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By Root 371 0

’s quiet as wind.” I look down at my feet, one bandaged, one booted. “Nana turned out to be all right as guardians go, but I guess you knew that. I guess you knew everything would work out the way it was supposed to—or at least that it would work out somehow. I hope you didn’t die in mortal sin or anything. I hear that’s a drag. I could say a prayer for you now. I bet you have no idea how many prayers I can still recite by heart: Our Father, Mea Culpa, Hail Mary, Glory Be, O Lady of Perpetual Help, Most High, All Powerful, That You Would Bless Me Indeed, Holy this and Holy that. If only there were a special Catholic Jeopardy, I’d win big. You know I would. I’d make you proud. Anyway, listen. If you see Nana, tell her thanks for me, okay?”

I place both my hands on the wall of the tomb, close my eyes.

My parents lie silent in their crypt. Maybe they’re singing with angels in some High Sierra hideaway, but I can’t hear them.

It’s true that I never processed that loss, but maybe I never wanted to. There’s a hollowness in me, a vacant stone cave where only dreams sleep, but I’m getting used to it. Deliciously empty. I look down at my palms, my healing scars. I hope they never disappear entirely.

I limp back out to the car, climb into the driver’s seat. Barbaro pokes his head into the cab. “I almost forgot,” he says. “I have for you a new saint book.” A smile flickers the corners of his lips as he holds out a gold-covered journal. “You will tell me a story?”

Plus: Insights, Interviews, and More

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The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show

Don’t Try This at Home: An Incomplete History of the Stigmata

A Reader’s Group Guide

13 Questions with Ariel Gore

About the Author

* * *

Don’t Try This at Home: An Incomplete History of the Stigmata

He that believeth in me, the works that I do, shall he do; and greater than these he shall do.

—John: 14:12

Believe nothing. Entertain possibilities.

—Caroline W. Casey

If you get the Stigmata, the Ph.D. of Catholic mysticism, you’re already halfway to sainthood—just so long as they don’t haul you off to the county mental hospital first.

The stigmata, wounds corresponding to those suffered by Jesus during the Passion and Crucifixion appear spontaneously on the body of a believer and can disappear in the space of a few hours or linger for decades. There are plenty of differences among stigmatics when it comes to the number and placement of their wounds—some have had all five marks, some only a shoulder wound representing the one Jesus suffered while carrying the cross, and some have lesions matching the crown of thorns. Some stigmatics bleed from their palms and feet, corresponding to the common artistic depictions of the crucifixion; others bleed from their wrists and ankles, matching the points on the body where historians believe Jesus was nailed to the cross.

There are actually two kinds of stigmata in Catholic tradition: visible and invisible. While praying before a crucifix in 1375, Catherine of Siena saw five rays of blood emanating from Christ’s wounds and coming toward her. She knew what was happening and asked God to make her stigmata invisible to the world. As the rays reached her body, they changed into shafts of light. She suffered the pain, then, without the bloody mess or the freak-show attention.

But let’s focus on the stigmata even atheists can see.

Now, stigmata blood doesn’t smell salty and metallic the way normal blood does, and the lacerations don’t get that fetid scent like your average festering wounds. No, this blood smells like jasmine. Or roses. And in some cases, the blood type of the stigmata has been found not to match that of the sufferer. It is understood as being truly the blood of Christ. But rosy scent or none, the stigmata isn’t for wimps. The wounds are often heralded by depression, weakness, and a great deal of pain. Some stigmatics even report feeling whips across their back. Ouch.

Because the wounds correspond with the death of Christ, they often appear during the holy days before Easter, and then disappear on Easter