would like to ask if you might go with my friend though…” He continued. Bobby was a nice kid, so I thought “O.K.” so what is one evening out of my life? When I got to the dance with Bobby and Julie, I was introduced to my blind date… It was the guy with the beautiful smile. I have to laugh when I look back; God is the God of surprises!

We got on great. He was kind and authoritative, and he was Catholic. We dated, and as we grew closer, I confided in him my past traumas; relating that Paula’s mum had said I was in need of exorcism. He reassured me that I was O.K.

He supported me when I went to see the local priest and to talk matters through.

The priest visibly recoiled as I related some of my supernatural experiences, but he promised to pray for me.

About a month later, I felt able to turn up at church for mass. He was at the pulpit, and I was aware even from a distance that he saw me. His face was full of joy. God alone knows what mortifications that blessed priest had offered to the almighty to get me there.

Feeling it was the right thing to do and being in love, I asked my boyfriend if he would like to get married, and he said yes.

He was my “good husband…”

All I had been through with the counseling, & the supernatural experiences, the strain of my degree finals and stress of the wedding took its toll.

The first day of our honey moon, I told him I’d made a mistake by getting married. He was devastated. The truth was I was having some kind of breakdown. I couldn’t remember exactly who he was. I knew I must have had a good reason for marrying him. For the whole first year of our marriage we were celibate because when I went to bed, I felt I was sleeping next to a stranger. I cried profusely each day.

Thankfully, he stuck by me and looked after me. He was my “good husband” and my prayers to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour had not been in vein.

In time, I got the right medical treatment; they said I was suffering clinical depression, brought on by stress. I began to be able to pray a little once again.

From rented accommodation we moved to a small Victorian terraced house. The neighbours were fine when we first moved in. Then there was a change of residency in the house next to us. It was a single mum and her two children. The children’s father would come to stay and they would all get high on drugs. They would play their music full blast throughout the night and attack each other with knives, threatening to kill someone. They would knock on our front door threatening us too if we didn’t move our car, though we were parked legally.

All of the terraces to those houses had small back yards, and theirs quickly accumulated old appliances, carpets and vermin. It began to smell too. (My heart went out to their children.)

My husband was a prison officer, and because of his job, was unable to get “involved” with any kind of dispute with them.

Despite having been told by “experts” that I was unable to have children, (which had caused me much grief and suffering) God knew differently and blessed us. I became pregnant with my first child.

So we put the house up for sale, never imagining that we might be able to move elsewhere. We both suffered much stress, and my husband and I began to pray the Novena to Our lady of Perpetual Succour together.

We stayed at my parent’s house for a week for some respite; I was at the end of my tether and now with a young baby – in –arms couldn’t face going back again.

One day out of the blue, the police came to stake-out the house next door to us. The woman and her partner were taken away and the house boarded up. We sold that house a short time after.

My parents once again welcomed me, my new husband and our baby daughter to stay with them while the purchase of the new house went ahead. My mum handed me a set of sturdy black rosary beads which I had bought when I was a younger. “I think you left these behind when you went to college.” She said. She was right, during that time my beads had been misplaced, and I had neglected my rosary.

Taking them from her I recalled once more that vision I had had when a child. I began to think more deeply about it, and if it was for real.

My dad had been ordained a Deacon, and had a book shelf full of spiritual reading. The first book I read was called “Mary save us” It was written by some Czechoslovakian children during the communist persecution. It was a tiny soft back booklet.

Their heartfelt prayers touched me deeply. I decided around this time to begin a prayer diary of my own, where I could write my prayers, thoughts and meditations.

God will heal you, and then the rest of your family…

I began to feel interiorly a repetitive word; that once I had the Holy Rosary everything would be fine. When we moved house, I found to my wonderment that my new parish was consecrated to “The Queen of the Holy Rosary.”

As opportunities arose, I attended church more and more frequently, and God gave me the courage needed to confess all.

I would cry regularly throughout the mass as the Holy Spirit convicted me of the ways I had betrayed my Saviour by turning to occult practices for answers instead of him, the source of all love and truth.

Each time I gazed upon the agonizing body of the crucified Christ, I was moved to pity for one who loved so much, he had died for me, personally. The reality of Jesus was becoming present to me in the “here and now”.

So, I volunteered to become a “reader” again, as I had been when I was 14. I still had my Sunday missal from all those years ago.

One evening, on receiving communion, I returned to my pew and kneeled down. “Lord I want to be yours…” I prayed. (I told him I was still concerned that Paula’s mum may have been right.) “Just show me what I must do Lord to belong to you …I am yours.”

