Death of Saint Mary Magdalene, part two.

[Jesus says to the dying woman:] "Get up, Mary. It's Me. Life is fleeing. It's true. But I have come to tell you that Christ awaits you. There is no waiting for Mary. Everything is forgiven her. From the first moment it was forgiven. But now it is more than forgiven. Your place is already prepared in my Kingdom. I have come, Mary, to tell you this. I did not order the angel to do so because I repay a hundredfold for what I receive, and I remember what I have received from you.  

 

Mary, let us together relive a moment in the past. Remember Bethany. It was the evening after the Sabbath. Six days remained before my death. Do you remember your house? Everything was beautiful in the blossoming tract of its orchard. The water was singing in the pool, and the first roses could be scented around its walls. Lazarus had invited me to his supper, and you had stripped the garden of the loveliest flowers to adorn the table where your Master would take his sustenance. Martha did not dare to reproach you because she remembered my words and looked at you with gentle envy, for you shone with love while coming and going for the preparations. And then I arrived. You ran faster than a gazelle, preceding the servants, to open the gate with your usual cry. It always sounded like the cry of a freed prisoner. I was, in fact, your liberation, and you were a liberated prisoner.  

 

The apostles were with Me. All of them. Even the one who was then like a gangrenous member of the apostolic body. But you were there to take his place. And you did not know that while observing your head bending to kiss my feet and your sincere, love-filled eyes, I forgot my disgust over having the betrayer at my side. I wanted you on Calvary for this reason. You in Joseph's garden for this reason. Because to see you was to be sure that my death was not without a purpose. And my showing Myself to you was an act of gratitude for your faithful love.

 

Mary, blessed are you, that have never betrayed […] Me in my hope as the Redeemer – you, in whom I saw all those saved by my death! While everyone ate, you worshiped. You had given Me the perfumed water for my weary feet and chaste, ardent kisses for my hands, and, still not content, you wanted to break open your last precious vase and anoint my head, freshening up my hair as a mother does, and anoint my hands and feet so that all your Master's limbs would be scented as members of the consecrated King. And Judas, who hated you because you were now honest and rejected the appetites of males with your honesty, reproached you. But I defended you because you had done everything out of love, such a great love that the memory of it accompanied Me in the agony from Thursday night until the ninth hour.

 

Now, because of this act of love you gave Me on the threshold of my death, I come, on the threshold of your death, to repay you with love. Your Master loves you, Mary He is here to say this to you. Do not be afraid or anxious about another death. Your death is no different from that of those shedding their blood for my sake. What does the martyr give? His life out of love for his God. What does the penitent give? His life out of love for his God. What does the lover give? His life out of love for his God. See that there is no difference. Martyrdom, penance, and love consummate the same sacrifice and for the same purpose. In you, then, a penitent and a lover, there is martyrdom, as in those perishing in the arenas. 

 

Mary, I will precede you into glory. Kiss my hand and lie down in peace. Rest. It is time for you to rest. Give Me your thorns. Now is the time for roses. Rest and wait. I bless you, blessed one."

 

Jesus has obliged Mary to lie down on her couch. And the saint, with her face washed with tears of ecstasy, has lain down as her God has wanted her to and now seems to sleep, with her arms crossed over her chest and her tears continuing to fall, but with a smile on her mouth.

 

She rises again to a sitting position when a very bright radiance appears in the grotto because of the arrival of an angel bearing a chalice which he sets upon the altar and worships. Mary, kneeling beside her cot, worships, too. She can no longer move. Her strength is failing. But she is blessed. The angel takes the chalice and gives her Communion. He then goes back up to Heaven.

 

Mary, like a flower scorched by too much sun, bends – she bends with her arms still crossed over her chest and falls, with her face amidst the leaves of her cot. She is dead. The Eucharistic ecstasy has cut the last thread of life.

