Our daughter wrote this last year for a writing contest. I learned a lot about Ven. Fr. Margil in helping her with the research. I thought you might enjoy reading her creative nonfiction version of his life story. The events are mostly real; the narrator is not.
Nothingness Itself
The Life of Venerable Antonio Margil de Jesus
by Bridget --------
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Hey there! Oh, sorry to startle you. Long ago, I would not talk to humans because they would be frightened, but with all the cartoons and movies now-a-days, people aren’t as surprised to meet a talking walking stick.
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How can I talk, you ask? Well, I learned to talk the same way you did—by listening. And walking? Oh, well, I’m not that sort of walking stick; I’m the sort you carry along when you have a long way to go. I’m not certain why I was created being able to see and hear, but thinking back, it seems I had a job to do—to keep alive an important story to share with others just like you.
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My name is Palo, and my story began a very long time ago, near the coast of Mexico. My earliest memories are of my beautiful home overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. I had a very simple life, spending my days watching the sun rising over the ocean and setting beyond the trees.
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I was just one of many branches in a forest of mangroves, but my tree had something special about it. Some may call it magic or miraculous—I don’t know—I just know that time passed differently for me, and I came to understand things the other trees never could.
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Gradually, my peaceful home became an important place for humans. First it was fishing, later came sailing, and eventually a town formed called Veracruz.
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By that time, the humans were coming not out of the forest, but from across the sea. They were nothing like the Aztecs whom I’d watched for so long. Instead, they came in big ships, wore glossy armor, and spoke a language I did not yet understand. Over time, I came to realize that these people were travelers interested in discovering new lands and making them more like their own. Many years later one of these travelers, a Spaniard, would change my life forever.
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He approached me late one morning like many others had done before, to sit in the shade at the edge of the forest canopy. He wore a long, brown robe, tied at the waist with a simple rope. He sat for some time, reading silently from a small book. When he rose, he proceeded into the forest as if searching for something he’d lost. As he moved closer, he grabbed each of the thickest branches, giving them each a good shake. When he reached me, he shook me firmly, then ran his hand all the way to my tip. Stepping back, he pulled a small bottle from his pocket, and sprinkled its contents all over me. He then raised a hand, speaking in a language I’d heard a few times but didn’t understand.
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Immediately, I felt an odd sensation as I fell away from the tree I had been part of for many, many years. The strange man picked me up and began stripping me of my leaves. When he had finished, he walked me out of the forest and into full light. Things I had stared at for so long from a distance looked different as we neared and then passed each one.
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He approached another man dressed like himself and said politely, “I am ready to depart, Father Llinas.” The other man nodded silently, and the two men and I started off along a well-worn road in a westward direction.
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We traveled all day, mostly in silence. Sometimes the two men talked quietly and other times they would recite verses in the strange language which was quickly becoming familiar to me as it was so similar to Spanish. “Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecuм,” they’d recite, finishing with, “nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
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When the light began to fade, Father Llinas and his companion, whom he called Father Margil, stopped to sleep, laying me on the grass nearby. A few hours later they woke again and sat by the small fire reading and reciting more verses. When dawn came, we traveled on, proceeding in this manner for about seven days before reaching Mexico City.
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It was exciting to be in a large city. I’d heard of this place many times, but could only imagine what drew so many people toward this city. As the Fathers met with others to discuss their plans, I learned about who they were and where we were going. They were Catholic Franciscan priests who were traveling to Queretaro, Mexico to establish a school. It was not a school for children, but for priests who wanted to spread the Gospel to the people of New Spain, the name the Spaniards had given to all of this land they were exploring.
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Father Llinas was not new here. He had come to New Spain many years before but returned to his homeland to seek out priests who would be willing to teach the native people of this land about God, heaven, and salvation. Father Margil heard the call of God through Father Llinas and, having only recently been ordained, joined the group of two dozen priests eager to carry out the words of Christ, “Go, Behold I send you as lambs among wolves. Carry neither purse, nor scrip, nor shoes...”
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After studying at the school for a time, Father Margil collected his few belongings along with myself and left with another Franciscan, Father Lopez. The two priests and I traveled the southern part of New Spain for over ten years, preaching to the people of Guatemala, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. Some people were eager to welcome us; many others were not.
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Everywhere we went, Father Margil taught his famous “Alabado,” a hymn of praise to the Almighty written to catechize converts and children. While I didn’t sing along in those days, today I’m happy to sing the song which it is said could be heard in every hut throughout Mexico and Central America. My favorite verse is the final, “Whoever seeks to follow God and strives to enter in his glory, one thing he must do and say with all his heart: Die rather than sin. Rather than sin, Die!”
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Father Margil always traveled barefoot, carrying his sandals only for Holy Mass. He fasted most days, consuming only bread, herbs, and water. At night, he allowed himself to sleep only three hours, spending the rest of each night in prayer and spiritual reading. When he wrote updates to his superiors, he signed them, “La Misma Nada” or “Nothingness Itself.”
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It was clear to me that Our Lord was quite pleased with Father Margil as Father was blessed with many divine gifts to aid his missionary work. Perhaps the most puzzling to me was Father’s gift of agility. He traveled from place to place with such speed that he would often stay behind his companions to hear extra confessions only to arrive at the next location before the others. This, and his ability to literally walk on water, made me wonder why he carried me along at all. The “Friar of the Winged Feet” as he was known, certainly had no need for a walking stick!
