I am Antonia, and three years after my son’s de@th, he returned, not in body, but in another form. He visited me in a dream and told me something that completely changed the way I see de@th, purgatory, and the power of prayer.
He revealed a prayer to me, a prayer so powerful that, he said, it releases souls from purgatory instantly.
Since October 12, 2006, when my son Carlo died at the age of 15, I have lived between two worlds: the visible world and the invisible world, the world of the living and the world of those who have passed on.
In the first few years after Carlo’s de@th, I lived on autopilot. I would wake up, pray, work, cry, sleep, and repeat the same routine every day.
The absence was physical. It ached in my chest, weighed on my shoulders, tightened my throat, and I went to his grave in Así almost every week. I would sit before my son’s incorrupt body, displayed on a glass altar, and talk to him.
Carl, son, I know you’re okay, I know you’re with Jesus, but I miss you so much.
I always believed Carlo was in heaven. How could I doubt it? He lived like a saint, he died like a saint, he was beatified, and yet the pain wouldn’t go away.
I wanted a sign, anything, confirmation that he was okay, that he could hear me, that he was still close to me.
And then God answered. In 2009, three years after Carlo’s de@th, something happened, something I didn’t expect, something that changed everything. It was an ordinary, cold night.
Milan was quiet. I went to bed tired as usual. Andrea was already asleep beside me. I closed my eyes, said a Hail Mary, and fell asleep.
But that night I had a dream, and it wasn’t an ordinary dream; it was real, more real than reality.
I was in a dark place. It wasn’t total darkness, it was an absence of light, like a long, endless hallway, without doors, without windows. I heard voices, whispers, soft moans, pleas. Pray for me. Don’t forget me. Please, get me out of here.
I started walking slowly, afraid, and at the end of the hallway I saw a small, weak light, but growing. I walked toward it, and when I got closer, I saw him.
Carlo was standing in the middle of the light, dressed in dazzling white.
His face was the one I knew, but different, purer, brighter, more glorious. He smiled, and I collapsed. Carlo! I cried, I tried to run to him, but my feet wouldn’t move.
He raised his hand, asking me to stay where I was. Mom, he said, his voice was the same. But it had something different, something that brought immediate peace. Mom, I’m okay, I’m with Jesus, but I came because I need to ask you something.
What, son? What do you need? I said, crying. He pointed behind me toward the dark hallway, toward the voices. “They need you, Mama.” I turned around and for the first time saw there were hundreds of people.
Thousands standing in the dark hallway, waiting. Some were crying, others looked at me with pleading eyes.
“Who are they, Carlo?” I asked, trembling. “They are the souls in purgatory, Mama.” Purgatory. I always knew purgatory existed. The Church teaches it. It always has. It’s the place of purification where souls who died in a state of grace, but still with imperfections, are purified.
“Before entering heaven, but I had never thought about them, about the souls, about real people who were there.
They are waiting, Mama, waiting for the prayers of the living, waiting for someone to remember them, to pray for them.” Carlo took a step toward me and said, “You can help them.” “Me? How?” He smiled, with prayer, with sacrifice, with love.
He extended his hand and suddenly something began to glow in his palm. It was a small, luminous piece of paper. This is the prayer, Mom, the prayer that sets you free.
I picked up the paper, my hands trembling, and when I looked at what was written, I woke with a start, agitated and sweating. The room was dark. Andrea was still asleep beside me.
I looked at my empty hands. The paper wasn’t there, but the words—the words were in my mind, clear, complete, as if seared into my memory. I got out of bed, took paper and a pen, and wrote word by word, exactly as Carlos had shown me. Some dreams are just dreams, but others are visits.
The next day I sought out my spiritual director, told him about the dream, showed him the prayer, he read it, reread it, remained silent for a few minutes, and then said, “Antonia, this doesn’t contradict any Church teaching; on the contrary, it’s perfectly in line with everything Catholic tradition has always taught about purgatory and the communion of saints. So, can I pray it? Not only can you, you must.” And that’s how it all began. I started praying that prayer every day, and in less than a week, strange things began to happen.
The prayer that Carlo revealed to me was simple, not long, without complicated words, but it had power. I felt it every time I prayed it. The prayer goes like this: Eternal Father, I offer You the most precious Blood of Your divine Son Jesus, in union with all the Masses celebrated today throughout the world.
I pray for the souls in purgatory, for sinners everywhere, for sinners in the Universal Church, for those in my home, and for those in my family.
Amen. Simple, direct, powerful. Carlo had told me in a dream, “Mom, this prayer offers the blood of Jesus, and there is no higher price. There is no currency more valuable in heaven or on earth than his blood.
When you offer it to the Father in union with all the Masses in the world, souls are freed.” I began to pray it that very day, every morning, and again upon waking at night before going to sleep.
