Baby Jesus visits Maria Valtorta.

January 2, 1946.

 

A monastery cloister, with a portico, paved with black and white square tiles. The long cloister fades into the darkness at the end […]. There is a small statue of Baby Jesus, about 28-30 months old. Blond, handsome, wearing a pale blue robe with golden stars, his right hand raised in blessing, his left holding a globe. An oil lamp illuminates the statue.

As I look at it, it comes to life and becomes real flesh. It smiles at me and gestures with its little hand, saying, "Come here! Come here!" And it becomes luminous, beautiful. The corner of the cloister glows as if with starlight. I move a little closer, smiling reverently. But I still stop too far away, and the Child insists with his voice and his little hand: "Come here! Here, close!" I approach him. He laughs happily and says: "Will you warm my little feet with a kiss? I'm so cold!" and he offers me his bare feet in turn, on which to warm them I place not only my lips but my feverish cheek.

He laughs. A clear, childish laugh, and says: "I am the Child of little Thérèse of Lisieux. This is Carmel. Do you understand? I am the Child Jesus of Sister Thérèse […]. " I contemplate him in ecstasy, now that I am so close to him. He is so beautiful! Then the light grows, grows, it is so violent, it obliterates the power of seeing, and everything disappears. Only the memory and the peace remain.

January 4, 1946.

And as the other day, the Child of the cloister of Lisieux appears to me again. He calls me close again. He consoles me, with his smiling beauty, for my sorrows, which are so many. He once again gives me his icy little feet to warm, saying again: 'I am so cold!', and I dare take them in my hands to warm them more. This makes him very happy.

But he seems tired of holding the globe in his left hand and takes it with both hands, holding it to his chest. I watch him as I warm his little feet in my hands. Perhaps he notices my surprise at his gesture and says, "It's heavy, you know? And this globe of the world is so cold. Hold it. Feel how cold and heavy it is. Hold it a little. I'm tired of holding it and always feeling it like this."

And he offers me the little globe, which at first glance seems to be made of golden glass, smooth and light. Instead, it is heavier than lead, rough, covered in prickles that dig into my skin, causing pain. I hold it with difficulty and anguish, because of the prickles and the chill it transmits. I look at the holy Child with pity.

"It's heavy, isn't it? And it's cold, isn't it! It even chills my heart. Yet I have to carry it. If I abandon it, who can hold it anymore?"

 

"But how can you, poor little Jesus, resist this torture? Because it's real torture..."

"Yes. Look. My little hands are bleeding. Kiss them to heal them." And he offers me his tender hands covered with tiny droplets of blood. I kiss them in the soft hollows of his palms. But they are cold, cold.

"Thank you, Maria. Give me back the globe. You can't hold it anymore. Only I can. But just finding someone to hold it for a few minutes is enough to give me relief. Do you know how you help me hold it, you who love me? With your sacrificial love. Victim souls hold up the world together with Jesus."

He glows as brightly as the other night and withdraws his little foot, saying, "Now they're both warm. And I feel better. Goodbye, Maria. Thank you also for Mom. She's happy when there's someone who loves and comforts me." And she fades into a blinding light.

 

January 6, 1946.

While I'm working on a piece for an altar, "Mom" comes with her Baby in her arms.

She says, "Here. Hold Him for me a little. I'll entrust Him to you," and she sits Him down on the bed, beside me.

Jesus is truly the Baby of Egypt […], because He is about two years old. Dressed in pale blue wool, a rather short tunic, even at the sleeves, so that His forearms and legs are exposed, plump, beautiful. He plays with His little hands and His little dress, and chirps or watches me work with His innocent, sapphire eyes. He spends the whole morning with me, and I am so happy about it.

Based on Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1945-1950, pp. 156-158.

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