When he came to Tepeyac he found the beautiful Lady just as glorious as before, waiting for him at the summit. Kneeling before her he painfully acknowledged his failure:

"O little one, most dear, my Queen and most high Lady, I did what you told me. Though for a long time I was not let in to the Bishop, I finally saw him and gave him your message just as you ordered me. He listened to me with kindness and attention, but from what I noticed in him and from his questions. I gathered that he did not believe me, for he told me to come again that he might at leisure inquire into my affair and examine it more closely. He supposed that the temple you demanded was an imagination or whim of mine and not your will. I therefore beg of you to send some noble and influential person, someone worthy of respect, to whom credit ought to be given; for you see, O my Sovereign, that I am a poor serf, a mere lowly peasant, and that I am not fit for this embassy of yours. Pardon, O Queen, my boldness, if I have at all failed in the respect due to your greatness. Far be it from me to incur your indignation, or to displease you by my reply."

Looking upon him with the greatest affection, the noble Lady smiled tenderly and said:

"Hear, much loved son, and understand that I am not without clients and servants to send, for I have many that I might employ if I wished, many that would do whatever they were ordered; but it much befits that thou undertake this affair and conduct it. My wish and desire has to be accomplished by thy means. So I ask thee, my son, and I order thee to go back in the morning, and see and speak to the Bishop. Tell him to erect for me the temple I demand, and say that she who sent thee is the Virgin Mary, Mother of the True God."

At these words renewed vigor and confidence poured into Juan's heart. He answered:

"My Lady and my Child, I will not cause you affliction. I will gladly go to accomplish your will. I will not cease from striving ... So, tomorrow afternoon, when the sun is setting, I will come to give you a report concerning the reception of your message ... With this assurance let me take leave of you, my little Daughter, my Child, and my Lady. Rest quietly in the meanwhile until I come again."

So the weary ambassador went home, cooked his supper, and apparently without mentioning to his uncle, with whom he was now living, anything of what had transpired, he went to bed. The next day, Sunday, Juan went to Mass and religious instruction, and afterwards set out down the road for his second encounter with the Bishop. As he walked along, thoughts rolled in and out of his mind as to what he could say to convince the doubting ecclesiastic; that is, if he even got in to see him. Those officials had looked extremely impatient with him yesterday; this time they might have him arrested, or even set the dogs on him. Soon, however, he found himself standing again in front of the episcopal palace and knocking at the gate. Though his worst fears did not materialize, still he was treated much more harshly than the day before; but with his persistent pleading, he wore down their resistance and was again allowed into the courtyard. Once inside, he was told to sit down and wait. He waited ... and waited ... drawing his tilma tightly about him, for it was very cold; one, two, three hours elapsed, and finally the majordomo called out his name; the Bishop would see him.

The man of God, having no idea that Juan had been waiting so long, was quite surprised to see the Indian back so soon and received him with his habitual courtesy. Instantly, Juan dropped to his knees and told the curious prelate that he had again seen and spoken to the Mother of God, and that she had demanded that the Bishop build her the desired church. Then, overcome by his own nervous intensity, the tears started down his cheeks, as he implored his Lordship to heed the noble Lady's request.

Zumarraga was embarrassed at this passionate display, and gently consoling Juan, urged him to gain composure and answer his questions. What did the Lady look like? Who did she say she was? Where did she appear? On and on the Bishop went, till he was convinced that the man before him was neither dreaming nor hallucinating; he had seen a lady, but exactly who that lady was he couldn't be sure; he needed proof that she was indeed who she said she was and not some illusion of the devil. They must have a sign, he told Juan; such an expensive and laborious undertaking as the construction of a church requires much more evidence that it is truly the Mother of God who asks for it.

"What kind of a sign?" Juan asked, totally unruffled by the request, "Name any sign at all and I will ask it of the Lady."

The Bishop paused for a moment and said, "Let the Lady herself decide it."

And with that Juan was dismissed. Secretly Zumarraga had instructed two of his attendants to follow the Indian wherever he went, but from a safe and unobservable distance, so that they might see who it was with whom he was conversing.

Losing no time, Juan Diego hurried straight for Tepeyac Hill to inform his Mistress of the outcome of his second meeting. Not far behind him were the two spies. Yet when he came to the base of the hill, having there crossed over a certain stream, he instantly vanished from their sight. He was there one second, gone the next, and his pursuers were utterly befuddled as they vainly searched for him high and low. Giving up, they returned in great anger to the Bishop, accusing the Indian of some sort of wizardry, and suggested that if the deceiver should dare show his face again, he should be flogged.