 

Jesus says:

 

"Although creatures may be consummate in the generosity of love and in repaying those who have loved them, they are always very relative. But your Jesus surpasses all human immensity in desire and every limit to satisfaction. For your Jesus is God, and to you, the generous and loving – since this is a page which I address especially to you, the souls that are not satisfied with obeying the precept, but embrace the counsel and push your love for Me to holy acts of heroism – I give with my abundance as God, and as a good God.

 

"I create the miracle for you, to repay you with joy for all the joy you give Me. I take the place of what you lack or produce what you need. But I let nothing be lacking for you that have stripped yourselves of everything out of love for Me to the point of living in a material or moral solitude in the midst of the world, which does not comprehend you and which mocks you and which, repeating the insult of old which was previously directed at Me, your Master, shouts at you, 'Madmen!' and takes your penances and your lights to be diabolical signs […].

 

"But go ahead and let them call you 'madmen and demons.' I know that you are possessors of true wisdom, of upright intelligence, and that you have the soul of an angel in a mortal body. I remember, and not a single loving sigh is forgotten, what you have done for Me; and, as I defend you against the world – for I bring the best ones in the world to know what you are in my eyes – so I compensate you when the hour comes, and I consider that it is time to infuse some sweetness into your chalice […].

 

"I never disappoint those who hope in Me. Say this over and over again to everyone. "

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1944, March 30, p. 252-259.

 

View my books Link.

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the supernatural revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

The Scribes and Pharisees of the Church hierarchy.

St. Peter was martyred for being a Christian who would not pray to Emperor Nero’s false gods. Today at the saint’s burial site, worship of false gods is now permitted. What is worse, the false god who is worshiped there is responsible for the martyrdom of a Christian every hour of every day throughout the world. That’s right, Islamic Jihadists kill a Christian every hour on average.

 

Historically the Vatican was built over the burial place of St. Peter, the first Pope. Today the papal altar in St. Peter's Basilica stands directly above the traditional and archaeological site of the saint's tomb.  

 

Catholic News Agency has verified that the Vatican Apostolic Library has granted the request by Muslim scholar's for a carpeted prayer room [Link.] Here they can pray to their god, who presides over the daily murder and persecution of Christians worldwide. 

 

I asked Grok.com (AI) how many Christians have been killed by Jihadists so far in 2025.  They gave a detailed answer that included this line:

 

"However, based on ongoing monitoring by human rights organizations, the total for 2025 is estimated to exceed 8,000 worldwide..."

 

That would be about 27 killed every day, more than one Christian per hour.  

 

Will there be a solemn act of reparation for this ongoing desecration and blasphemy committed near the tomb of the first pope?  The Catholic religion once stood for the glory of God and the salvation of souls. And it still does in the hearts of many, but not in the hearts of the scribes and pharisees of the church hierarchy. 

 

This supreme insult and crucifixion of the memory of St. Peter’s martyrdom is a further advancement of the Great Apostasy, and further proof of the prophecies that the Church will undergo the Passion of Jesus.

 

View my website Here.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The death of Saint Mary Magdalene, part one.

 

I see a cavern in the rock where there is a bed of piled-up leaves on a rustic frame of interwoven branches bound together with rushes. It must be as comfortable as a rack for torture. The grotto also has a large stone which serves as a table and a smaller one which serves as a chair. Against the side farthest back there is another one: a large stone splinter sticking out of the rock which […] has been polished and presents a rather smooth surface. Upon this, which looks like a rustic altar, a cross made of two wicker-bound branches is resting.

 

The inhabitant of the grotto has also planted ivy in an earthy cleft in the ground and guided its branches to frame the cross and encircle it, while, in two rustic vases, which seemed to have been modeled in the clay by an unskilled hand, there are wild flowers picked nearby, and, right at the foot of the cross, in a giant shell, there is a little wild cyclamen plant with small, very clean-cut leaves and two buds which are about to blossom. At the foot of this altar there is a sheaf of thorny branches and a scourge with knotted cords. In the grotto there is also a rustic jug with water. Nothing else.

