Canonization Miracle of St. John Paul II

The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and rain. I held the door for Floribeth’s husband while the doctor finished speaking. Nothing more could be done, he said. The aneurysm sat in a place no blade could reach. Floribeth nodded once, then asked if she could go home that same afternoon.

We drove the winding road north from the city in silence. Her two children waited on the porch, their faces already set for bad news. She kissed them, then went inside and lay down without turning on the lamp. That night visitors came and went, some bringing soup, others only words. She thanked each one and told them she still had faith, though her hands shook when she reached for the glass beside the bed.

Days passed that way. She kept a small booklet on the nightstand, the one printed for the beatification in Rome. She read the prayers aloud after the children slept. At times she stopped and simply stared at the ceiling, asking the Lord to grow what faith she still possessed. Her husband sat in the chair by the window, listening.

On the first of May she asked him not to give her the sleeping tablets. She wanted to stay awake for the broadcast. He placed the pills on the table anyway, but she woke before dawn on her own. The room was dark except for the flicker from the small television. She watched the square fill with people and the banners rise. When the ceremony reached its height she felt a sudden stillness inside her chest, as if the pain had stepped back a single pace.

She told me later that a voice spoke then, not loud, but clear enough that she turned her head to see who had entered. No one stood in the doorway. The words repeated: get up, do not be afraid. She pushed the blanket aside and stood. Her legs held. She walked to the window and opened the shutter. Morning light came in across the fields. She remained there until her husband woke and found her upright, the television still murmuring.

From that morning the fatigue eased. She no longer needed help to reach the bathroom. Food stayed down. She began to move through the house without pausing to rest against the walls. When neighbors visited she met them at the door instead of calling from the bedroom. No one asked her to explain; they simply noted the change in her color and the steadiness of her step.

In July the relic of John Paul II reached Costa Rica. We drove together to the parish church where it lay. Floribeth stood in line with the others, her hands folded. When her turn came she touched the glass and stayed a moment longer than the person ahead of her. Outside, the sun had climbed high. She said nothing on the ride home, only that the pain behind her eyes had gone.

Medical tests followed in the weeks after. The same doctors who had sent her home now studied new images. They found no trace of the aneurysm that had been declared inoperable. One specialist wrote that spontaneous regression of such a lesion had no recorded precedent in their files. Another noted the absence of any surgical intervention or medication that could account for the disappearance.

The case moved forward through the ordinary channels. Medical examiners in Rome reviewed the scans and the timelines. They asked for additional testimony from those who had seen her before and after the first of May. The theological consultors examined the record of prayer directed to John Paul II, the booklet kept beside the bed, the moment the voice was heard. Their judgment was delivered in the ordinary session the following year.