Meanwhile the humble "deceiver" was rapt in ecstasy before the radiant beauty of God's Mother. As Moses of old was taken up into the holy mountain, called alone by God to commune with Him " face to face" beyond the view of other men, so too Juan Dieguito was taken up alone into the holy hill of Tepeyac to commune face to face with the Holy Mother of God away from the sight of men.

Prostrating himself before his heavenly Queen, with great anguish he poured out his heart. No one had believed him, though he had tried his utmost to convince them. Only a sign would move the Bishop to act upon the Lady's request. So, as a last gesture to please his Queen, he asked her if she would not give him some sign. Then he would surely succeed in fulfilling her desire. The beautiful Lady, in tones of deepest appreciation and gentleness, thanked her childlike emissary for his efforts. She then promised to give him the necessary sign saying:

"So be it, my son. Return here tomorrow in order that thou mayest secure for the Bishop the sign for which he has asked. When this is in thy possession, he will believe thee. He will no longer doubt thy word and suspect thy good faith. Be assured that I shall reward thee for all thou hast undergone. Go now, tomorrow I shall await thee here again." And Our Lady sweetly added, "Do not forget me."

At this point in the story we meet the third Juan, the uncle of Juan Diego, Juan Bernardino. He enters the narrative as a very sick man, lying in his bed in a fit of fever, for he had contracted that mortal disease the Indians called cocolixtle, which had claimed many thousands of lives that year. Quickly it came upon its victim and quickly it went, more often than not leaving death in its wake. So poor Juan Bernardino, who was in good health when his nephew last saw him, was now at death's door. Seeing his dear uncle in this terrible condition, Juan was beside himself with grief, for he was the only consolation Juan had on this earth after his wife's decease. Quickly he called in the native doctors to see if they could break the fever, but it was of no avail; in fact, they were only making him worse. All that night and all the next day, he sat compassionately by his uncle's bedside, offering him whatever alleviation he could. Surely, Juan thought, the Holy Virgin would understand why he was unable to keep his appointment that afternoon as he had promised.

Soon the sick man became aware that he was not going to recover and, informing his nephew that his time to quit this world was fast approaching, he asked him to leave in the morning for Tlatelolco and bring back a priest "with the healing hands" that he might confess and be anointed.

Very early, before sunrise, Juan Diego hustled off on his way to find a priest. It was now Tuesday, the twelfth of December. As he drew near the hill where he had spoken to Our Lady, he was faced with a dilemma; surely he would find her waiting for him if he took the usual path, and he could not afford to be detained at this time. He had not a moment to lose, or his uncle might die without a priest. So he decided to skirt the hill on its opposite side, a much rougher course, in his hopes of avoiding a confrontation. He thought to slip unseen by the eyes of her who sees all (alas, how many times have we not made the same mistake); but, as he passed by the prominence, he could scarcely believe what his eyes beheld; for up ahead of him he saw the Holy Virgin in a blaze of light, gliding effortlessly down the slope on an angle so as to intercept him.

"My dear little one," she called to him, "where are you going? What road is this you are taking?"

Juan was overcome with shame. As one commentator noted, "He had failed her; she had not failed him. Since he had not sought her on the heights, she sought him in the depths." Has she not done the same for us?

Utterly confused, and at a loss for an explanation, he spontaneously resorted to pleasantries, "My daughter, my dear little one; God keep you, Lady! Did you sleep well? And how is your health?"

Nothing so beautifully brings out the simplicity of Juan Diego as this amusing parlance. He talked to Mary as he would have to his own daughter, and most assuredly it wrung from her childlike heart a humoring smile. Perhaps it called to her mind the like tender questions she had heard on earth from her own dear father, St. Joachim. Then, quickly regaining his presence of mind, Juan spoke more soberly about his uncle's sickness and his intention of going to get a priest.

When he finished speaking there was a pause. He looked up to see the lovely Woman smiling most affectionately upon him. With supreme gentleness and compassion she replied-and these words should reverberate from the walls of every church, home, and school in Christendom:

"Listen, and let it penetrate your heart, my dear little son; do not be troubled or weighted down with grief. Do not fear any illness or vexation, anxiety or pain. Am I not here who am your Mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle? In the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else you need?"