Sometimes I prayed it several times during the day, and each time I finished the prayer, I felt something—a deep peace, a warmth in my chest, as if someone were giving thanks.
In the first few days, nothing extraordinary happened, but on the fifth day, everything changed. It was night, and I was alone at home. Andrea had traveled for work. I was in the bedroom praying the rosary before going to sleep. I finished the Hail Marys, prayed the prayer Carlos had taught me, and turned off the light.
I closed my eyes and then heard a soft, distant, feminine voice. “Thank you.” Sometimes I prayed it several times a day, and each time I finished the prayer, I felt something—a deep peace, a warmth in my chest, as if someone were giving thanks.
Nothing extraordinary happened in the first few days, but on the fifth day, everything changed. It was night, and I was alone at home. Andrea had traveled for work.
I was in the bedroom praying the rosary before going to sleep. I finished the Hail Marys, prayed the prayer Carlos had taught me, and turned off the light.
I closed my eyes and then heard a soft, distant, feminine voice. “Thank you.” I opened my eyes abruptly and looked around. The room was empty, dark, and silent. “Andrea,” I called, even though I knew she wasn’t there.
I thought I had imagined it. I closed my eyes again, and the voice returned. “Thank you, Antonia. You set me free.” I sat up in bed. My heart was pounding. It wasn’t fear, it was wonder.
“Who’s there?” I asked softly, silence. But then I saw something, a small, soft light in the corner of the bedroom. It wasn’t lamplight, it was something else, white, golden, alive, and within the light, a silhouette. I clutched my rosary tightly and prayed silently.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, protect me.” The silhouette didn’t move, but the light grew brighter and the voice returned. “Don’t be afraid. I only came to thank you.
You prayed for me and I was freed. Freed. Freed.” “From where?” “From purgatory.” My whole body trembled. “Who? Who are you?”
The voice hesitated for a moment and then said, “My name is Maria. I died 20 years ago. No one prayed for me anymore. My family forgot me. But you, you prayed, and Jesus set me free.”
Tears began to stream down my face. “I don’t know you. It’s not necessary. You offered the blood of Jesus for all souls, and I was among them.” The light began to fade, the silhouette growing fainter. “Now I am going to heaven, and from there I will pray for you forever.” And then the light vanished. I sat on the bed for hours, unable to sleep, unable to process what had just happened. A soul had visited me.
A soul from purgatory to give thanks. There are things that reason cannot explain, but the heart recognizes them immediately. The next day I called my spiritual director and told him everything: the voice, the light, the message. He listened in silence and then said, “Antonia, this is not unusual. Throughout the history of the Church, many saints and mystics…” They recounted visits from souls in purgatory. Saint Faustina, Padre Pio, Saint Catherine of Gent.
But why me? I’m not a saint, I’m just a mother who lost her son. You’re a mother, and mothers have a special heart for those who suffer. God is using you, Antonia. Keep praying. And I kept praying every single day, without fail, and things kept happening. A week later, I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Suddenly, I smelled a strong, intense rose perfume, as if someone had come in with a huge bouquet, but there were no flowers, not a single one.
I looked around, nothing. And yet, the perfume remained, growing stronger. And then I heard a voice again, this time a man’s, deep, moved. God bless you, Antonia. You saved me. I dropped the cup I was holding; it fell to the floor and shattered. Andrea came running from the living room. Antonia, what happened? I couldn’t speak. I just pointed to the air, to the place where the voice had come from. You, you heard it, heard what, the voice. Andrea looked at me, worried.
Antonia, there’s no one here, but there was someone. I knew it, and the rose scent was still there. Andrea noticed it too. “Do you smell it?” I asked her. She stopped. She took a deep breath. Roses. Yes. We both stood there in the middle of the kitchen, breathing in that inexplicable scent. And as suddenly as it had arrived, it disappeared. Andrea hugged me. “What’s happening, Antonia?” I took her face in my hands and said, “The souls, Andrea, are being released.”
and they come to give thanks.” In the following days, I began to write everything down.
Every time something supernatural happened, I wrote it down. Voices, lights, perfumes, dreams. Sometimes I saw silhouettes, other times I only felt presences.
But always, always there was gratitude. And then something even more amazing happened. Two weeks after I started praying the prayer, I received a call.
It was a woman I didn’t know. Antonia Acutis. Yes, it’s me. My name is Teresa. I’m from Brazil. I need to tell you something. Her voice trembled. She was emotional.
Tell me, Teresa. My mother died three years ago. She was a good woman, Catholic, but she died suddenly, without confession, without communion, without the anointing of the sick.
She began to cry. I was always afraid that she was in purgatory suffering, waiting, and I didn’t know how to help her. And then, then two weeks ago I had a dream. My heart raced.