 

Through the narrow, low aperture mountains can be seen in the background, and, since there appears a moving luminosity which is glimpsed in the distance, one would assume that the sea is visible from this point […]. Pendulous ivy branches, honeysuckle, and wild rosebushes – all the usual pomp of mountainous locations – hang over the opening and form a sort of moving veil separating the interior from the exterior.

La Sainte-Baume (the Holy Cave) in southeastern France where she spent her last 30 years in prayer and contemplation.

 

A thin woman, wearing rustic, dark clothing, covered by a goatskin as a blanket, goes into the grotto, pushing aside the hanging branches. She looks exhausted. It is impossible to determine her age. If one were to judge by her withered face, one would say she was quite old – over sixty. If one were to go by her flowing locks, still beautiful, thick, and golden, not over forty. Her hair hangs down in two braids over her curved, slender shoulders, and it is the only thing that shines out in that desolation. The woman must certainly have been beautiful, for her brow is still lofty and smooth, and her nose, well-shaped, and the oval, though thinned by weariness, regular. But her eyes no longer sparkle. They are deeply sunken in their sockets […]. Two eyes which reveal the many tears they have shed.

Two wrinkles, almost two scars, have been engraved from the corner of each eye along the nose and finally dissolve into that other wrinkle typical of those who have suffered greatly, which descends from the nostrils like a circumflex accent to the corners of the mouth. Her temples look sunken, and the blue veins are outlined in the intense paleness. Her mouth hangs down in a weary curve and is a very pale pink. It must once have been a splendid mouth; now it is withered. The curve of the lips is like that of two broken wings dangling. A mouth of pain.

 

The woman drags herself over to the mass of stone which serves as a table and sets bilberries and wild strawberries upon it. She then goes to the altar and kneels down. But she is so exhausted that she nearly falls in doing so, and must hold herself up with one hand on the stone slab. She prays, looking at the cross, and tears flow down her wrinkles to her mouth, which drinks them in. She then lets her goatskin slip down, remaining with only the rough tunic to cover her, and takes the scourges and the thorns.

 

She clasps the thorny branches tightly around her head and her loins and scourges herself with the cords. But she is too weak to do so. She drops the scourge and, supporting herself against the altar with both hands and her forehead, she says, "I can't withstand any more, Rabbi! I can't suffer more, in memory of your pain!"

 

The voice brings me to recognize her. It is Mary Magdalene. I am in her grotto of penitence.

 

Mary is weeping. She calls Jesus lovingly. She cannot suffer any more. But she can still love. Her flesh, mortified by penance, can no longer withstand the effort of scourging herself, but her heart still beats passionately and consumes itself in its final strength by loving. And she loves, remaining with her forehead crowned with thorns and her waist clasped by thorns; she loves by speaking to her Master in a continuous profession of love and a renewed act of contrition.

 

She has slipped, with her brow touching the ground. The same posture she had on Calvary before Jesus, when He was placed on Mary's lap, the same one she had in the house in Jerusalem when Veronica explained her veil, the same one she had in the garden of Joseph of Arimathea, when Jesus called her and she recognized Him and worshiped Him. But now she is crying because Jesus is not there.

 

"Life is fleeing from me, my Master. And will I have to die without seeing You again? When will I be able to take delight in your face? My sins are before me and accuse me. You have forgiven me, and I believe hell will not possess me. But how long will I be detained in expiation before living by You Oh, good Master! For the sake of the love You have given me, comfort my soul! The hour of death has come. For the sake of your desolate dying on the cross, comfort your creature! You begot me. You. Not my mother. You raised me up, more than You raised up Lazarus, my brother. For he was already good, and death could only mean waiting in your Limbo. I was dead in my soul, and to die meant eternal death. Jesus, into your hands I entrust my spirit! It is yours because You have redeemed it. As a final expiation, I agree to experience the harshness of your dying in abandonment. But give me a sign that my life has served to expiate my sinning." 

