Making "Medjugorje in the New Millennium"

Last summer, fresh out of college, I filmed a documentary video that would come to be called "Medjugorje in the New Millennium." It's been a strenuous yet thrilling journey as the writer, director, cameraman, interviewer, producer and admittedly even the coffee boy for this project. And now, I wholeheartedly present my video to the world in hopes that it will open eyes, move hearts and ultimately change lives.

My return to God began several years ago. I was still basking in the so-called "College Experience," drinking excessively and taking absolutely everything for granted. Most of my Sundays were spent nursing hangovers. And to me, Easter was nothing more than a time for spring break and beach parties. All in all, my spiritual life was in ruins.

School itself was good to me. After receiving a writing scholarship to attend The University of Tampa, I proceeded to win an array of creative writing, screenwriting and filmmaking awards. In those days, however, most of my creative output was filled with cynicism, pessimism and a veiled denial of Christian thinking.

Although a baptized Roman Catholic, I had not set foot in a church for over a decade. In fact, I despised the idea of giving up part of a weekend for something I was unsure about. Yes, I believed in God, but years before a certain group of Christians had driven me away from Christianity. When I say Christians, I mean Fundamentalist Christians.

There was a group of them in high school who shared lockers near mine. I used to hear them talking about how other religions were purely evil, how Christ would never accept a non-Christian person. They cursed people like Ahmed, the gentle Muslim boy from Saudi Arabia. And they cursed little Jacob, who proudly displayed his Judaism every day on the back of his skull. And they cursed everyone who did not share their beliefs. Their prejudiced words, which I mistakenly took as representative of all Christians, sadly turned me away from the entire religion-at least for a while.

One anonymous quote became my motto when dealing with that group of kids. I had discovered it in some book I've since forgotten. It states: "The most dangerous and intolerant people are those who claim God as their own." I repeated that quote again and again, and I still hold it true especially after what I've learned and experienced in Medjugorje.

Although I could not fathom the events that lay ahead, my jaded view of Christianity was about to change when my mother called me one summer with a strange proposal. I'll never forget her words:

"Will you come with me to Bosnia?" she asked.

"Sure," I said jokingly. "Let me pack my bags."

I was surprised to find that she was serious. There was a trip going to Medjugorje in only a week and there were a few open spots. Only six months before, she had gone to Medjugorje on a pilgrimage. Her journey back to religion is itself fascinating.

My mother's Medjugorje calling began one day in Florida during a shopping trip for antiques. She purchased several books written in German, about the Third Reich and Nazi Germany. You see, at the time my mom-twice divorced-was immersed in the New Age movement. After a series of dreams and past-life regressions, she held the notion that she was reincarnated from the soul of a dead German man (I used to joke around by calling her Gunther.) Most of all, the books looked attractively old and would make good additions to her antique bookshelf.

The very night she brought the books home, things started to happen. The first instance occurred while she was in her bedroom reading. She heard what sounded like the garbled voice of a child emanating from the living room, followed by the sound of her dog, a female lab, growling and barking. My mom rushed out of her room to find the dog in the middle of the living room, her back bristling in fear, cowering and growling at nothing.

That night, my mother lay asleep in her bed. She woke to the sound of her bedroom door creaking. No windows were open and the dogs were in their pens. She finally went back to sleep, but time after time she would wake to the sound of the door creaking, and each time the door was cocked at a different angle.

The next day my mother was standing in the kitchen washing dishes. From the sink, one can look out across the living room and see through the front window. She peered up at the window just in time to see a grayish haze hovering there, which promptly dissipated. In its wake there was a shrill scratching sound, like a nail on a chalkboard. There is still a strange scratch on that window today.

I was in Alaska that summer working as a fishing guide, and I remember calling my mother almost every day to find out what ghostly event might have occurred the night before. I remember the fear in her voice as she explained how the haunting seemed to be growing in power.