She again paused, gazed sympathetically upon him, and continued. "Do not let this illness of your uncle worry you, because he is not going to die of his sickness. At this very moment he is cured." Never before had Our Lady so openly revealed the tenderness of her Immaculate Heart. This revelation marked the beginning of the Age of Mary. What saint or mystic was ever so privileged as was this humble Mexican Indian to hear such words, "Am I not here who am your Mother?" Yes, O Mary, it is true. What you said to Juan Diego was meant for the whole world. There is no one, no matter how destitute of grace, who is not within reach of your maternal embrace if he will but approach you with a resolve to sin no more. You are the Mother of all who want to be your children. But to be your child, a true child of so holy a Mother, a Mother so blessed by God, is no vague platitude; it can actually be achieved. How? Through the Blessed Eucharist, by which we become one with her Son. It is the Flesh she gave Jesus that makes us one with Jesus and children of His Mother. Our Lady would not call anyone at random her child, as one author mistakenly puts it, "regardless of race, color, or creed." The first two "regardlesses" are certainly no obstacle to divine union, since they owe their origin to the divine Will, and the third "regardless" may be all right among Masonic, anti Revelationist circles, but it is downright heretical to make it a "regardless" when it refers to becoming a child of Mary. No one can benefit unto salvation from the infinite intercessory power of Mary, which she has as God's Mother, unless he professes the true Faith as taught by the Roman Catholic Church. And if anyone is ashamed to call himself Roman Catholic, Our Lady will be ashamed of such a one when he appears before her Son for judgment.

As we meditate these words addressed to us through Juan Diego, let us have tremendous confidence in Mary. Remember she has a heart-though Immaculate, none, the less human-that burns to save souls, bleeds over our transgressions, and compassionates our sufferings. She knows what it is to suffer because she suffered; she suffered deeply, and yet she suffered silently. And, like her Divine Son, she suffers in and with her children, the Church, the Mystical Body. When a child of Mary suffers so does the Mother, not physically-for her body is glorified-but spiritually. As it is in the nature of a mother to desire to put herself in the place of a suffering child and to grieve even more than the one afflicted; so it is the nature of Our Mother Mary to feel this same compassion-though more intensely-for all her spiritual children, regardless of race and color.

Mary tenderly loves all men of good will. And she especially loved her newly converted Indians. She loved their "littleness," their humility. She had compassion for their unjust afflictions. And she was delighted in the way her bronze-skinned children lovingly inhaled the whole spirit, as well as the doctrine, of the gospel.

Were it not so astoundingly true we might sound somewhat blasphemous in asserting it: O Mary, one would have to be insane not to love you, because for our eternal good, in the person of Juan Diego, you have irresistibly forced yourself upon us.

After these soothing words of encouragement, Our Lady ordered Juan to climb up the hill, and there at the top he would find the sign the Bishop needed. "Go, my son, to the summit of the hill . . . There you will find a large variety of flowers. Gather them carefully and assemble them. Then, bring them here."

Not stopping to ask how this could be-for it was well into winter and all the foliage had died-the unpretentious ambassador, trusting completely in his Lady's word, hurried up the slope. And lo and behold! over the crest, he saw a brilliantly panoply of the most exquisite flowers, including Castilian roses, blossoming in the frozen soil. Juan was struck with amazement. Now the Bishop would surely believe him! Then, as he had been directed, he carefully gathered as many of them as he could fit into his outstretched tilma and brought them down to show to his Queen. She then took the flowers and with her own hands rearranged them, as only a woman can, saying as she did so, "My little son, these varied flowers are the sign which you are to take to the Bishop. Tell him in my name that in them he will recognize my will and that he must fulfill it." Hereupon she sent her emissary on his way, but first cautioned him not to allow anyone to see what he carried until he was before the Bishop.

Taking his leave of the glorious Woman, he joyfully trod down the road to the city. As he bounced along with a confident gait he was careful to wrap the ends of his tilma around the flowers, gently pressing them to his chest so that he would not lose a single one.

Arriving at the palace with his precious burden, Juan politely asked once again to see the Bishop. This time the servants angrily rushed out at him, threatening to drive him away, but Juan wouldn't budge. Courageously he stood his ground. They, in turn, heaped all kinds of insults upon him, and passing back through the metal gate they clanged it shut in his face. There was no way, they told him, that he was going to see the Bishop. Juan pleaded that this time the Bishop would have to believe him: They had to let him in. But they laughed him to scorn.