 

"Mary!" Jesus has appeared. He seems to come down from the rustic cross. But He is not wounded and dying. He is as handsome as on the morning of the Resurrection. He comes down from the altar and goes towards the prostrate woman. He bends over her. He calls her again, and, since she seems to believe that Voice is sounding for her spiritual senses and remains with her face to the ground, she does not see the light Christ is emitting. He touches her, resting his hand on her head and taking her by the elbow, as in Bethany, to lift her up again.

 

When she feels touched and recognizes that hand by its length, she cries out loudly. And she uplifts her face, transfigured with joy. And she lowers it to kiss the feet of her Lord.

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1944, March 30, p. 252-259.

View my books Link.

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the supernatural revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

A Visit from Purgatory.

After so long, I saw my mother. She was amidst the flames of Purgatory. I had never seen her in the flames. I cried out. I was unable to repress the cry, which I later justified to Marta with an excuse so as not to disturb her.

 

My mother was no longer so obscure, grayish, hard-faced, and hostile to the All and everyone, as I had seen her in the first three months after her death, when, though I entreated her, she did not want to turn to God. Nor was she dull and gloomy, almost frightened, as I had seen her in the following years. She was beautiful, rejuvenated, 'and serene. She looked like a bride in her gown-no longer gray, but white. extremely white. She came out of the flames, from her groin upwards.

I spoke to her and asked, "Are you still there, Mother? And yet I prayed so much to shorten your expiation and had prayer offered. This morning, for the sixth anniversary, I received Holy Communion for you. And you are still there! "

Cheerful and festive, she replied, "I am here, but for only a short while now. I know you have prayed and had prayer offered. This morning I took a big step towards peace. I thank you and the nun who prayed for me. I will repay you later. Soon. In a little while I will be finished with purgation. I have already purified the sins of the mind. My proud head. Then those of the heart. My acts of selfishness. They were the most serious. I am now expiating those of the lower part. But they are a trifle compared to the others."

"But when I saw you so obscure and hostile. you did not want to turn to Heaven."

"Ah! I was still haughty. To humble myself? I didn't want to. Then pride came down."

"And when you were so sad?"

"I was still attached to earthly affections. And you know it was not a good attachment. But I already understood. I was sad for that reason. Because I understood, now that there was no longer any sin of pride, that I had loved God in the wrong way, wanting Him to be my servant, and you, too."

"Don't think about it any more, Mother. It's over now."

"Yes, it's over. And if I am like this, I thank you. It's because of you that I'm like this. Your sacrifice. It obtained purgatory for me and, in a short while, peace."

"In 1950?"

"Even before! Before! Soon!"

"Then there will be no more need to pray for you."

"Pray just the same as if I were here. There are so many souls, of all kinds, and many souls of mothers, forgotten. One must love and think of all. Now I know. You are able to think of all, love all. I now know this, too, and now understand that it is right. Now I no longer try to sketch out […] the process for God. Now I say that it is right.

"Pray for me, then."

"Ah! I thought of you before. See how I have kept the house for you. You know, eh? But I will now pray for your soul and for you either to be happy or to come with me."

"And Dad? Where is Dad?"

"In Purgatory."

"Still? And yet he was good. He died as a Christian, with resignation. "

"More than I. But he's here. God judges differently from the way we do. A way entirely his own.

"How can Dad still be there?"

" Ah!" (I felt bad, for I had hoped for some time that he was already in Heaven.)

"And Marta's mother? You know, Marta.

“Yes, yes. Now I know what Marta is. […] Marta's mother has been out of here for a long time."

"And the mother of my friend Eroma Antonini? You know.

"I know. We know everything. Those of us in Purgatory. Not so well as the saints. But we know. When I was coming down here, she was leaving."

I saw the tongue-like flickering of the flames, and they brought me pain. I asked, "Do you suffer a lot from that fire?"