"Last night was the worst," she told me. "I was standing in the kitchen with a friend. Suddenly there was a loud 'pop' from the trashcan, and both of us watched in disbelief as the lid of the trashcan shot straight up into the air and, as it came down, hung itself on the trashcan's corner."

During this whole ordeal, my mother suffered from horrible nightmares where she dreamed that demonic beings were always chasing her. She continued to see strange images throughout the house that would disappear or meld into shadow. And her television set kept turning on by itself, always tuned to a cartoon channel even though she never watched cartoons.

Needless to say, she was terrified. At the advice of her parents, she finally called a local Catholic priest named Father Rick Velie. He walked through the house dispersing blessings and Holy Water. My mother told him about the events that had transpired.

"Has anyone died in this house?" Father Rick asked.

"No," my mother replied. "It's a brand new house and I'm the first person to live here."

"Has anyone died recently in your family?"

"No, not for many years."

"Have you recently brought anything into the house?"

My mom turned to the bookshelf and pointed. "I just bought those old books."

Father Rick approached the books cautiously and sprinkled them with Holy Water. "I don't even want to touch these," he said. "The books are the problem. Get them out of here immediately."

That afternoon my mother gathered the books and dropped them off at a local antique consignment shop. The very next morning, she received a message on her answering machine from the shop. The shopkeeper wanted her to pick up the books; for some reason, he adamantly did not want them there either. Well, she never picked them up and that was the last we heard of those German books. It was also the last my mother ever heard from her restless specter.

But one thing remained: my mother's new fascination with Catholicism. After all, she had seen the power if Christ in her own home. Father Rick invited her to visit Medjugorje on a pilgrimage group. Her first experience there absolutely changed her life, and now much of her life is devoted to Mary.

So now, my mother was inviting me to Medjugorje on her second pilgrimage. As a journalistic-minded person with a penchant for travel, I promptly agreed. Before I knew it, I was soaring high above the Atlantic with a group of people I had never met before. As luck would have it, my seat was right beside Father Rick. We talked for the entire flight.

From the time the 727 approached the airport in Split, I felt as if I were locked in a daydream. There was something surreal about the whole thing; here I was, an American college kid, in what modern media has labeled "The Powder Keg of the World".

Many times I had heard the strange story about what was supposedly happening in Medjugorje; in 1981, a group of six children claimed to have been visited by the Virgin Mary. To this day, they say, she continues to appear to them, giving messages and secrets, some of which are said to be very troubling for the future of the world. As a writer and rational-minded person, I was extremely skeptical of the story. I knew it would take nothing less than hard evidence to convince me that the happenings in Medjugorje were valid.

My pilgrimage group was comprised of children, adults, and several people hovering somewhere in between. The youngest person, a 12-year-old Arkansas boy named Brian Holliday, proved to be the most interesting of all. He had been to Medjugorje once before with his parents, but this time he was traveling without any family. We would all be his chaperones.

Before leaving the States, my mother had explained to me the reasons why Brian was returning to Medjugorje. During his first trip to Medjugorje, Brian had climbed Cross Mountain, or Kricevac, at night with his dad and Father Rick to pray the rosary. It seems that while praying on the mountaintop only ten yards away from the others, Brian saw a nearby tree begin shaking violently and glowing. Brian then heard a beautiful voice claiming to be the Blessed Mother.

"If you're really Mary, then stop shaking the tree," said the terrified Brian. And immediately the tree stopped shaking. Brian claims that Mary then told him four secrets about his life, three of which have since come true. Shaken from the experience, Brian urged Father Rick and his dad to start the long climb down.

His dad remained to pray alone, so Father Rick and Brian embarked on the rocky, briar-ridden trail that led down to Medjugorje. Brian suddenly took off, leaping from rock to rock faster and farther than what seemed humanly possible. Father Rick hurried after him, but the steep, treacherous trail made moving very difficult. He soon heard Brian screaming and crying, and when he finally got to him, Brian was lying on the rocky ground holding his still-kicking legs.

"I can't feel my legs!" he cried. "I can't control them!"

