In the Night the Spiritual Visit of Saint Joan of Arc.

Oh who calls me at this hour of night? Who knocks at the door of my heart? In the nocturnal silence that envelops my Roman rooms, I remain in prayer vigil. An entire Holy Rosary of the sorrowful mysteries because I wish to be with Jesus, in Gethsemane, abandoning the world, pruned from my certainties, alone, with Him. And then all the Passion and death on Calvary.

I am awake, on tiptoe, I go to the kitchen to empty the dishwasher and while, in the order of plates, cups and cutlery, my heart finds its trot, my soul's visitant reveals herself to me. It is Joan of Arc! She heartens me in my solitary journey and shows me the path that was also hers: to free France from the English who hold it in the trap of false democracy.

I return to bed and follow with the mysteries of Glory until sleep overcomes me and it is already morning. I had prepared, yesterday, the soda bread, which I ate as a girl during the Irish months at Mrs Pettit's house, who, before daily Mass, would put it in the oven and it would be ready for me, with butter and jam, upon my waking. And after breakfast with my husband who listens with only one ear, I set myself to typing on the computer to read about her, about Joan, who, as a child, illiterate, poor, indomitably followed God's will, even unto atrocious death at the hands of the English. I thus discover that precisely today, May 16th, the wonderful Joan was canonized by Benedict XV. Another Benedict who knew...

Dear French, brothers in the Lord, awake, follow not the false marianna with the features of an actress (however beautiful, for charity's sake), but your great Saints. Like Joan, like Genevieve, who gathered the remains of Saint Denis, patron of Paris, and who spoke before the hordes of Attila, who besieged Paris, Attila, himself also a scourge of God, these famous words: "Let men flee, if they wish and if they are no longer capable of fighting. We women shall pray to God so much that He will hear our pleas." But the men descended into combat, they fought, and Paris was saved.

King Louis XVII did not die, but his little heart still beats, preserved in the magnificent Basilica of Saint Denis. Ring the bells, pray, do not surrender to the scourges that come from England and the United States. Do not fall into the trap. Oh what weariness, I yawn, enough, I have finished, and as I am about to write the final word, a strange episode comes to mind that happened to me some time ago when my Bebabou workshop was working hard and I would go to buy fabrics in a small shop in Piazza Vittorio. One morning, early, I enter and the owner, with a great smile, says to me: "Oh good morning, dear Joan!". And I: "Actually my name is Benedetta." He, in return: "That is what you say...".

I wish everyone a happy Holy Sunday of Ascension.