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Because the day when she was to leave this life was drawing near – a day known to you, though we were ignorant of it – she and I happened to be alone, through (as I believe) the mysterious workings of your will. We stood leaning against a window which looked out on a garden within the house where we were staying, at Ostia on the Tiber; for there, far from the crowds, we were recruiting our strength after the long journey, in order to prepare ourselves for our voyage overseas. We were alone, conferring very intimately. Forgetting what lay in the past, and stretching out to what was ahead, we enquired between ourselves, in the light of present truth, into what you are and what the eternal life of the saints would be like, for Eye has not seen nor ear heard nor human heart conceived it. And yet, with the mouth of our hearts wide open we panted thirstily for the celestial streams of your fountain, the fount of life which is with you.
This was the substance of our talk, though not the exact words. Yet you know, O Lord, how on that very day, amid this talk of ours that seemed to make the world with all its charms grow cheap, she said, “For my part, my son, I no longer find pleasure in anything that this life holds. What I am doing here still, or why I am still here, I do not know, for worldly hope has withered away for me. One thing only there was for which I desired to linger in this life: to see you a Catholic Christian before I died. And my God has granted this to me more lavishly than I could have hoped, letting me see even you spurning earthly happiness to be his servant. What am I still doing here?”
What I replied I cannot clearly remember, because just about that time – five days later, or not much more – she took to her bed with fever. One day during her illness she lapsed into unconsciousness and for a short time was unaware of her surroundings. We all came running, but she quickly returned to her senses, and, gazing at me and my brother as we stood there, she asked in puzzlement, “Where was I?”
We were bewildered with grief, but she looked keenly at us and said, “You are to bury your mother here”. I was silent, holding back my tears, but my brother said something about his hope that she would not die far from home but in her own country, for that would be a happier way. On hearing this she looked anxious and her eyes rebuked him for thinking so; then she turned her gaze from him to me and said, “What silly talk!” Shortly afterwards, addressing us both, she said, “Lay this body anywhere, and take no trouble over it. One thing only do I ask of you, that you remember me at the altar of the Lord wherever you may be”. Having made her meaning clear to us with such words as she could muster, she fell silent, and the pain of the disease grew worse.
My own reflection:Saint Monica is the mother of Saint Augustine. Much like Mary, devotion to Monica will point us toward the life and teaching of her son Saint Augustine. Unlike Mary who is the mother of the holy one, the ancient of days, Monica had to pray for the conversion of her son. Anyone familar with his life will know that he had quite a wild youth. Her prayers were like the prayers of the persistent widow, and so they were heard, and the grace of conversion was granted to her son. For this reason she is often sought as an intercessor in converting relative. Needless to say, I pray to her often.
During my first year in Rome, I walked past the Church of Saint Augustine at the north end of Piazza Novona almost every morning on my walk to the Gregorian. I would often stop to pray there. I would pray for my mother; I would pray for the intercession of Saint Monica for my constant daily conversion; and I would pray for the conversion of a number of my relatives and family members. I continue these prayers, even though for the past year the church has been under restoration and her tomb has been inaccessible. I look forward to returning to Rome in two weeks to pray there once again.
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