When I met Mother Mary, the most amazing thing was that at the time, I neither had a Catholic background nor was I a practicing Christian (though I did believe in Jesus).
And the occasion wasn't what most Christians would expect either: She appeared to me during a Tarot reading I was giving to a client, of all things.
The client was a sweet, middle-aged woman named Rosemary, the epitome of childlike innocence. The session was really more therapy hour than Tarot reading, which means she did most of the talking, but that was okay; I was used to it.
She told me the story of her miserable childhood, how she’d been emotionally and physically abused by her schizophrenic mother and had grown up functionally illiterate, which she still was.
One day, Rosemary had a vision ("It was like a dream, only that I was awake”) of a glowing book floating in mid-air in front of her, and she saw that it had her name on it.
The voice of God told her that she was supposed to write a book of poems about peace and love and war. She nearly despaired over this task, which was completely overwhelming for her, but she did it anyway. She painstakingly looked words up in a dictionary and put them together over many months.
She said she cried the entire time because it was so hard for her… but finally, she self-published her booklet of poems (this was during the first Gulf War).
She got a chance to read the poems to audiences. Once word got around in her hometown, local churches and libraries started inviting her to do in-person readings. At one church, she had a captive audience of over 500 on Christmas Eve 1990.
“There were so many people starting to cry when I read that poem,” Rosemary said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I felt so bad that I made them cry. That’s just not right.”
Her naiveté stunned me. “But you weren’t making them cry in a bad way,” I said. “They were crying because your poems touched their hearts. That’s a good thing.”
She looked at me quizzingly, as if she wasn’t sure whether I was being serious. She said people suggested she should sell the book, but "it didn’t feel right to me to take money for it." So whenever someone insisted on giving her money, she donated it to the local animal shelter.
She began to mail the booklet all across the world, receiving thank-you notes from the Vatican, former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, the United Nations, former British Prime Minister John Major, and Congressman Jesse Jackson.
She even had one of her poems translated into Croatian so she could send it to a man at a Balkan refugee camp whose name she had picked out of a newspaper article.
She never heard from him, but three years later, she received a letter from a girl in Croatia. The girl’s grandfather had died, stated the letter, and when his family went through his belongings, they found Rosemary’s poem that he had kept neatly folded in his wallet, the paper yellowed and creased from frequent handling.
“My grandfather used to read that poem to us kids in the refugee camp over and over,” wrote the girl. “I just want you to know that he genuinely loved you. He said you were his best friend in the world.”
What a touching story! I asked Rosemary if she had one of the poems with her, and she agreed to read it to me.
The words were simple and childlike, the rhymes didn’t always work perfectly—but there was something so magical about them that I had to hold back tears.
During our session, Rosemary did her share of crying too, pacing back and forth as she talked. Even though her schizophrenic mother had treated her with great cruelty, Rosemary wept for her poor soul, “who must have been so confused and desperate to do things like that.” She wept for the abandoned and abused animals in the world… and she wept for all of mankind.
And then it happened. Suddenly, the figure of this petite, middle-aged woman changed before my eyes, and she started glowing from within. (I mean that literally.) I could only see a vague feminine outline through the golden glow. It looked like a woman in a hooded cape, much like the depictions of Mother Mary.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was in the presence of the Divine. It wasn't so much her appearance than her otherworldly aura of boundless compassion and kindness. It was so intense that I felt wrapped in love like a baby being swaddled in a warm blanket.
The vision lasted just a few minutes, if that, but I was left completely stunned. Rosemary, on the other hand, had no idea what had happened, so she was rather confused and taken aback when I refused to take her money.
"Give it to the animal shelter," I told her. When I told my fellow psychic readers the story, I said, “Would you charge God for a reading?”
I’m sure Rosemary wouldn’t object, probably even be thrilled, if I shared one of her poems here. Here it is:
JUST LIKE YOU
Daddy, why ya gotta gun?
Are you gonna shoot someone?
Does the enemy have an army too?
Do they have guns, just like you?
Are you gonna shoot those men,
Who are just like you?
Daddy, do they have little boys too?
And, and do they live in a house?
And have a wife just like you?
Daddy, will she cry if he dies,
Like Mommy would for you
And what about his little boy,
What’s he gonna do?
Oh Lord, how can I answer
All this, to my son
When I’ve always taught him
To be kind to everyone
Just Like You.