HGSS – Holy Ground Support Squad

In those days, late at night, out of the darkness came a call.
And it spoke to Her chosen ones:
“The Hill is calling. An Italian is in distress. No breath, no water, only pain.”

And so they rose—men in red uniforms, with hands strong like apostles—and they said:
“Let it be done unto us according to Your word. Let’s go.”

Thus went the Mountain Rescue Service—Croatia’s Galilean fishermen of the 21st century—to save a man who came to Medjugorje seeking a miracle, only to find his body giving up before his spirit did.

They gave him water.
A hand.
That Balkan “You good, legend?” kind of reassurance.
They gave him a second heartbeat.

In that moment—HGSS was the Gospa.

Because let’s be very clear:
The Gospa isn’t only in a statue, a golden rosary, or a livestream from Apparition Hill.
The Gospa is in that young woman or man climbing toward the place of prayer with a first aid bag on their back.
The Gospa is in every soul who heard Her call—not to kneel, but to carry.
To be a shoulder. To be legs.
To be the last strap that lifts even the heaviest sinner back to life.

And now it makes perfect sense why the Gospa keeps calling the youth.

She knows the kind of mess that would erupt if She didn’t.
She knows that every cross needs its Simon of Cyrene.
And when you’ve got hundreds climbing, you’ll need at least five Simons.
Statistically, for every hundred pilgrims—one drops.
That was true even under communism.
And there was no mountain rescue back then.
And we all know how that went.

If the Gospa didn’t call—Apparition Hill would be a hill of bones.
And if Her Squad didn’t show up—Medjugorje would be Jerusalem without the resurrection.

HGSS – Holy Ground Support Squad.

So when She says: “Come, my children,”
maybe She’s not showing you a light in the sky.
Maybe She’s asking you to be that light.
Because if anyone ever truly understood Christ’s words
“Go and do likewise,”
—it’s these people who carry broken ribs down the slope while their own legs are shaking.

Now you tell me—where’s the miracle?

Is it in the tears that stream from a statue’s face?
Or in the sweat dripping from a helmet, as an unnamed young man lowers his brother from the rocks?

Is it in stigmata,
or in that quiet moment when the HGSS rescuer whispers:
“Breathe, brother. You’re okay now.”

And the Vatican?
They’re silent.
Bishops in mitres remain quiet.
Investigators of spiritual phenomena check thermal images and read printed reports.
They wait.
Perhaps for the Gospa to appear with a stamp.
Maybe a fiscal receipt.
Maybe a segment on the evening news.

Only then, maybe, they’ll declare:
“Yes, a miracle happened.”
One that’s been happening for a long time.
One that happened last night.

And so I ask you—if this isn’t enough, what more do they need?
Should the Gospa come down from the hill, put on a uniform, and hand over the stretcher?

Should She post in the HGSS WhatsApp group:
“Thanks, boys. This one goes on your tab.”

Well, if it wasn’t written—it is now.

They will write this Gospel According to HGSS.
And it will begin like this:

“And there was evening, and there was night.
And HGSS came down from the hill.
And they said: The man is alive.”

And it was good.