Humiliations were nothing new to Juan Diego; however, like anybody else, he felt them keenly; but he wasn't going to leave until he got an audience and that was final! So, installing himself next to the gate, he purposely began to make himself utterly obnoxious to the porters by continually pleading for admittance. Like the man in Our Lord's parable, who by a simple request wasn't able to get his friend to rise out of bed to lend him some loaves to refresh some unexpected guests; but who forced his friend to rise and help him because "of his importunity," so too did this patient messenger hope to wear down the resistance of these "who goes there" bullies by his persistent "importunity." This is the spirit God desires to see in us. He wants us to be persistent even with Him. "Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and you shall find, knock, and it shall be opened unto you. "

Finally, one of the court officials noticed that the Indian was concealing something underneath his cloak. He approached and asked what it was. Juan bit his tongue and kept silent. At this the man got very angry, threatening to use force to find out, and Juan, drawing back, was compelled to let some of the attendants get a glimpse of the flowers. They could hardly believe what they saw. One of them tried to snatch one or two, but as he reached for them, the blossoms seemed to melt into the fabric. There was something unusual happening here! Someone rushed to the Bishop's quarters to report the phenomenon. Zumarraga (this was the first time he had been informed of Juan's arrival), hearing about the flowers, wondered exceedingly, and ordered the Indian to be brought in at once. With the prelate, at this time, was the new Governor of Mexico, Bishop Fuenleal, who had replaced the tyrant Don Nune de Guzman. Finding himself standing before such illustrious personages, Juan felt all the more nervous, but assuming a confident bearing that seemed to be a special charisma for this momentous occasion, he bowed reverentially, not kneeling, lest he lose his hold of the tilma. Then he recounted before his amazed listeners the entire story of what had transpired at Tepeyac: how the Lady had promised a sign; how she directed him to climb the hill, where he would find "many flowers growing"; how he had gathered them in his tilma; and how she had rearranged them with her own hand, telling him to take them to the Bishop that he might at last believe her message and fulfill her desire. Listening with rapt attention to every word his excited guest had to say, Fra Zumarraga, chin in hand, was the picture of perplexity. Having finished the story, Juan took a deep breath and, reaffirming his grip on the corners of the tilma as he clutched it for the last time to his bosom, his voice rallied, "Your Excellency, here is the sign you asked for." And, opening his hands, the tilma fell, and from it a celestial bouquet of multi-colored blooms, mingled with Castilian roses, cascaded softly to the floor before the startled dignitaries, and perfumed the room with a heavenly aroma.

Zumarraga jumped to his feet and stared at the roses, momentarily speechless; his prayer for peace had been answered! Then, as he lifted his eyes from the prodigy on the floor, there suddenly appeared on the Indian's tilma an image of the Blessed Virgin Mary in resplendent glory. The wooden floor resounded with the thump of bended knees as both dignitaries knelt in adoration, caught in a timeless moment, with wide eyes riveted on the tilma as if contemplating an apparition. Juan felt uneasy as he perceived that their gaze was no longer on the flowers but upon him, and looking down upon his garment he saw the object of their veneration. It was she, the Holy Mother of the True God, just as he had seen her on the hill!

For a long time no words were spoken. When one beholds a miracle it is irreverent to speak; one cannot but keep silence, gaze, and adore.

Our Lady will not be outdone in generosity. She always gives over and above what she is asked. The Good Thief from his bed of wood asked her crucified Son for a remembrance and received Paradise; the good Bishop from his oratory asked for roses from Castile and received the Mystical Rose from Heaven.

After some moments lost in eternity Zumarraga, rising from the floor, embraced Juan Diego and begged his forgiveness for not believing him sooner. Then, reverently untying the precious relic from the bearer's neck, he carried it to his private chapel where he could venerate it alone. Of course, no news travels like religious news, and so it didn't take long before word of the miracle spread throughout the city. Soon crowds of the anxious faithful converged upon the episcopal residence, piously demanding to see the Image.

All that day and overnight Juan remained at the Bishop's house as his most honored guest; but, when morning came, he was desirous to return to his uncle to assist him in his recovery. Before setting out for his home, he conducted the Bishop to Tepeyac Hill and pointed out the exact spot where the Mother of God wanted her church to be built. Then, accompanied by a host of attendants from the palace and with his own personal guard of honor, he returned to his uncle. The pilgrim would never travel alone anymore.