"Now I don't. Now there is another, stronger one which almost keeps me from feeling this one. And, what's more, that other fire makes you want to suffer. And now the suffering doesn't hurt. I never wanted to suffer […].

"You are beautiful, Mother, now. You are the way I wanted you to be."

"If I am like this, I owe it to you. Ah! How many things you understand when you're here. The more you get purified of pride and selfishness, the more you understand. I had so much of them.

"Don't think about it any more."

"I must think about it. Good-bye, Maria.

Good-bye, Mother. Come soon to take me.

"When God wills.

I wanted to record this. It contains teachings. God punishes first the sins of the mind, then of the heart, and finally the weaknesses of the flesh. One must pray for those abandoned in Purgatory as if they were our relatives; the judgment of God is very different from ours; those in Purgatory understand what they did not understand during life because they were filled with themselves.

Aside from my affliction over Dad, I am happy to have seen her so serene – indeed joyful. Poor Mother!

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1945-50, October 4, 1949; pages 540-542.

 

View my books Link.

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the supernatural revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

Another amazing revelation for Maria Valtorta. Two visions of Mary: Humble Virgin of Nazareth and Glorious Queen of Heaven.

Mary Immaculate, indescribable Light which is flesh possessing the immaterial – no, not immaterial, for it is a real body – or, rather, the transfigured, ideal beauty of glorified bodies, descended today […] from her niche of light (the light emanating from her blessed body) and became Mary of Nazareth, the pure, lovely, delicate, motherly, humble Mary who lived in Palestine twenty centuries ago.

 

She came to my bedside, dressed in white, with a light linen veil of thin-woven cloth over her blond hair, parted at the top of her head, just as I had seen her so many times in the visions. She was gentle, but slightly sad. Resting her very lovely hands on the edge of my bed [...] she said:

 

"I am here. So that you can contemplate me, study my features, from very close up, once again, and grasp where the difference lies between what I was like on earth and what I am now like in Heaven.

 

"In Lourdes, in Fatima, and in the apparitions in general, I appear as I am now in Heaven, and my appearance already possesses the indescribable luminous beauty of glorified bodies. The beauty which the seers of those apparitions never grasp entirely, in all its details. Note that they are able to mention the clothing I wear, the rosary I hold, the rock or tree where I stand, the gestures I make, and the expression on my face, but they are always uncertain – and involuntarily, they are never truthful – about describing my face and the color of my eyes and hair and skin. They make an effort to do so, [...] they cannot do so.

"None of the souls of the seers has seen me to the extent that you have seen me, as a Girl, Spouse, and Mother on earth and as the Queen of Heaven. And every time you say to yourself, 'It is still Her. But how different She is as the glorious Queen of Heaven, taken up in body and soul among the angels, from the times when She is the humble Mary of Nazareth.'

"Look at me carefully, daughter, and soothe your pain. Look at me. Am I Mary of Nazareth?"

I observed her carefully, close as she was to my face. I examined her skin, of a warm magnolia paleness suffused with a tenuous pink on her cheeks, her appropriately distended red lips, her thin, straight nose, her perfectly proportioned, clear sky-blue eyes under her lofty, smooth brow, the perfect oval face of a girl. I don't know why her face always makes me think of a white flame or a lily bud about to open-the curves are so gentle in their oval. I looked at her beautiful mildly blond hair – fine, soft, and slightly wavy. [...] And, above all, I got lost perceiving the tenuous color of her body breathing close to me and her fragrance – her characteristic scent, the smell of Mary, the smell of the Virgin.

Mary read my wish to abandon myself on her motherly shoulder to obtain relief in so many afflictions of every kind and drew to herself. I remained like that – I don't know for how long. She then left me, saying, "Write that I have clasped you to my heart.” [...]

