Giant cattle grazing near non-existent lakes. Cowboys riding clouds in the sky. Towns with grain elevators floating above the horizon in rays of morning light.
            Mirages generally occur in deserts but, in American history, the high plains were once famous for strange, inexplicable visions. [1]
            Today, travelers crossing America’s prairieland consider the region monotonous and boring, as evidenced in a familiar quip: “Why is Kansas a lot like Heaven?” Answer: “Because it goes on forever!”
            Little do detractors realize how close they are to expressing a profound but hidden truth: this humble region provides an excellent setting for mysteries and miracles.

            A documented apparition occurred in the 1620’s when a woman known as “the Lady in Blue” urged fifty Jumano Indians to travel to a far off mission near present-day Albuquerque, NM.
            Upon arriving at the church, they asked the Franciscan priests to baptize them. The padres were incredulous. They had never heard of the Jumano nation and no explorers had yet ventured into the territory from which they came.
            When asked how they had learned about Christ and his Church, the Jumanos related that a lady dressed in blue often visited them, “speaking sweet words that they could understand.”
            She was gentle and kind and would appear among them “like light at sunset. ”[2]

            It is sunset in a small West Texas town. Inside a church named in honor of St. Juan Diego, the flame of a sanctuary lamp flickers against a stained glass window.
            The image of Nuestra Señor de Guadalupe hovers over a cluster of plump cacti and green yucca.
            Through the opaque glass, blurred shapes of abandoned houses lean like doves on a power line. Beyond their tin roofs, a dry and golden land lies open-armed for the Creator’s embrace.
            Yes, indeed, a lot like Heaven.

            The longer I live on these open plains, the more contemplative I become: Dry river beds cry for Moses to cleave their rocky clefts for a gush of water; falling-down stables on forgotten homesteads await the arrival of an infant messiah; mesquite groves, stooped and thorned, creak like trees in Gethsemane.
            Conversely, when I find myself in a crowded city, the lonelier I feel. The more noise fills my head, the more deaf my soul becomes. The more clutter that collects before my eyes, the more I stutter when I try to pray.

            Much has changed from the days when Jumanos trekked across this region of bobcats and bison. Yet, the ceaseless wind, swaying grass and the nighttime stars remain.
            And the red cliffs that uphold these high plains mesmerize this priest living in this arid land. His lips whispering wonder. His eyes moist with searing light.