Early on a crisp Saturday morning, on Dec. 9, 1531, the Aztec Juan Diego was walking to the town of Tlatelolco, where he had begun to receive Christian catechism lessons. As he reached a nearby hill, he heard a sweet and full sound, like the rich and beautiful singing of birds. Juan Diego listened, stopped, and told himself, "I must be dreaming." In a kind of ecstasy he followed the sound, looking up to the top of the hill where it seemed to lead. Suddenly the music ended, and he heard a voice calling from the top of the hill--"Juanito, Juan Dieguitto."
He climbed to where the voice was coming from. (Later he would say he felt not fear but great peace.) When he got to the top, he saw a young woman, who motioned for him to come closer. When he stood before her, he was amazed: Her dress shone and shimmered like the sun; the cliff on which she stood seemed like a bracelet of precious stones. And she was beautiful, with dark hair, dark brows, big eyes, like a Mexica (or, they later said, like a young girl from the Middle East).
Her voice was warm and gentle as she asked him where he was going. He said: To Tlatelolco, to learn of God.
She said, "Know this as true, my smallest child: I am the perfect ever-Virgin Mary, mother of the most true God through whom everything lives, the creator of persons, the master of closeness and proximity, the master of heaven and earth." She said it was her desire that a temple be built to glorify her Son. She asked him to go and tell this of the bishop of Mexico. "You have heard it, my little son, my strength, my word: Go and do your part."
At this, Juan Diego fell to his knees and said, "My lady, my little girl, I will carry out your desire."
And he went straight to the heart of the nearby city, to the palace of the first bishop of Mexico. He begged to see the bishop. He had to wait a long time, but was finally called in. The bishop, a Spaniard, Fray Juan de Zumarraga, heard Juan Diego out, but he did not seem to believe him. Juan Diego was just an Indian, an old man with a fanciful tale.
Juan Diego left, and on the way home he passed the hill and found the beautiful lady waiting for him. He told her he wanted to do what she wished and that he had seen the bishop but he was not believed. He pleaded with her to relieve him of the task, and to give it instead to a nobleman, a somebody. "I am a peasant, a porter, a tail, a wing, a poor leaf," he told her.
But she told him to rest assured--"I do not lack for servants or messengers"--but it was important that it be he who carried the bishop the message again, tomorrow.
Juan Diego agreed, and the next morning he walked back to the bishop's palace. After a great deal of effort he was allowed in. The bishop asked detailed questions, insisting on specifics. Juan told him everything he could remember. The bishop said he would need some proof. Could Juan ask the lady to send it to him? Juan agreed, and left.
He did not know that the wily bishop had sent some servants to follow him home and spy on him. But the servants soon lost him in the hills. This was humiliating for Aztec trackers, and when they returned to the bishop they angrily denounced Juan Diego, calling him a liar and a troublemaker. They vowed among themselves that when they next saw him they would beat him.
Juan went to the lady and related the bishop's request for proof. She promised to send him a sign, and asked Juan Diego to return the next day and receive it from her. But he did not return the next day. His uncle, who had been like a father to him, became violently ill that night, and in the morning he asked Juan Diego to go for a priest to give him last rites. Juan Diego went to town but by a different route, so the lady would not see him. First things first, he thought. But as he walked the other way around the hill, she appeared to him anyway and asked him where he was going. When he told her, she told him not to be anxious, that at that moment his uncle was being cured.
Juan believed her, and thanked her. She asked him to go to the top of the hill and gather the Castillian roses he would find there. He climbed, knowing he would not find roses in the December frost. But when he got to the top, he saw flowers spread over the hilltop--hundreds of roses that gave off a sweet fragrance. He cut as many as he could and put them in his tilma, the rough woven blanket Indians wore tied behind their necks. When he showed the roses to the Virgin, she rearranged them in his tunic.
Juan Diego returned to the bishop's palace. But the doorkeeper and the servants, warned that he was trouble, pretended not to understand him and ignored him. Juan Diego remained outside at the gate, standing there for hours, motionless, head bowed. At daybreak the next day, the servants saw he was still there. And for the first time they noticed he was hiding something in his tilma. Now they surrounded him and told him they'd beat him if he didn't show what he was hiding. As they drew close, they smelled the perfume of the flowers. They tried to snatch them, but each time they took a rose, it would seem to disappear, or seem somehow to be painted on the cloth of the tilma.
They ran to the bishop. He listened to them, realized this might be the proof he had asked for, and went to Juan Diego, who was now surrounded by the entire household. As Juan Diego opened his tilma to show the bishop the roses, an amazing thing happened. At the moment the rough material unfurled the image of the woman on the hill suddenly appeared on it. The bishop and all present fell to their knees. The bishop cried out and asked the lady to forgive him for not having carried out her will. Then he stood, untied the tilma from Juan Diego's neck, and carried it to his chapel.
The whole city was shaken by the event. It took Indians and Spaniards working together only 14 days to build a small adobe shrine on the hill where Juan Diego saw the lady. The tilma itself was put in the main church, and then carried to one larger still.
