Our Lady of Mount Virgin

Mary is at the center of this garden — and that feels exactly right. Every path through this place seems to lead back to her. She stands quietly, arms open, the way she has always stood — not demanding attention, but receiving everyone who comes.

To her right is Saint Peregrine. To her left, Saint Catherine of Siena. She is flanked by a healer and a mystic, a converted rebel and a Doctor of the Church — and she holds them both with the same quiet maternal love.

When I stand here I think about how many people have looked up at her face in this garden — in grief, in illness, in gratitude, in search of something they could not yet name. She has received all of it. She always does.

Catherine was born in Siena in 1347, the twenty-third child in her family, in the year the Black Death swept through Italy. She had a vision of Christ at six years old and consecrated herself to God at seven — over her family's strong objections. She became a Dominican tertiary, cared for the sick and dying during the plague, and went on to write hundreds of letters to popes and kings, eventually persuading Pope Gregory XI to return the papacy to Rome from Avignon.

She is a Doctor of the Church — one of only four women ever given that title. She is the patron of Italy and of Europe. She died at thirty-three. Standing near her statue, I find myself humbled by what one life, fully given, can do — and curious to know her better.

Peregrine Laziosi began his life as a rebel — openly anti-Catholic, once striking a priest named Philip Benizi who had come to preach peace. Philip responded not with anger but with prayer and forgiveness. That single act of mercy broke something open in Peregrine. He fell to his knees, asked forgiveness, and eventually joined the Servite Order — the same order as the man he had struck.

Years later, he developed cancer in his leg and was told amputation was the only answer. The night before the surgery, he prayed before a crucifix and fell into a dream in which Christ descended from the cross and touched his leg. He woke healed. He is the patron saint of those with cancer and serious illness — and a reminder that God reaches toward us even in the places that feel most beyond reach.

Sitting here on a warm spring day, I look at her statue and feel the gentle breeze that reminds me of her tender care for the poor. The sun warming my face makes me think about how she brought warmth and comfort to people who had nothing.

As I watch new flowers blooming around her, I can almost see her gentle smile as she held dying people in her arms. Looking at her statue I feel challenged to ask myself: how can I serve others with the same loving heart she had?

Saint Joseph’s statue has such a kind and gentle face. Sitting here in the sunshine, I imagine how this good man must have felt raising Jesus as his own son — holding him, providing for his family with his carpenter’s hands, watching him grow up knowing he was the Son of God.

When Jesus walked to Calvary, Joseph was already in heaven, but I believe his heart was still with his beloved son. Looking at this statue fills me with hope that Saint Joseph watches over all families, especially during hard times.

Saint Michael’s statue stands tall and strong. The peaceful feeling in this garden reminds me that good always wins over evil, even when times seem dark. As I watch the shadows move across his statue I think about how Saint Michael protects us from spiritual dangers we cannot even see.

When worry tries to creep into my heart, I look up at his statue and remember that God’s power is greater than any fear.

When I pray the Stations of the Cross here, I feel like Padre Pio truly understands what Jesus went through. He didn’t just read about Jesus’s pain — he felt it in his own hands and feet for fifty years, offering it willingly.

Resting on a bench near his statue, I find comfort knowing that someone who suffered so much can pray for me when life gets difficult.