Father Rick thought that Brian had fallen and become paralyzed, but his legs were still moving and there was not a scratch on him. Finally, Brian calmed down and decided to continue walking. This time, he held Father Rick's hand as they carefully took one step at a time down the rocky trail.

Minutes later, however, Brian bolted away again. Father Rick was shocked to see that Brian's feet, moving as if running, seemed to not be touching the ground. It was as if, Father Rick later told me, an invisible force was carrying him. And this time Brian was laughing.

"Yeah, right," I had said to my mother. And before even meeting the kid, I jokingly referred to him as Flyin' Brian.

On my first afternoon in Medjugorje, I attended the English-speaking Mass in St. James Church with the rest of the group. As I sat there and listened to the priest, I tried to recall when I had last been to church, but I could not remember. I had to watch what the other people were doing and try to mirror their ways, trying vainly not to look like an alien among them. My unease was heightened when it was time for the Eucharist and I had to remain at the pew while everyone else moved solemnly to receive Christ. While growing up, I had never even come close to receiving my First Communion.

Later, I sat alone on a bench in the churchyard and stared up at Cross Mountain as the sun sank low on the horizon, setting the hills ablaze. Had I made a mistake by coming here? It didn't seem as though I fit in with the crowd. Having been raised by my loving yet unreligious father, I had virtually no concept of religious faith. Although I believed in God, I was hard-set against organized religion, mainly because I did not understand it. My place of worship had always been the wilderness; as a fishing guide and outdoorsman, immersing myself in nature is how I learned the value of patience and contemplation, not in a church pew being addressed by a priest.

And so, I decided to experience Medjugorje the way I knew best. I grabbed my trusty backpack and headed for the outskirts. I left a note at the lodge telling my mother not to worry, that I had gone to climb Cross Mountain alone and would be back by sunrise.

I walked through the narrow Medjugorje streets as children and old women stared at me from open windows. It felt good to be alone in such a foreign world, surrounded by the trappings of an exotic culture. A few chickens followed me until I got to the base of the mountain. Staring up at the far-off peak, I removed my shoes and put them in my backpack. I had heard that climbing the mountain barefoot was a good way to be relinquished of the burdens of one's sins, and I was up for a challenge anyway.

The worn path was a painful combination of sharp, gray rocks and briar-laced vines. At times it was so steep that I had to use both my hands and feet to ascend, all the while going at a laggard pace. At different intervals along the climb I stopped to pray at the large, bronze Stations of the Cross. I prayed that I might be granted some sort of sign that the Medjugorje phenomenon was real, and at the same time I rested my bloodied feet.

The sun had nearly set and the mountain was bathed in pinkish light. I trudged along a straightway in the trail. Up ahead I could see the third Station of the Cross. As I had been doing for nearly the entire climb, I glanced down to watch my step, and then looked up again to be sure I was walking in the right direction. It was then that I saw a figure turning the corner just fifteen feet away, coming towards me. He was dressed in a white priest's robe, as if at the altar during Mass, and he had an enormous rosary around his neck.

I glanced quickly again at my feet, making sure not to step in any precarious places. In this brief series of seconds, I thought to myself: What the heck is this priest doing on a mountain dressed like that? I looked up again for the strange man, but he was gone. An overwhelming feeling of awe and wonder rushed through me as I ran to the spot where he had been standing just seconds before. I looked in the nearby briars to see if he was playing some sick joke on me, but I was alone. Beaming with happiness, I dropped to my knees and prayed a quick "Thanks, God". I didn't know what else to say.

The rest of my climb was under the darkness of night, and the stars overhead were amazing. Walking barefoot wasn't difficult anymore; it was as if my feet could find the smoothest stones to step on, even though I was walking in darkness. And I could not stop thinking about the phantom priest.

