Little Mary – Look Directly at Me Alone

Who is “Little Mary”?

In 1996, an anonymous woman in Rome, referred to as “Little Mary” (Piccola Maria) began receiving the locutions known as “Drops of Light” (Gocce di Luce), of which the well-known Italian publishers Edizioni Segno issued 10 volumes in book form, the latest dating from 2017, although the messages are ongoing. The only information given about the recipient is that she is a simple housewife and mother who lives in poverty and hiddenness. The locutions, attributed to Jesus, are predominantly catecheses on the Mass readings for the day, but sometimes touch on external events. For those familiar with Catholic mystical literature of the modern era, the tone and highly-structural, Scripturally dense content resemble the lengthy pedagogical discourses of the Lord found in the writings of Luisa Piccarreta or Don Ottavio Michelini.

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Introduction to Drops of Light (Gocce di Luce) written by “Little Mary,” as ordered by her spiritual director—translated from the Italian. 

Ave Maria!

May 28, 2020

I am writing this letter in obedience to my spiritual father, who has asked me many times to explain the story of “Drops of Light” (Gocce di Luce), i.e. how it all began.

What is the story of “Drops of Light?” The first question to be asked, and which I asked myself, is: “Why me, Lord? How does this spiritual phenomenon come into my heart?”

In the fullness of time, I have come to be able to describe it, how it is possible for me, and how God’s help is present.

It began like this. For many years beforehand, after, you might say, rediscovering faith, following a period of distance in my early youth and then a deeper encounter with the person of Jesus, it had been happening to me that, in prayer, in front of holy images, in churches, beside the tombs of saints, or when prayer had been intense, intimate, particularly while meditating on the mysteries of the Lord’s Passion, the speech of another would enter into my heart. It was also the answer to my questions, and I understood that this had to be coming from something in the realm of the spirit.

However, I tried not to give weight to this phenomenon and to leave it aside, not attaching any importance to it. After the moment had passed, I tried to forget and thought it was an autosuggestion. Later on, however, since it persisted, I began to think about it, and so I went to ask a priest for enlightenment. But after outlining the problem, I was told that I was sick and that I ought to go to a specialist in the field, who told me that I was being harassed by the devil and that I therefore required blessings and exorcisms.

And I followed the advice of various priests, but no evil came out – neither from my psyche, nor from the evil one, and I said again to myself, “Lord, what do You want from me? If all this is not of You, take it away from me.” Enlightened, I think, I then started conversing, talking with Jesus in the Eucharist, and I said, “Here in the Eucharist there is only God, and there is therefore no deception.” And in receiving Him, I would say: “Lord, I don’t hear anything. Let me hear, answer me, make me understand.”

And so, almost without even realizing it, in a very natural way, I readied myself to listen, leaving my heart in silence so that He would have all the space and attention, and I began to listen for short conversations—similar to thoughts that are words suggested in the heart—a thought that speaks: it speaks and I understand whether it is a male or female voice, whether it is Jesus or sometimes Our Lady, or a saint. It is a thought that expresses itself and loves.

Communion after Communion, the talks became longer, and I grew more apt at receiving, like a child who is first taught with little, short words, and who, when their understanding grows, can then move on to more extended and complete dialogues.

During Holy Mass, as I listen to the Holy Word, the poor woman of little faith, worried, says within me, “But what can be said about this word?” Yet at the end of the reading, the Lord already starts His teaching, nonetheless always leaving me free to listen to Him and receive Him (according to my state of mind and whether I wish to listen to the priest’s homily), or not, because it may be impossible for me due to events or people.

This voice never estranges me from what I experience. The Holy Mass ensues. He speaks and I listen, I participate. Only during the consecration is there a silence of adoration. It has happened to me—often, but not always—depending on certain periods, that it would become difficult for me to reach the altar, to receive Jesus, and on seeing others queuing serenely, I sometimes become tormented. I struggle, I am laid low by a kind of combat, and I almost try to run. The finishing line for receiving Communion seems so distant; I try to hide my discomfort as much as possible, red-faced and sweating, like someone who has made a great conquest, and I offer my humiliation to the Lord. Having arrived, receiving Him, I joyfully say to Him, “We did it again this time.” Or, because the distance is so arduous for me—even if it only a matter of a few meters, I say to Him from afar, “Help me, let no one notice.” This is why I love more intimate weekday Masses much more than big celebrations in the midst of crowds.

How many times have I said to myself, “No, not today, I’ll stay seated so I don’t have to face so much discomfort and struggle,” but then someone strong pushes me, I feel like a coward towards my Love and I go. As soon as I take Communion, I offer Him my intentions, and He accepts them and gives His blessing, and then He begins: “My little Mary.” It is like rain, an avalanche pouring down on me, confirming the discourse that had already begun earlier during Holy Mass, deepening it, amplifying it.

He pours a river into me, which I am unable to contain fully. The content written down afterwards is faithful to it: the words heard are those, but not all of them. I am not always able to identify them completely without error as they were spoken to me, and I would not be able to retain them in my heart and memory, were it not for God’s grace to sustain me and to recall them.

Jesus in the Eucharist adapts Himself to our possibilities and cognitive capacities and to the rhythm of the liturgy, although His speech continues in the heart, even during what should be the silence of thanksgiving. Unfortunately, the latter is accompanied by a lot of distraction, a communal murmuring, many human words, and there are also the announcements of the priest that interrupt it. In order to hold on to such a treasure and not disperse it, you have to meditate on it within you all the way home, so as to be able to transcribe it more faithfully, and escape from the church, as after Mass everything—noise, greetings—tends to make you forget it, whereas Jesus is still in your heart, already forgotten.

