by Scott Caputo
I stood on the spot where light once poured from the ground
and I didn't even know it, my right heel
dipping into the well of dirt, hitting a small shovel
meant for pilgrims to fill up jars with miraculous earth.
Everywhere I turned in this small chapel, I saw icons:
the Sorrowful Jesus; the Risen Jesus;
the Good Shepherd; the Virgin; the Lady of Roses.
As I raised my camera, I noticed photographs
tucked into corners–smiling faces of all ages–
babies, grandmas, newlyweds and graduates.
It was hard to imagine any of these people sick or dying,
which made me think of another set of pictures–
the same people in hospital beds, their faces pale,
their arms hooked up to machines.
I hoped their prayers were answered.
But there were so many prayers in this room,
every available wall space taken, spilling into the next room.
Outside, hand-made crosses of twigs were wedged into fences,
a single photograph dangling from them.
What faith it took to put a cross on a hill
and think it made a difference.
The man who saw the original light come from the ground
dug with his bare hands, his hole large enough for his grave.
Instead, he emerged from the ground
with a glowing crucifix in his hands.
This is the miracle of faith. Even if we are covered
with the dust of the earth, we will find life again.
El Santurio de Chimayo first appeared in Ruah
