Marian May 5: She Brought Him
When Mary Came, So Did Mercy
It wasn’t a pandemic story. It was a partnership story. Jesus healed me—but Mary brought Him.
My husband and I were so excited about our upcoming trip to Washington, D.C. We had carefully planned everything—every reservation, every outfit, every detail. For months! It was a celebration of our 20th wedding anniversary and two days later, my birthday! We were sitting at our favorite restaurant in town, enjoying happy hour hors d'oeuvres and a glass of wine, when I sneezed.
Just once.
We didn’t think anything of it. We had such a lovely evening—chatting, laughing, talking through our plans. Our suitcases were already packed and waiting by the front door. All we had to do was load the car and head to the airport.
But this wasn’t just an anniversary and birthday trip. It was something more.
A Sacrifice of Love
I had made a decision I was quietly proud of—one that surprised even me. I had invited my 85 year old father-in-law, Fred, to join us, as my gift to my husband. Yes, it meant sacrificing a week of just-the-two-of-us romance. But I knew it would mean the world to my husband. He loves his dad deeply. Fred had carried the weight of a long marriage to a chronically ill wife, and we both felt he had earned some joy—some life.
So the three of us planned everything. We had dinner reservations at the oldest pub in D.C., a prime table at Mount Vernon, Smithsonian, holocaust museum. We even had tickets for special tours of the Capitol and the White House thanks to our congressman.
It was going to be perfect.
Until I sneezed again.
When Caution Wins
Now, the pandemic was long over, and I had just received my booster shot two weeks earlier. But my registered nurse daughter’s voice rang in my ears:
“If Fred so much as sneezes, get to a doctor right away—COVID would be very bad for him.”
Out of an abundance of caution, I took a COVID test when we got home.
I didn’t have to wait 15 minutes. The result was instantly positive. My heart sank. I tested again, hoping it was a fluke.
Nope. I had it.
It was Sunday. Our flight was Tuesday. COVID can be asymptomatic, so I still had hope—maybe I’d already had it and was almost through. Maybe I’d test negative in time to go.
But by Monday evening, I felt miserable. I hadn’t canceled anything yet. The hotel was non-refundable, and I could cancel my flight up to ten minutes before departure. So I waited.
And that night… something sacred happened.
A Holy Visitation
I was lying in bed, not quite asleep but not fully awake—just floating in that in-between space where heaven sometimes feels closer than earth.
Suddenly, they were there.
Jesus stood on my left.
Mary stood on my right, shoulder to shoulder.
Not in a dream. Not in my mind.
They were present.
And it was clear: she had brought Him.
They didn’t speak. But they didn’t need to. Mary looked at Him, back at me, and back to him again. He looked at her. There was agreement. There was unity. And then—there was action.
From Jesus’ Sacred Heart, a stream of water burst forth—just like in the image of Divine Mercy. It poured from His side in a swirling pillar, a cyclone of grace that engulfed me completely. It didn’t knock me over or frighten me. It washed me.
It purified me. I thought, oh my, they came to heal me.
And I thought that must be what just happened.
But it wasn't over yet. Mary wasn’t finished.
It felt like Jesus was ready to stop there, like he'd come and done "something," although I don't know what per se. She lingered, steady and maternal, as though holding him in place. She turned her head and looked at him again, gave Him this little shrug, cocked her head, and nodded—like, “Let’s finish this, Son.” Not pushy. Just certain.
And He agreed with a nod back, with deep tenderness for her.
They both looked at me, and together, they opened their cloaks and revealed their hearts—His Sacred, hers Immaculate. I might add that they were dressed exactly as we see them depicted. Him in red, her in blue. Both of them seemed to be about the same age, but she was definitely "the mom." Beautiful.
As soon as He acted, she joined Him. Her rays didn’t come before His, or even exactly at the same time—but as soon as He moved, she moved. As if it was a normal thing to work together.
First, from Jesus’ Heart came golden-silver rays of light, pouring toward me—vibrant, warm, radiant.
Then, from Mary’s Heart, the same light began to stream—equally strong, equally alive.
Their rays met and intermingled—like divine ribbons of love—wrapping me up, from both sides.
The rays turned to a pillar of flames as though I was a bonfire. I could no longer see them, through the flames, but I could see the scene as though I was looking at it while still being in the flames, like 5D or something weird—surround vision. I had no pain, but I had an intense sense of love and belonging. To THEM! And I guess because I am pragmatic, a wondering observer, like, hmm, I wonder what exactly is going on here right now.
I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t overwhelmed.
I was held. I was loved.
The flames died down, and they stood in front of me seemingly contented, as though to say, It is finished. And then they were gone.
Something shifted for me that night.
They stopped being distant, holy figures. They became real "people"—a real family relationship, with real emotions, real unity, and a way of communicating that was far beyond words. I knew what they were saying without sound. They were telepathic, both with each other, and with me.
I understood everything, not because they explained it, but because they shared it—directly into my spirit. There was peace. There was agreement. There was love.
The Aftermath
To my chagrin, I still tested positive the next morning. But I felt like I could run a marathon. I had no symptoms. No fatigue. Just clarity, lightness, and joy.
We ended up canceling the entire trip.
Fred was disappointed, of course. We all were. But not once did he or my husband express frustration, regret, or blame toward me. They were both gracious, tender-hearted, and fully focused on me—not on what they had missed. That in itself was a gift.
I had surrendered it all—from the beginning. I didn’t cling to the plans. I didn’t fight for the outcome. I simply gave it to God. And His will was clear: He healed my body, but He took the trip. And he drew me even closer to Himself. Healed, I stayed in my room, just me and the Trinity for the next seven days. Reading scripture, praying, journaling, in a cocoon with my Father, Savior and Friend.
A Dry Run for Something Greater
What I didn’t know then was that this whole logistical puzzle—flying from California to Colorado to meet Fred, flying to D.C. together, then returning through Denver to get him back to Colorado Springs—wasn’t wasted effort.
It was a dry run.
Because when we finally rebooked the trip months later, (and the hotel was so gracious they rebooked our non-refundable room for free,) everything went off without a hitch. All the planning, all the effort, all the practice—it made for the perfect vacation. One we’ll never forget.
What felt like a ruined celebration turned out to be preparation for joy.
Final Reflection
This wasn’t a story about illness.
It was a story about surrender.
About Mary.
About Jesus.
About how grace moves quietly through disappointments—and turns them into something sacred. Romans 8:28, right?
Mary didn’t replace Jesus.
She didn’t demand center stage.
She simply brought Him.
And He came. They worked together.
And everything changed.
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