A hot Italian sun beat mercilessly on the handful of workers in the rocky field. Mopping the sweat off their well-tanned faces, they labored on, their hands burrowing into the soil, skillfully setting the delicate vines in place and tying them tenderly with wisps of straw onto thin sticks. But it was so hot in the glaring sun! Gradually, one by one, they began edging away toward the shade, till a single girl remained in the field, her sturdy, young body bent firmly over her task, her swift fingers deftly caressing the vines and sealing them into place – “Mary,” called a friend, “come out of the hot sun. It’s much more comfortable here!”
Mary looked up. “But no work was ever done in the shade!” she laughed. “Since when have you all become afraid of the sun?”
“We’re not afraid. We just prefer to wait till it sets lower in the sky!” retorted a young man.
“Cowards!” the girl in the field chided. “The sun is God’s gift to us! You’ll never have any wine this winter if you hide in the shade!”
A peasant woman laughed heartily. “Some girl, that Mary Mazzarello! She can beat anyone of us in the field, and that goes for the men too! No use calling her. She’ll stay there till her line is done and then go on to ours!”
“Mary,” teased a young fellow resting under a tree, “did you hear that? Is it true you can beat us working on the farm?” “On the farm and anywhere!” came the decided answer.
“She’s right,” interrupted a young woman. “You’ve never done a day’s work equal to hers.”
“No use teasing her, lad,” broke in Mr. Mazzarello, going out to join his daughter in the field. “Ever since she was just a tiny thing of a girl, she has never given in to anybody. Her mother and I know too well!”
But as Mary bent back to her work and the perspiration trickled freely down her cheeks, her thoughts were far from boasting, even far from the friends that called out to her from the shade. Her eyes were fixed on the tiny vines that seemed to look to her hands for assistance in their first moment of life. Those hands, roughened and cut by pebbles and briars, were meant to be helpful hands, to labor for others – hands of tender mercy to comfort and heal, to lift and strengthen.
The work grew tedious. Impatiently she tugged at handful of tendrils, which refused to fit the contour of her slender fingers. They broke, and petulantly she flung them aside. She paused. No, she must not lose her patience, even in the hot sun. Had she not promised these hours of broiling heat to the Lord who had come to her that morning in Holy Communion? She must check these outbursts, even if only as reparation for the many girls of her age who lived in the wicked cities beyond the citadel of hills that protected Mornese. The earth taught her to be patient as she had to wait for time and seasons for produce in the land. The animals were part of her daily living. She spoke to them, caressed them. They were her friends in waking her up for Mass. She would tie the string with which the cow was tied to her own ankle, so that when the animal moved it was a sign for her to get ready for the Church.