 

She then said, "And now look at me." She became transfigured, rising from the ground, separating herself from my bed, supported by a silver cloud bathed in her extremely white light. Her body shone and her robe, turning from white to "white light," shone. Her face shone, growing sharper, as if the light were spiritualizing it. Her enraptured gaze shone. The light was so bright that the pale blue of her eyes became a "ray," and the gold of her hair was almost no longer distinguishable as such – it seemed dark in comparison to the light emitted by the glorified Body of the Mother of God.

She lowered her eyes towards me and smiled, asking, "Is it me?"

"Yes."

"But am I the same as the woman who was Jesus' Mother?"

"Yes...and no," I answered intrepidly, for intrepidity is needed to make certain comparisons and confessions.

"And yet it's me. You see. I am like this in Heaven. I appeared like this in Lourdes and Fatima. Where the seers saw me most clearly, since they were innocent, like you, my daughter. The more innocent creatures are, the more they see me as I am and describe me exactly, insofar as they can as creatures, and have my likeness sculpted, insofar as an image can resemble me."

She came back to me, in human form. She asked, "Is your torment being calmed?" I wept. She caressed me. I cried because since I had read that she had appeared to Bruno Cornacchiola [see prior blog post Here on the Tre Fontane apparitions] with dark hair of an oriental type, I had thought I was deceived in saying Mary was blond. And yet she is. A pale blond, moreover, nearly straw-colored, almost pure gold. I was seeing it clearly. She was here, with her head less than thirty centimeters away from my eyes!

She caressed me to console me and said:

“O Maria, do not be afraid. The shadow of the grotto and the mantle greatly contributed to the mistake. And it was not necessary for me to reveal myself perfectly to a sinner, as with the innocent Bernadette, Lucia, Jacinta, Francisco and the little John of my Jesus [Jesus called Maria Valtorta ‘Little John’ referring to St. John the Evangelist],

"But listen carefully. To you, that are a Servant of Mary [a member of the Third Order of the Servants of Mary], I say that the craftsman who sculpted me in such a way that I do not recognize myself would have done well to recall the statues of Lourdes and Fatima, where I am depicted insofar as man can depict the image of the Mother of God. And, above all, he should have drawn inspiration from the face with which I am portrayed at Our Lady of the Annunciation in Florence – the face from which, if man and time had not altered the image, everyone could discern what I was like when the Spirit of God rendered me pregnant with God. The smoke from candles and time have darkened the colors, and men have done damage. But one can still see what God's Girl, Joseph's Betrothed, was like in that springtime of her years, in that blooming Nazarene springtime.

 

[This celebrated fresco, attributed to an angelic intervention, is found in the Basilica of Our Lady of the Annunciation in Florence. The mortal remains of Maria Valtorta have been resting in the adjoining cloister since 1973.]

"Look at me and forget the pain, the fear – everything. Remember: I saw the Lamb standing on Mount Zion and, with Him, 144,000 people on whose foreheads his Name and that of the Father were written, and they were singing a new song which no one could learn except those 144,000 rescued from the earth. The first fruits for God and the Lamb, nor was any deceit found in their mouths. Do you think you can't belong to this multitude because you are not an innocent? It is further stated that the angel of the Lord marks 144,000 servants of the Lord with God's sign and that they come in white robes to the eternal hosanna after having passed from the great tribulation. […] But, you see, I, the Queen of the Angels and Mother of God, am impressing that sign on your forehead with a kiss.

"Be at peace. The Triune Lord and I, starting on the earth, are drying all of your tears." I abandoned myself again to her motherly embrace.”

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1945-50, December 28, 1947; pages 456-459.

 

View my books Link.

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the supernatural revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

An appearance of the Virgin Mary “alive, and real, as in Lourdes.”

The evening of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, December 8, 1947.

 

Maria Valtorta is confined to her bed, and laments at not being able to participate in the Church’s celebration of the Feast. She has been oppressed for years by the weight of seven chronic diseases.