God reveals Himself in silence, and it is often a torment to meditate and remain closed within His intimacy while all around is distraction and noise, and one must struggle, remaining on the sidelines, when instead good souls often come to disturb you continually, in order to converse with you. How good is the Lord who gives help and graces in all of this for the preservation of His work, which is precisely intended to teach that, even above communal prayer and fellowship, He who is a God in love with His creatures that we all are, seeks intimacy and communion.

I have been writing all of this [these locutions] down for 25 years now, on my way home after Holy Mass on wobbly buses, sitting on the church steps being looked at suspiciously, hiding in the bathroom or running to get home and locking myself in my room, away from the pressing demands of family knocking insistently, seeking my services and dinner.

I have said to myself a thousand times, “But why me, Lord? You know full well that I am not a saint.” When I read the stories of some saints I cringe and say, “What a gulf there is between me and them!” I am neither better nor worse than others, I am just an ordinary person about whom you would not notice anything different if you looked at me. I am not even suited to this. I have not studied anything about such matters apart from the little catechism that I had as a child. I have no [special] means: I only write, I neither use nor have computers; until now, I have not even had a cell phone or anything, you might say, more technological. I read about what was being published, but only as reported to me by my spiritual father.

There are souls who are more beautiful, more sacrificial and who have greater merit—holy souls. I have many faults. I still complain when things do not go as I would like.

Why me? I think that it is precisely because I am a nobody. The world does not see me. I have nothing to present, not even virtues and merits, meaning that only God can pick me out and elevate me. Who could write such things in such quantities? I am only a poor and ignorant person. I have only been a housewife, and I think God wants to say to me and to everyone, “I do not come for those who are already saints, but I come for poor sinners—limited, frail but loved.” He does not come to me and to you because we are deserving, but because we are needy, and to me among many who receive other charisms, he gives one in which He comes to say: “This gift I give to you, in order to say that I would like to do this with each one of you.”

I call this [her locutions] a diary, one beginning in 1996 in the early years of “Drops of Light,” with the Lord initiating a discourse of union and friendship, but one that He wants to offer to everyone. He calls us to an encounter, to establish a relationship, for [Him and] us to know one another in order to communicate through mutual participation, meaning that we into fusion, loving intimacy.

The dialogues are repetitive, just like love that never tires is repetitive and loves to say, “I love you.” It means understanding how He, by entering into one-on-one contact, wants to conquer your heart, and once it is conquered, there is a perpetual wedding. If this encounter does not occur first, if there is no prior listening, then there is no adherence to his teaching. Subsequently, things go from “you” [singular] to “you” [plural], as [more] children are born from a loving relationship, who must experience the same familiarity to participate.

And He continues to teach, probing the Gospel and enriching it, because, as He says, divine wisdom is infinite, as is His knowledge. What Jesus comes to say to me is for everyone: He says it to you as well, and each person is a “little Mary.” If we collect so many and such drops of light, we illuminate our souls with them.

What is presented to me is indeed a God who is risen and victorious, but still crucified here, a God who is mistreated and not loved as He would like to be, especially by His Church, and that is why He particularly addresses Himself to priests, so that they would acquire this intimacy with the Lord and rediscover the experience of Our Lady’s motherhood.

They will become not only saints, but generators of souls, true fathers of countless children in the Spirit, in order to bring new birth to a Church conformed to the divine Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary, as They desire.

“Drops of Light”—one more great gift of mercy from heaven, from a God who does not tire of speaking to man. Do not waste it and do not simply say: “Oh how beautiful are these words,” leaving them forgotten and not lived. This is His gift, but—forgive my pride—within it, united and infused, is not only the joy of receiving it for the good that it can bring: this is also written with the blood of the sacrifice of my life. I often struggle because I first go into crisis; I become overshadowed and oppressed by the enemy, and sometimes I believe that this is is his deception, and I torment myself, asking the Lord’s forgiveness for having allowed myself to write such things. And if I had no priests to give me light and confirmation, I would not continue. What comforts me is the obedience that frees me; I do it as a service. If I am asked to continue, I will listen and write; if asked to stop, I would stop. I have no motive other than the glory of God and the good of my brothers and sisters.

This gift costs misunderstandings and abandonment on the part of those from whom one expects affection and support, precisely because they are one’s loved ones, whether they share the same faith or not. If you only knew what was unleashed at home, often in conjunction with publications of “Drops of Light.” During every month, over all these years, the price has been a bitter, yet beloved, solitude. If I have [only] been able to stand beside Jesus in this state, to collect these drops of His sweat and blood in Gethsemane, I am worth very little, which causes me regret. Help me to keep Him company.

I always say that each of us has our place in Jesus’s life journey. Some in His holy childhood, some in the work of His youth, some in His preaching, with Him in caring for and curing the sick, some crucified in a bed. My little place is in the garden, next to Him who sustains me, and while I used to become demoralized, especially when reading some narratives of the lives of the saints, which left me amazed but also frightened at such greatness and perfections, now I say, “Not all of us are born to be ships or cruise liners. There are also little boats.” The Heavenly Father also sees them. I am a little boat, and I do not think that I can be anything else, but even little boats sail and float on God’s sea, and they too have to face it, whether it is calm or whether there are raging waves, and make the same crossing; but all boats, whether small or large, are directed to the same port of holiness.

I hope that this brings good to your soul, and I embrace you with much love in Jesus and Mary. I pray for you: pray for me.

Little Mary