After nearly two hours of climbing, I finally rounded the last steep bend. Towering over me was the huge cement cross. It stood so magnificently with the cosmos as a backdrop. The very second I stepped on the pathway leading to the cross, a meteorite dashed across the sky, fizzling out behind the crucifix. I made my way to the altar and sat down on the cool cement, peering down at the lights of Medjugorje far below. I shivered against the cold wind that whipped across the peak. I noticed that my feet, which had been throbbing and bleeding during my ascent, were now comfortable and void of even slight lacerations.

I took out the rosary that my mother had given me, along with a little pamphlet that explained how to use it. I had promised myself that I would learn how to pray the rosary, and so I used my flashlight to read, all the while clenching each tiny bead and reciting the prayers. I prayed for my family and for my friends and even those who had wronged me in the past. Although I didn't know it at the time, Medjugorje had its grip on me.

During the next week in Medjugorje, I stayed mostly with the group, trying to spend time with my mother whom I hadn't actually lived with since I was three years old. Little Flyin' Brian and I formed a close bond that to this day I do not understand. It seems that although separated by nearly a decade of age, he and I shared a calm maturity that led us to deep conversations about life and spirit. Also, Father Rick and I stayed up well into the night on many occasions, talking person to person about religion.

On one of these nights, we were sitting on the lodge's porch, watching the crucifix on Cross Mountain glow red. On certain evenings, Father Rick told me, especially on Christian holidays, the huge cement cross would glow quite vividly. I still can think of no explanation as to how it could have been glowing; there was surely no electricity on the mountain, and candlelight would not be able to illuminate it so brightly.

Nevertheless, on this particular night, I was able to express to Father Rick my hesitations about Catholicism, pointing out that my main qualm with it was the fact that it seemed to look down upon the other major religions of the world.

A very open-minded priest, who had once been a soldier in Vietnam and later a high-paid business man, Father Rick explained to me that he believes one should be faithful to whatever religion one is born into. He also allotted to me the fact that he had once considered quitting the priesthood. But Medjugorje changed his mind, and in fact, it made him cherish his work.

"It might change your mind, too," he said, pulling out a collection of Mary's messages from Medjugorje.

Father Rick showed me one particular passage, in which a Catholic priest was confused as to why Mary, through one of the visionaries, had miraculously healed a child of the Orthodox faith. In Bosnia, the tension between Catholics and Orthodox Christians was extremely volatile at the time. Talking to one of the visionaries, this was Mary's response:

"Tell this priest, tell everyone, that it is you who are divided on earth. The Muslims and the Orthodox, for the same reason as Catholics, are equal before my Son and me. You are all my children. Certainly, all religions are not equal, but all men are equal before God, as St. Paul says. It does not suffice to belong to the Catholic Church to be saved, but it is necessary to respect the commandments of God in following one's conscience.

Those who are not Catholics, are no less creatures made in the image of God, and destined to rejoin someday the House of the Father. Salvation is available to everyone, without exception. Only those who refuse God deliberately are condemned. To him who has been given little, little will be asked for. To whoever has been given much, very much will be required. It is God alone, in His infinite justice, who determines the degree of responsibility and pronounces judgment."

The message hit me hard. This did not sound like the traditional message of television evangelists and preachers of my youth that without Jesus as your savior, you are destined to burn in hell. This one Marian message was a beautiful relief for me.

Towards the end of our pilgrimage we took a bus to Mostar, a city devastated by the civil war. It seemed that most buildings were either destroyed or pockmarked with mortar holes. What were once city parks now served as graveyards. No wonder Mary was appearing here, I thought to myself. The region itself was an example of the need to observe her messages.

The bus continued to Siroki Brijeg, to the church where Father Jozo Zovko presided. Father Jozo, a Franciscan priest, had been at Medjugorje in the beginning of the apparitions. He was imprisoned by the then-communist Yugoslav government and still bares the scars of his torture.

Inside the church, we listened to Father Jozo speak through an interpreter about his experiences with Our Lady. He was the most peaceful-looking man I had ever seen. After he was done, he asked the priests in the audience to approach the altar. Father Rick went up with several others and knelt as Father Jozo prayed over them. I was unsure of what was happening. The priests began to cry. Father Jozo then asked the entire audience to line up side by side along the inside walls of the church.