 

“I was complaining about not being able to see Mary Immaculate passing by, carried in a procession. It is this being deprived of taking part in the rites of the Church that makes me feel the weight of my infirmity. In ten days, fifteen years will have passed during which I have been unable to set foot on the streets, have not gone to church, and have not seen ceremonies. From the balcony Marta [her live-in housekeeper] can see something, but I can see nothing. Alone in my bed I was complaining to myself as I hear the approach of the choirs acclaiming Mary Most Holy.

 

“And Mary came to me: alive, real, as in Lourdes. One of the most intense, and most complete, ecstasies I had ever had. The world utterly obliterated around me. Mary alone with Maria alone. I received much more than seeing a statue passing by.  

 

“I returned to – what shall I call it? – awareness of what the world is, I would say, after about an hour, I believe, for when She came, there was still daylight and when She left me, there was deep darkness. And I found that my face was moist with tears. I did not realize I was weeping with joy while I petitioned Her for the Church, the Holy Father, Italy, the Order of the Servants of Mary, all of the clergy, and the people dearest to me; while venerating and contemplating Her, I said the fifteen decades of the Rosary in front of Her – so lovely, so sweet, so luminous, and so blessed. But it was joyful weeping, and did no harm. It was an outburst of the heart liquefying with joy in those hours of contemplation and heavenly boon.  

 

“How beautiful She was! How beautiful She was! What joy and peace She left in my heart! May She be blessed! And, with Her, her Most Holy Son, who grants me these balms in my great suffering.”

 

This visit was a preamble to a major appearance of the Blessed Virgin three weeks later. 

 

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1945-50, December 8, 1947; page 454. 

 

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

 

View my books Link.

The three Archangels appear to Maria Valtorta.

She is writing to her spiritual director Fr. Romualdo Migliorini, a Servite priest, who had arrived at her bedside to give her Communion:

Oh, Father! I don't know if you realized that at the moment of Holy Communion I was finding it hard to follow you because I was already elsewhere, intent on looking towards heaven, from which a joyful call was coming to me, with that joy which cannot be described by human comparisons and words. I had to make an effort to pull myself away from there in order to respond to you. Afterwards, trembling with joy, waves of vaster and vaster joy, the heavenly domain became progressively illuminated for me, and I saw.

I saw the most radiant azures of the meadows of Paradise. This vision of the heavenly regions flooded with the light which no comparison can convey, the light of Paradise, indeed leads to blessedness, even if it were to remain on its own. […].

From a northeastern point three most radiant figures, like common mortals, are coming to meet me, walking over the sapphire fields, with a royal, very dignified gait. And yet they show no haughtiness. Quite the contrary. They walk nimbly, without losing solemnity. They smile, observing me, and smile at one another, drawing each other's attention towards me with the language of their gazes. As they approach, I see the movements of their beautiful eyes – the first one's are sapphire blue, the second's very black, and the third's golden chestnut – shining in the smile and light of Paradise.

They come up to the limit of the heavenly field, beyond which there is an empty space as far as the lower terrace, where I am, venerating and enraptured. And they halt there, looking at me, smiling as only an angel can smile, clasping each other around the waist, like three brothers who love one another and are taking a stroll together.

They are the three archangels: Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael. And I shall attempt to provide a picture of them. They are three very handsome young men. They strike me as young men aged twenty, or between eighteen and thirty. The youngest is Raphael, and the oldest (in appearance) is Michael, with a tremendous comeliness.

The first on the right was Gabriel, apparently aged twenty four or twenty-five. Tall, slender, and very spiritualized in his enraptured features as a perpetual worshiper. Blond – a pure gold blond – with wavy hair barely touching his shoulders – or, rather, the base of his neck – clasped by a slender diamond-studded ring – it resembled a band of incandescent light rather than metal and jewels. Dressed in that robe of woven light – diamonds and pearls – which I have often seen in glorious bodies. A long, loose, very pure tunic which completely concealed his feet and barely left uncovered his right hand, quite beautiful in appearance, hanging down at his side. He was looking at me with his sapphire eyes, with such a supernatural smile that, though a smile, it frightened me.