In his home, Juan Diego's uncle told everyone that a beautiful young woman with dark hair and dark eyes had come to him and cured him. She had called herself "the perfect Virgin Mary of Guadalupe." Soon he was brought to see the tilma. That is her, he said.
He climbed to where the voice was coming from. (Later he would say he felt not fear but great peace.) When he got to the top, he saw a young woman, who motioned for him to come closer. When he stood before her, he was amazed: Her dress shone and shimmered like the sun; the cliff on which she stood seemed like a bracelet of precious stones. And she was beautiful, with dark hair, dark brows, big eyes, like a Mexica (or, they later said, like a young girl from the Middle East).
Her voice was warm and gentle as she asked him where he was going. He said: To Tlatelolco, to learn of God.
She said, "Know this as true, my smallest child: I am the perfect ever-Virgin Mary, mother of the most true God through whom everything lives, the creator of persons, the master of closeness and proximity, the master of heaven and earth." She said it was her desire that a temple be built to glorify her Son. She asked him to go and tell this of the bishop of Mexico. "You have heard it, my little son, my strength, my word: Go and do your part."
At this, Juan Diego fell to his knees and said, "My lady, my little girl, I will carry out your desire."
And he went straight to the heart of the nearby city, to the palace of the first bishop of Mexico. He begged to see the bishop. He had to wait a long time, but was finally called in. The bishop, a Spaniard, Fray Juan de Zumarraga, heard Juan Diego out, but he did not seem to believe him. Juan Diego was just an Indian, an old man with a fanciful tale.
Juan Diego left, and on the way home he passed the hill and found the beautiful lady waiting for him. He told her he wanted to do what she wished and that he had seen the bishop but he was not believed. He pleaded with her to relieve him of the task, and to give it instead to a nobleman, a somebody. "I am a peasant, a porter, a tail, a wing, a poor leaf," he told her.
But she told him to rest assured--"I do not lack for servants or messengers"--but it was important that it be he who carried the bishop the message again, tomorrow.
Juan Diego agreed, and the next morning he walked back to the bishop's palace. After a great deal of effort he was allowed in. The bishop asked detailed questions, insisting on specifics. Juan told him everything he could remember. The bishop said he would need some proof. Could Juan ask the lady to send it to him? Juan agreed, and left.
He did not know that the wily bishop had sent some servants to follow him home and spy on him. But the servants soon lost him in the hills. This was humiliating for Aztec trackers, and when they returned to the bishop they angrily denounced Juan Diego, calling him a liar and a troublemaker. They vowed among themselves that when they next saw him they would beat him.
Juan went to the lady and related the bishop's request for proof. She promised to send him a sign, and asked Juan Diego to return the next day and receive it from her. But he did not return the next day. His uncle, who had been like a father to him, became violently ill that night, and in the morning he asked Juan Diego to go for a priest to give him last rites. Juan Diego went to town but by a different route, so the lady would not see him. First things first, he thought. But as he walked the other way around the hill, she appeared to him anyway and asked him where he was going. When he told her, she told him not to be anxious, that at that moment his uncle was being cured.
Juan believed her, and thanked her. She asked him to go to the top of the hill and gather the Castillian roses he would find there. He climbed, knowing he would not find roses in the December frost. But when he got to the top, he saw flowers spread over the hilltop--hundreds of roses that gave off a sweet fragrance. He cut as many as he could and put them in his tilma, the rough woven blanket Indians wore tied behind their necks. When he showed the roses to the Virgin, she rearranged them in his tunic.
Juan Diego returned to the bishop's palace. But the doorkeeper and the servants, warned that he was trouble, pretended not to understand him and ignored him. Juan Diego remained outside at the gate, standing there for hours, motionless, head bowed. At daybreak the next day, the servants saw he was still there. And for the first time they noticed he was hiding something in his tilma. Now they surrounded him and told him they'd beat him if he didn't show what he was hiding. As they drew close, they smelled the perfume of the flowers. They tried to snatch them, but each time they took a rose, it would seem to disappear, or seem somehow to be painted on the cloth of the tilma.
They ran to the bishop. He listened to them, realized this might be the proof he had asked for, and went to Juan Diego, who was now surrounded by the entire household. As Juan Diego opened his tilma to show the bishop the roses, an amazing thing happened. At the moment the rough material unfurled the image of the woman on the hill suddenly appeared on it. The bishop and all present fell to their knees. The bishop cried out and asked the lady to forgive him for not having carried out her will. Then he stood, untied the tilma from Juan Diego's neck, and carried it to his chapel.
The whole city was shaken by the event. It took Indians and Spaniards working together only 14 days to build a small adobe shrine on the hill where Juan Diego saw the lady. The tilma itself was put in the main church, and then carried to one larger still.
In his home, Juan Diego's uncle told everyone that a beautiful young woman with dark hair and dark eyes had come to him and cured him. She had called herself "the perfect Virgin Mary of Guadalupe." Soon he was brought to see the tilma. That is her, he said.
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