Soon the priests began to pray over each of the pilgrims that were lined up. I was standing alongside my mother, and when I asked her what was happening, she shushed me. I watched one of the priests praying over a man, and suddenly the man fell backwards with his eyes closed, into the waiting arms of two volunteer catchers. On the other side of the church, I watched as a woman collapsed as well.

What in the world is happening? I thought to myself. I had seen things like this happen on late-night evangelical shows, but I had always laughed at what I thought was very poor acting. Surely these people were faking, or possibly they were overwhelmed with emotion. But as I watched, I could see more and more people, some of them from my group, falling down in sleep-like states.

Soon Father Rick made his way to where my mother and I were standing. As he prayed over her, I just stared at the ground and listened. I caught something like "the blood of Christ washes over you," and something else about the Holy Spirit, and then I watched in disbelief as my mother's feet slowly angled toward the ceiling. She was out cold.

Father Rick came to stand in front of me. I could sense the two "catchers" behind me as well. The very second he put his hands over my forehead, it felt as if electrical current was surging through my veins. My knees grew weak and soon I could no longer feel my arms. My heart throbbed madly and the most pleasant warmth overtook me. But I fought it. I fought it with everything I had. I absolutely did not want to fall down, so I battled to regain my senses, and it worked.

Father Rick moved to the young woman to my left and began to pray over her. I was still reeling from what had just happened, and a strange buzzing was going through my body, but at least I was not on the ground like the others. But then, catching me off guard, Father Rick suddenly put his other hand over my head again, and a strange, ecstatic feeling surged through me. My limbs went instantly numb. I closed my eyes and forgot my surroundings, and peace swept over me like warm water. I soon realized that I was no longer standing. In fact, the catchers were lowering me to the ground. I clenched onto some inner strength and regained my mind, and I stood up before my body even touched the floor.

Still, I was so shaken that I had to sit down on the nearest bench. My mother still lay on the floor, smiling placidly as if asleep. I watched as Father Rick began to pray over Flyin' Brian. After mere seconds, Brian closed his eyes and fell back. As he was lowered to the ground, he began laughing uncontrollably. He lay there on the floor with his eyes closed and continued to laugh for nearly five minutes. It was a truly genuine laugh, but not like one would laugh at humor. He was in a state of complete, amplified happiness.

"Why were you laughing?" I asked him on the bus ride back to Medjugorje.

"I lost all of my fears," he said. "I was just so unafraid."

I left Medjugorje so filled with peace that I was determined to help spread the message. After graduating college in May, 2001, I decided that making a video was by far the most effective way for me to do so. I went to work preparing for this adventure, which was not easy since I was broke.

I needed over $3,500 to buy the right video equipment. But as Our Lady has promised us, "one can stop wars and avert the laws of nature through prayer and fasting." My grandmother, Mary, felt compelled to help me purchase what I needed and before I knew it, I was on my way to Medjugorje again.

I was traveling again with my mother, Father Rick and many new faces. My uncle, Jimmy, was coming along as well. Several years before, Jimmy lost his fiancé, Kathy, in a strange accident. They were living on a sailboat in Hobe Sound, Florida. It was the night before the Fourth of July and both had been drinking. My uncle went to sleep on the boat while Kathy decided to go see some friends on another boat. Somewhere along the way, she fell off the dock and drowned.

Jimmy blamed himself for not walking her down the dock. His life from that night on was filled with depression and he tried his best to stay away from people. It was the same for the first part of the Medjugorje pilgrimage; he kept his distance from the group and was scarcely seen by anyone.

I, on the other hand, was determined to stay with the group in order to film everything. During my very first day in Medjugorje, just following the 20th Anniversary of the Apparitions, I caught wind of a miracle that was still occurring: the enormous bronze statue of the Risen Christ, situated between the village cemetery and St. James Church, was exuding a strange liquid.