Surely, it must have been quite a sight for the Indians to see little Juan Diego, who shortly before was kicked about like an old shoe, now being triumphantly escorted around the countryside like a national hero. Arriving in Tolpetlac, the humble celebrity was overjoyed to see his uncle recuperating on the porch of his cabin taking in the fresh air. And when he asked his nephew the reason for all this retinue, Juan told him the story from the beginning. Different theories are offered to explain why Juan never told his uncle about the first apparition, but the most likely reason is that he did not want to expose himself to ridicule in the eyes of his own people until he could prove the veracity of the vision. Juan Bernardino nodded as if he already knew what had happened, and patiently suppressed his own sequential epilogue until his nephew told him about the heavenly Woman's pledge of his cure. He then interrupted his nephew to ask the exact time these words were uttered. And to their great joy and astonishment, the uncle related to the assembled visitors that it was at that very hour, when perceiving himself to be at the last extremity of life, that a dazzling light had flooded his quiet chamber, and the same beautiful Lady appeared to him all radiant with that glory his nephew described. Immediately, he felt a profound peace come over his soul, and through his limbs a healing wave seemed to roll, filling him with strength and cooling his burning fever. Aware that he was cured, he climbed out of bed, fell to his knees before the celestial physician, and listened as she sweetly told him what she had done for his nephew. Then she revealed to him the title by which she wished to be known and invoked by the Mexican people: "I am," the Lady solemnly said, "the ever-Virgin, Holy Mary of Guadalupe!"

Nothing has caused more confusion to Guadalupan scholars than the word itself, Guadalupe. Why would Our Lady in visiting the Indians ask them to invoke her by a title that meant something only to Spaniards? Guadalupe was the name of a famous Marian shrine in Estremadura in eastern Spain. One may with every pious intention say, "What difference does it make? Our Lady said it, I believe it, and that's final!" But this is a case where a scholarly examination would enkindle devotion rather than detract from it.

In analyzing the title Guadalupe one must keep in mind the ardent prayer of Fra Zumarraga which merited so dramatic an answer. The holy man prayed for peace, peace between two peoples, Spaniard and Indian. This enigmatic title of the Virgin of Tepeyac would prove to be a symbolic catalyst for procuring this peace.

The question arises, and justly so, did Our Lady actually say Guadalupe when she spoke to Juan Bernardino? Or did she say something that sounded like it? It seems that in the Nahuatl or Aztec tongue they had no equivalent sound for the Latin G or D. The interpreter standing by Juan Bernardino's pallet translated the title as he thought Our Lady meant it, namely Guadalupe. But Our Lady couldn't have said exactly that, unless by a special charisma the cured man was enabled to pronounce a G and D. What the Mother of God actually said, and what she wanted to be thought to have said as she looked prophetically into the centuries ahead, are two different things. In the Nahuatl language the expression "she who crushes the serpent" sounds very much like Guadalupe. Rendered phonetically, the Aztec word would be Coatlaxopeuh.

Surely, it was only natural for the Spanish interpreter to assume that Our Lady really wanted to be known under her revered title of Guadalupe that was so familiar to every Spaniard, and he thought that, had the Indian been able to pronounce all the consonants involved, this is what he would have said. So, according to the mind of the interpreter, Juan Bernardino tried as best he could to say Guadalupe. But since it was to the Indians that the Virgin appeared, and not to the Spanish, the more likely explanation is that she did not say Guadalupe at all, but rather Coatlaxopeuh. This sounds very much like the Spanish word, and to the Indians it meant that the Virgin of Tepeyac was the one who "crushes the serpent." The reasons for this interpretation are extremely convincing.

Remember that Our Lady had appeared to Juan Diego on the very spot where the devil, the infernal serpent, had inspired the false worship of the snake bedecked mother goddess. And, too, the natives had long worshipped Quetzalcoatl, the Stone Serpent, as a deity, indeed the mightiest of all their gods. Was it not fitting then that the Queen of Heaven, who so ardently desired to save these poor souls, should identify herself in the role that God ordained for her in Genesis 3:15 as the Woman who would one day "crush the serpent's head"? The symbolism is overwhelmingly clear.

But how is it that the word Guadalupe was an answer to the good Bishop's prayer for peace? Here is a title chosen by Our Lady, the Seat of Wisdom, that could be cherished by both Indian and Spaniard alike. The Indians understood it to mean in their tongue, which is the tongue Our Lady used, that the Virgin of Tepeyac was greater than their serpent god, Quetzalcoatl, and indeed his conqueror. To the Spaniards, in the title as it has come down to us, Guadalupe was a reminder of their homeland and a pledge that, even here in this distant country of Mexico, the patronage of their heavenly Queen had followed them. Guadalupe, referring to their common Mother, would be a unifying bond between their nations. The word itself, with all it stands for, would not only bind the two peoples; it would fuse them forever into one people. No other title of Our Lady could have produced this effect. It was a veritable kiss of peace.