Today, my prayer is on full power. (Gilda Tejada)
I first read about St. Pio in a women’s magazine back in the sixties. Being young and impressionable, I saw him as a handsome, young priest in his early pictures and as a kindly, smiling and gentle elderly one. I later kept his pictures and promised to pray to him. Of course, he wasn’t yet a saint. He was a living, breathing priest who exuded a remarkable holiness, who levitated during his masses and bilocated among his people. I made a mental promise to follow his life and occasionally prayed for his help especially during exams.
Since then, I had an on-off relationship with St. Pio. On when my life was hitting walls; off when things went right. It was this spotty devotion which was tested on May 23, 1988.
This is my story.
I always had difficult pregnancies. Out of seven, I carried three successfully; the rest were lost after a month or two. My sixth pregnancy was most traumatic when I lost my third son on the 8th month in May 1980. Hence, when I was found pregnant eight years later, I vacillated between elation and trepidation. Understandably so, since my miscarriage was still haunting me.
On May 22, 1988, two weeks before my scheduled caesarean operation, I was scared by what I knew were labor pains. I never had them before. We rushed to the hospital where my doctor kept me overnight. After she administered medication to calm my baby, I felt well enough to send my husband home.
Alone in my hospital room that night, I prayed to St. Pio. My devotion was on full power. I was crisis time. I drifted off to sleep with his name on my lips: “Padre Pio, Padre Pio, Padre Pio…” over and over.
The next day, I was discharged. I passed by the nurses’ station to say my thank you. The nurse on duty asked if I called for a priest the night before. I thought I turned for the worse during the night and a priest had been called in. I said I didn’t and that I slept the whole night through. She told me she saw a priest enter my room around midnight and since it was way past visiting hours, she wondered whether I called for one. I countered that it may not have been my room the priest entered. She insisted citing the fact that my room was at the end of the U-shaped corridor and directly opposite her station. Confused, I asked what the priest looked like. She said she only saw his back but was sure he was wearing a brown habit. She added that she did not see him leave.
Two weeks later, I was the mother of a beautiful baby girl. I named her Pia.
Today, my prayer is on full power. St. Pio remains a powerful force in my life. Countless times his presence is palpable and his intercession remains constant.