Needless to say, that was the first place I went. After ambling through the crowd, I watched in amazement as water, or something resembling water, dripped from the statue's knee. Onlookers took turns wiping the water with handkerchiefs, rosaries and wooden crosses. The water dripped non-stop for nearly a week, and I was there to record it all.

I also visited Father Slavko's gravesite, which had not been there the year before as he was still alive. I was pleased to see people praying at the grave. We all noticed a beautiful scent in the area, and Father Rick identified it as the "Odor of Sanctity," like what Padre Pio had. At first, we thought the smell was coming from the hundreds of flowers on Father Slavko's gravesite, however, we later discovered that the flowers were plastic.

Through it all, I watched my Uncle Jimmy's reactions to Medjugorje. He seemed to be infatuated with the Croatian culture and spent much of his time making friends with the locals. He frequented the pizza restaurants and took long walks through the village by himself. But already, I could see a shard of light in his eyes that had not been there before. Like everyone else on the pilgrimage, I continually prayed for Jimmy.

Our group was fortunate enough to be staying at Jakov's guesthouse. The youngest of the visionaries, Jakov was merely ten-years-old at the start of the apparitions. His shyness is evident, but beneath it all one can detect a wisdom and self-knowledge far beyond his years. Jakov agreed to let me interview him and his comments were exactly what I wanted for my video.

I asked him about the subject that first made me a Medjugorje believer, and his answers confirmed what I had hoped: Our Lady, through Medjugorje, is reaching out to the entire world, to all races and religions, pleading for "all humanity" to live in the light of God.

"Our Lady is calling everyone to conversion, not just Catholics," Jakov told me. "Our Lady always comes as a mother. She is a mother to all."

Being just a few days after the 20th Anniversary, most of the seers were in Medjugorje at the time. I was invited to a private apparition with the seer Marija at her home. We also visited Vicka to listen to her talk, and at one point she stirred interest by saying: "In a special way, Our Lady asks us to pray for one of her intentions which is about to be realized." And the most beautiful thing I experienced in Medjugorje was a nighttime apparition at the "Blue Cross," an area at the base of Apparition Hill, with the seer Ivan.

Father Rick and I arrived early to find a good vantage for filming. We were there alone except for a plainly-dressed woman perched on a rock outcropping. As I set up my camera equipment, she spoke to me in a soft, melodic voice: "Up here would be best."

I looked at her questioningly, and she proceeded to tell me that my current area was actually reserved for Ivan's prayer group. The rock ledge where she sat offered the best view. Soon, out of nowhere, she began telling us the most intriguing stories about Medjugorje.

I learned that her name was Mary Smith. Originally from Ireland, Mary had been in Medjugorje for the previous ten years with a religious order. I began filming the conversation and she proceeded to tell us that she witnessed Father Slavko's passing.

It turns out that after Father Slavko had been declared dead on the top of Cross Mountain, his body suddenly rose up. His eyes opened and he looked at his secretary Rita, and then his body slumped back again.

"It was as if the soul was being drawn from the body," recalled Mary.

That night, I sat beside Mary on the rock outcropping and watched Ivan's apparition from what turned out to be the best vantage possible. The stars were vivid that night, and I will never forget the feeling of calm that engulfed the crowd when Our Lady appeared to Ivan. Being only a few yards from the Blue Cross where Gospa was appearing, I almost immediately smelled the most captivating scent of roses.

Soon, I could tell that everyone smelled the same thing. The silence was replaced by a soft cacophony of sniffles as people tried to breathe in the beautiful fragrance. And as the apparition ended, the scent dissipated, but the memory of that night-a true gift from God-will remain with me forever.

Other gifts were to follow. My Uncle Jimmy was a recipient of one such miracle. As I mentioned before, he had been going off alone much of the time, exactly like I had done during my first pilgrimage. One night he asked me what I thought he should do the next day.

"Go climb Cross Mountain alone," I told him, not allotting anything about my life-changing experience with the disappearing priest there. "The top has a great view."

