It was early spring 1962, and we were living in Italy. I was invited to join a group of military wives on an overnight trip to San Giovanni Rotondo, a small town 130 miles east of Naples. The purpose of the trip was to visit Padre Pio, a Capuchin monk, and to join the congregation at Sunday Mass in the chapel. Padre Pio bore stigmata in which his hands and feet would swell and cause great pain.
When we arrived at San Giovanni Rotondo, we were assigned rooms in an ancient building. Our rooms were bleak and very cold. My roommate was the wife of the chief doctor at the Navy hospital, and someone I had just met — an organized, austere and stiff officer’s wife.
I thought, “Oh great, not only will I freeze physically, but mentally as well.”
As if reading my thoughts, roommate Ginny said, “Not to worry.”
She then went to her suitcase. I thought she was bringing out some religious materials, but she held a bottle of what looked suspiciously like red wine. We were cold no longer!
The next morning, at 5 a.m. Mass, we joined the other parishioners in the chapel. It was packed, but we found a seat far from the altar. We were all anxious to receive communion from the padre. The long line to the altar was not as organized as at churches here in the States. There was much shoving and muttering, as everyone wanted to make sure they were served only by the padre.