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Over time, I came to understand what my real purpose was—to be an eyewitness, though certainly not the only one, to all of Father’s wondrous work! Unfortunately, some of the people he preached to did not want to learn about God. The Talamancas once threw him into a fire, and left him there for several hours, but the flames did not injure him. Another time the priests’ food was poisoned, but the missionaries blessed and ate it and no harm came to them. Father Margil also had the gift of prophecy, predicting future vocations, the imminent destruction of sinful locations, and even the financial success of a would-be benefactor. God really aided this humble servant in big ways, for when food was scarce, Father ate and shared from a single small bag of corn which lasted over three months!
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I’ll share with you another miraculous story that I wasn’t able to witness for myself, and you’ll soon understand why. Many, many years later this was recounted to me so as to further appreciate Father Margil’s life. When Father’s mother heard that her son was leaving Spain to be a missionary so far away, she begged him not to leave until she had died, so she could die in his arms. He reminded her that he belonged to God, and gave her a Franciscan habit, telling her to put it on and call for him when death approached. Shortly after he left, she became ill, and did as he had instructed. He appeared to her, and told her she would recover, which happened soon after. A few years later, she was near death again, and called for her son. Father Margil assisted at her bedside, and consoled her, even though they were actually separated by an immense distance. All of this was seen by many people.
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After thirteen years, Father Margil was summoned back to oversee the school at Queretaro, and with much sadness, he left the people of Central America and obediently took up his new post. One morning he was preparing to preach at a nearby mission, so he came to the garden with me and sat down to study, propping me against the garden wall. When he had finished, he walked away, leaving me behind. A bit dismayed at Father’s uncharacteristic forgetfulness, I stayed there until his return five days later. When Father Margil finally entered the garden again, he carried another stick in his hand, evidently a replacement taken from a mimosa tree. When he saw me propped against the wall, he exclaimed, “There you are, Palo!” and discarded the other stick with a firm drive into the ground. A few days later, the stick began to sprout, growing into a full tree before even a week had passed. Instead of growing flowers or fruit, it was covered in thorns, each one shaped like a cross. Many have marveled over this tree, as it still grows today and no others like it have ever been seen before or since.
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When Father Margil was sixty years old, he was granted permission to travel and preach wherever he deemed proper. While many priests now traveled among the amicable peoples of Mexico and Central America, Father Margil knew that those in the far northern part of New Spain were still ignorant of the True Faith. Having the company of other priests and a small group of soldiers, he set out for Texas to nurture the spiritual welfare of yet more souls. It was a difficult journey, and soon after we departed, Father Margil came down with a fever and could hardly walk. Having traveled so many years already, Father was tired and seemingly unable to make the journey.
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After crossing the Rio Grande, he received the last sacraments and encouraged the others to continue onward—left behind to die with only a lay brother to attend him. I feared for his life and selfishly feared what was to become of me when he was no longer with me, but Father Margil did not die. Gradually he recovered, and in June he set out to rejoin the rest of the party.
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By the time we reached them in July, the first mission, Our Lady of Guadalupe in Nacogdoches, had been founded. Spending a year laboring at the development of this first mission, a fellow priest wrote of Father Margil:
He was as kind and pleasant among the Indians as if he were their servant. They visited him at all hours. ... In a word, he cared for them as an earthly mother does for the son she loves.
Father Margil then established Mission San Miguel, near present-day Robeline, Louisiana. In this, he had the honor of erecting the first church building in what is now the state of Louisiana. Soon afterward, Mission Nuestra Senora de los Dolores was established near San Augustine, halfway between the two other missions.
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A favorite story that is quite memorable to me these many, many years later, was at the crossing of Lanana Creek. During a journey from Nacogdoches to an outlying village, Father Margil’s group was exhausted and faint with thirst. With no hope of finding water, Father Margil addressed them as their spiritual father, “Fear not, do not be dismayed. Trust in God, for in a short time you shall have water.” I was then startled by Father striking me against a rock at the bottom of a dry creek. A second time he repeated the motion and out gushed fresh, clear water. The stream of water still flows to this day, and in honor of the miracle, it is named The Eyes of Father Margil.
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While Father Margil held a special place in his heart for ministering to the people of New Spain and bringing to them the gift of Faith, his time in Texas also gave him the unique opportunity to provide for the spiritual welfare of the French soldiers stationed in neighboring Natchitoches, Louisiana. However, when the French declared war on Spain in 1719, his dedication to these men was not enough to prevent a raid by the French upon Mission San Miguel. With very little means of defense, the Franciscans were forced to abandon their missions and retreat to the more secure Mission of San Antonio de Valero, known today as the Alamo.
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While in San Antonio, Father Margil founded what would become the most successful mission in Texas, Mission San Jose. While Father would never see this most beautiful “Queen of the Texas Missions,” his early efforts were carried on by his brethren for more than a century and would become the most famous of all Father Margil’s accomplishments. Father left San Jose when the opportunity came to reclaim the missions that had been abandoned. One by one, each was restored and fortified with a larger Spanish presence. Father resumed his work and wished to die as a humble friar among the people of Texas, but instead, he was again asked to take up the burden of school administration in Mexico.
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When Father Margil arrived back in Queretaro, it was obvious that death was near. He was sent to Mexico City because proper treatment was not available for him in Queretaro. Father Margil obeyed, but I knew a hundred more miles would shorten, not lengthen, his last days on earth. When Father died on August 6, the bells rang out across Mexico City. The hundreds who lined up to venerate his body saw rosy cheeks and feet which were as soft and supple as a small child’s.
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Father Margil’s work in Texas ushered in the first long-lasting missions in the vast region and began the Spanish influence still alive in Texas today. Now that I’ve told you his story, you can help me by sharing it with others so that everyone can know about the Apostle of Texas.
Topic: Nothingness Itself (Read 798 times)