And so, Jimmy woke early the next morning and headed for the mountain. I followed the group that day and attended Mass at St. James. I had totally forgotten about Jimmy as I ate lunch with some other pilgrims, but I suddenly saw him walk briskly past the restaurant. Catching up to him, I could see that he was visibly shaken, as if he had just seen a ghost.

"How was the climb?" I asked, but he gave me no answer.

"Where are you going?" I asked, louder this time.

"To develop my pictures," he said, and I saw that he was clenching a disposable camera tightly in one hand. "And then I'm getting the heck out of this freaky town."

I finally stepped in front of him and he stopped. There were tears in his eyes. We sat down on a bench and, for the first time since I've known my uncle, he opened up to me.

He began to tell me how he had begun to climb Cross Mountain shortly after sunrise. He took his time going up, stopping often to admire how beautiful the town below looked bathed in morning sunlight. When he got to the cross on top, he saw no one else around.

"It was so peaceful," he recalled to me. "I just stood there looking down at Medjugorje."

When he turned back around to look at the cross, there was a woman standing there. Immediately, chills ran down his spine. From behind, the woman looked almost identical to his deceased fiancé, Kathy. She was wearing the same wide-brim hat that Kathy had always worn in the sun.

"I slowly walked up behind her and to the side to have a better look," recalled Jimmy.

As he came closer, the woman just stared up at the large cement cross. Jimmy was soon in a position to see her more closely, and he could hardly fathom the sight. This woman wore the same unique sunglasses as Kathy used to. Her face and hair-in fact, everything about her-matched the appearance of Kathy.

"It was her," Jimmy told me bluntly. "There was no doubt in my mind that I was seeing Kathy."

Terrified, Jimmy bolted away and hurried down the mountain trail. His heart thumped wildly and he sweated profusely. Fear had taken hold. He was about a quarter of the way down the mountain when, to his horror, he sensed a presence behind. He quickened his pace.

"I looked to my side and there she was," Jimmy told me. "She didn't look at me, she just stared straight ahead and passed me by."

But, according to Jimmy, there was no feasible way she could have passed him. He was already practically running down the trail and she was barely walking, yet she moved past him quickly and with ease. When the woman had gotten a little further, Jimmy mustered his strength and raised the disposable camera he had brought with him. He snapped two photos and that was the last he saw of the mysterious woman. When the film was later developed, one photo contained a whitish blur where you can make out the figure of a woman with a wide-brim hat. The other photo shows nothing.

Although Jimmy wanted to leave Medjugorje immediately, we talked him into staying. I finally gathered some courage and told him sheepishly: "I have something to admit to you, Jimmy. I didn't tell you to climb the mountain because it has a good view. I told you because I wanted something like this to happen to you up there."

As we continued to talk about his experience, he looked down at my watch and his eyes grew large. He shook his head in disbelief. I followed his gaze to the date on my watch and chills swept through my body. It was July 3rd, the anniversary of Kathy's death.

Now back home in Florida, Jimmy has since stopped blaming himself for Kathy's death. I feel that Kathy appeared to him so he would realize she is alive in Heaven, and that she doesn't want him to feel responsible for her passing. Jimmy now spends a good amount of time with family and friends. He continues to share the messages of Medjugorje with anyone who will listen.

By the end of the pilgrimage, I had more than enough material to produce my documentary video. I am convinced that God had a hand in helping this project exceed my expectations; while shooting, everything turned out to be perfect. The visionaries were receptive. The pilgrims were eager to speak with me. And miracles were happening all around me. After all, the true miracle of Medjugorje, according to the visionaries, is a message intended for the entire world.

And I've come to understand Medjugorje as a domino effect of souls. As I am trying to do with this video, each of you will spread your beliefs to those around you, and the reaction will continue to spread. Our Lady is collecting souls for something big, a spiritual event that only Heaven and the visionaries can identify. Feel fortunate, because you've been chosen. But that carries with it an urgent responsibility: now you are expected to collect souls for Our Lady. So please, muster all your courage, reach out far and wide, and knock down that next domino.

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