Writing about the Virgin Mary in the Philippines is like writing about the sunrise. You are telling the readers what they already know, appreciate, and love. So when I was asked to produce a book on the Blessed Mother, I listened, and I was grateful that my friends felt that I was capable of doing this. But I did not write the book right away because I was sure it would be a twice-told tale. But the request haunted me. I had a deep sense of guilt—a feeling that this was something I should do and I wasn’t doing anything about it. I didn’t know exactly how to present anything really new about this beautiful peasant woman, the mother of God. Then I remembered my grandmother whom we called “Nana.” How she prayed for my Uncle Ern for thirty years! And how Uncle Ern finally came back to God—not only on his deathbed, but three full days after the doctors expected him to die. I also remembered other things that happened in my own family—stories that only I could tell and if I don’t record them, no one else will. Moreover, I keep receiving letters from both friends and strangers, telling me about the beautiful adventures they experienced with the Virgin Mary and the amazing answers they received from their prayers to her. These stories are all unique. No two people’s stories are exactly alike. And the way each one reacts when touched by the hand of God is unique. This reminds me of American writer William Sydney Porter, better known as O. Henry, and one of his collection of stories called The Four Million, based on the population of New York City at the time he published it. He felt that if you could portray the soul of any one in that four million, you would have a drama that never happened before, and will never happen again. This gave me courage. If I could just tell the actual stories of real people and their contact with the mother of God, then every narration would be new.