The other one [Michael], in the middle, also very tall, like his companion, was, as I said, awesome in his austere handsomeness. With brown hair shorter than his companion's and curlier, a sturdier build, and a forehead free of all diadems, but with a kind of medal on his chest made of gold and stones […], held up by two little golden chains. The stones set in place formed characters, perhaps a name, but I was unable to read those words, those letters which are not like our own.

He was dressed in inflamed gold, a robe which was so bright that it blinded you. It looked like a light colored flame (not reddish, but golden) enveloping his nimble, robust members. His black eyes were severe and cast-forth beams of light. He did not make me afraid, for I felt he was not angry with me, but, rather, that he loved me. But it was a gaze with an awesomeness which must be distressing for sinners and Satan. Michael had neither a sword nor a lance, quite the opposite of the way he is portrayed, but his weapons were his eyes. Even his smile was severe, very austere.

The third one [Raphael], wearing a robe, with a jewel-covered belt, a robe of a delicate emerald, seemed to be dressed exactly in the color you see when looking at an emerald against the light. He was tall, with long dark hair, like Gabriel's. A precious color of hair which is chestnut with a little sprinkling of dark gold, He looked like the youngest of all and reminded me a bit of St. John the Apostle because of his gentle, youthful smile. Raphael's eyes, though, were a very soft chestnut color, with a placid, patient gaze which is a caress. He was smiling in a more human way than the others. Everything in him was more like the way we are. He was really the "good Young man" of the Book of Tobias. You feel like putting your hand in his, trustingly, and saying to him, "Guide me! In everything! "

They looked at me, smiled, and smiled at each other. Then they greeted me.

Gabriel sang, with his voice like a very spiritual harp (and every note takes you into ecstasy): "Hail, Mary," and on saying "Mary" he gathered his hands over his chest and bent his head, raising it afterwards with a smile increasing the glowing of his entire self towards the heights of Paradise. I understood that, rather than greet me, he had wished to show himself clearly. He is the Archangel who announces the great mystery, and seems able only to say those words and venerate the Virgin.

Michael touched the jewel on his chest. He took it in the fingers of his right hand and lifted it up to show it to me and, with a voice resounding like bronze, said, "Whoever is with God can do all. And Satan can do nothing against whoever is with God. For who is like God?" And these last words seemed to make his heavenly aura vibrate as if from harmonious thunder. He rested his medal on his chest and knelt down, adoring the Eternal whom I did not see, but who I would say, judging from the Archangel's gaze, was perpendicular to or right behind my back, far up, high above.

Raphael, with his golden voice, opened his arms as if to embrace me and at the same time uplifted his shining face in contemplation of God and said, "May joy always be with you." He somewhat resembled the angel I have seen in two visions. But he was less spiritualized than the other. At the root of his hair was a light like a star, a gentle light which brought comfort, as did his robe of shining light emerald.

They continued to look at me. They then clasped each other more tightly around the waist and […] opened their wings of pearl, flame, and pale green light and swiftly rose into the sky, singing an unrepeatable song, just like the one I heard [...] when I saw the angelic cohorts flying over Bethlehem, singing.

And I remained here. Rather, I descended from the spheres where I had been and came back to myself, to my agonies, to my bed. The joy remained, though, and I also realized that – how stupid of me – I had been incapable of saying a word to the three archangels. But my soul spoke with them. I felt that it venerated them, even if I could not translate its beats into material words.

After having received everything mentioned above, I took up the Bible to seek out every angelic apparition in it.

Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks 1945-50, December 21, 1945; pp. 129-133.

Disclaimer: A brief ‘press release’ from a Vatican dicastery has proposed, without offering proof, that her writings are not supernatural [Link]. However, according to the dicastery’s own published standards their press release has no canonical validity [Link, no. 22]. Therefore I am not being disobedient by publicly asserting my 100% human faith that the revelations of Maria Valtorta are from Heaven.

 

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