After mass, I went to check out the next weeks readings at the back of the church. A lady introduced herself to me as “Ciara”. She had been one of the Eucharistic ministers that evening.

“When you received communion, I could see that you knew what you were receiving…”

She said. “I am going to a healing service tomorrow, and I wondered if you would come with me.” One of my sisters who lived in the south of England had spoken to me in the past of Monsignor Buckley’s healing services. So I agreed.

I felt quite shocked, and surprised, that my prayer was being answered so quickly.

The next evening I met Ciara again and she took me to the convent of the Sacred Heart.

The people there were friendly. Nuns and priests as well as lay people were present.

An elderly guy who happened to be a catholic lay- deliverance minister came into the room and gave a talk. After that he laid hands on us all. As he placed his hands on my head, I fell into a peaceful kind of sleep. During this “sleep” I heard interiorly, these words; “the sufferings of this life are as nothing to the joys of heaven.”

As I came to, I realized that the people around me had “arranged” me comfortably across a row of chairs. After that we continued to pray, and later we adored the Blessed Sacrament.

The minister spoke to me at the end of the service. “What do you want to tell me?” he asked. And it was arranged that I should come see him for more prayer.

Delivered and cleansed …

The Wednesday of the following week, I took the train back to the convent. The minister listened to what I had to say then asked if anyone in my family past had read the Tarot cards.

Just by chance, my dad had recently mentioned to me that his mother had read the cards to give comfort to those women whose husbands were missing during the war.

“Not to worry,” he said “God will heal you, and then the rest of your family.”

That was so good to hear. As I understand, this past sin had allowed Satan to gain some battle ground from which to wage war in my family.

I have heard this aspect of sin explained like this: If we break a window, we can say sorry, but until we repair the damage, (make full reparation) the wind will continue to blow through it.

He then prayed over me binding up the demons that infected me in the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I was very tired after the experience, but felt no stress, only peace.

Delivered and cleansed of the dark forces that I had once unwittingly invited in, I experienced an infilling of the Holy Spirit of God. These experiences brought home to me the truth that we are truly “earthenware vessels”. If vessels are to be filled at all, then we should endeavour to be filled with God’s Holy Spirit alone.

After my deliverance, the nightmares I had endured for years ceased to be; I no longer feared the dark or suffered the harassments of spirits.

I began to see things more clearly, in the light of God. I was able to forgive those who had done me harm, and wanted them to be healed and whole.

When the power of Jesus was ministered to me, I fully accepted that we should not speak of Jesus as though he is in the past. Jesus is constantly present to us as the Risen Christ. He can

set us free from all that binds us: anxieties, obsessions, fears, and unforgiveness; all the things that stop us from being healthy in body and spirit.

Standing at the train station, a light breeze rustled the canopy of trees, the songs of hidden birds lilted peacefully on the warm air. I looked down the tracks stretching forward toward home and into the horizon. This time I was determined to take the road that followed Jesus.

She crushes the serpent with her heel...

I asked Ciara, “Having had such a good start in life spiritually, how I could have strayed so far?” She replied like this “You were a little lost sheep, and the good shepherd said “You have wandered far enough, it is time for you to come home.”

I confided in Ciara about having once “seen” a figure like unto Mary. She directed me to a priest with the charism of healing and a great devotion to Mary. He reassured me that I had seen her.

Now I know, that this is just one “holy” person’s opinion on the subject, and we can all be mistaken, so it is something I relate, asking the question along with Elizabeth: “Why should I be honoured by a visit from the Mother of my Lord?”

I think the answer lies in saying that having seen Mary does not mean that I am holy, only that God is holy, and gracious to the worst of sinners!

I believe that when I was a child all those years ago, Mary was offering me her protection through the rosary. Mary is and has been a true mother to me, watching over and gracing me with her care. By the special love Jesus has for us, he has empowered Mary to help us in our fight against the forces of hell. She crushes the serpent with her heel. Just as she indicated to me when I was a child, the rosary is a prayer which leads us to the Crucified through whom is our salvation.

My old black rosary beads began to fall apart after twenty-five years of use, so I now wear the crucifix from them on a chain around my neck.

I hope this account of the efficacy Mary’s presence in my life honours God.

Just as we would want to have our own mothers honoured and respected, I am sure Jesus would want that too.

I now strive to say my rosary daily, and ask her to teach me to say it well, offering it for the salvation of souls; for I can join in the words of the saint who once prayed:

If this testimony has spoken to you, and you have a question you would like to ask please email:-

Marigold