A dream? Yes. I saw my mother. She was in a dark place, but it wasn’t pitch black, it was like a hallway, and she was I was expecting a dark hallway, exactly like the one I’d seen in my dream with Carlos. And then, in the dream, a light appeared, and from that light came a young man dressed simply, in sneakers and jeans.
I started trembling. He approached my mother, took her hand, and said, “Come, you are free.” And they disappeared together into the light. Teresa burst into tears, even harder. When I woke up, I looked up information and found out who that boy was. It was Carlo, your son, Blessed Carlo Acutis. I couldn’t contain myself. I collapsed. I cried like a child. Teresa, did you pray the prayer? What prayer? The prayer to the Most Precious Blood remained silent. No, I didn’t even know that prayer.
So, it wasn’t me, it was Carlo. He himself was freeing souls from heaven using the prayer he had taught me. Antonia, I called just to thank you and to tell you this: keep doing what you’re doing, because what you’re doing is saving souls. When I hung up the phone, I fell to my knees and prayed. I prayed giving thanks, I prayed weeping, I prayed asking for strength, because I finally understood that this prayer wasn’t just a prayer, it was a key. A key that opened the gates of purgatory and freed the forgotten.
But what I still didn’t know was that The Church was also watching, and priests, theologians, and even exorcists would begin investigating what was happening. After Teresa’s call, everything spread quickly. I hadn’t told many people about the prayer, only my spiritual director, Andrea, and a few close friends. But Teresa shared her testimony on social media, and within days, thousands of people were praying it. I started receiving messages from all over the world.
Brazil, the United States, the Philippines, Poland, Mexico, Africa—people who said they had felt presences, voices, lights; people who said they had dreamed of deceased relatives who came to give thanks; people who said that after praying the prayer, a weight had been lifted from within them, a weight they had carried for years. But it wasn’t all easy. Some people began to question, “Is this real, or is it made up?” The Church approves of this prayer. Antonia Acutis isn’t a visionary, she isn’t a mystic.
How can she receive such a revelation? I understood. Doubt is natural. Skepticism is healthy. The Church has always taught, examine everything and keep what is good. That’s why I wasn’t offended; I simply continued praying and waiting. Three months after the dream about Carlo, I received a call. It was from a priest. Monsignor Paolo, a theologian from the Diocese of Assisi. “Mrs. Acutis, we would like to speak with you in person.” “About what?” “About prayer.” Andrea and I went to the diocese a week later.
We entered a large room with a long wooden table. Four priests were seated. One was a theologian, another a canon lawyer, and the third an exorcist. I felt nervous. “Please sit down,” Monsignor Paolo said with a kind smile. We sat down. “Mrs. Acutis, we know that you have spread a prayer, a prayer that, according to testimonies, releases souls from purgatory.” I nodded. “Yes, that’s true.” “And you claim that this prayer was revealed to you by Blessed Carlo Acutis, your son.” Yes, in a dream.
The priests exchanged glances. The exorcist, Father Mateo, leaned forward and asked, “Have you had any other mystical experiences before this one?” “No, never.” “And afterward? Any other revelations, any other visions?” “No, just that dream and the presence of the souls giving thanks.” Father Mateo nodded. “Mrs. Acutis, the Church takes phenomena like this very seriously, not because it doubts, but because it must protect the faithful. It must ensure that what is being shared comes from God and not from some other source.”
I swallowed. I understand. The theologian, Father Luca, opened a folder and took out several printed sheets. “We have analyzed the prayer you shared and conducted a thorough theological review.” He placed the papers on the table. “This prayer…”
This prayer is fully aligned with Catholic doctrine on purgatory, the communion of saints, and the infinite value of Christ’s blood. There is nothing in it that contradicts the faith. I breathed a sigh of relief. Furthermore, Father Luca continued, this prayer is not new.
I blinked in surprise. It isn’t. There have been no variations of this prayer for centuries. It was prayed by saints such as Saint Gertrude, Saint Bridget, and Saint John Vianney. What Carlo did was simplify it, adapt it to modern times. Carlo, always Carlo. The canon lawyer, Father Yusepe, spoke up. We cannot officially declare it to be an approved private revelation. That would take years of research, but we also see no reason to prohibit the prayer; on the contrary, we encourage the faithful to pray it.
Monsignor Paolo smiled. Mrs. Acutis, continue doing what you are doing. Keep praying, keep sharing, but always with humility, always pointing to Christ, never to yourself. I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders. Thank you. Thank you so much, Fathers. As we left the diocese, Andrea hugged me. You see? God is confirming everything. And I felt it. I truly felt it. From that day on, even more testimonies began to arrive, and some of them were impossible to explain.
A man named Roberto from Spain wrote to me, “Antonia, my father died 15 years ago. He was an atheist, never went to church, never believed in anything. When he died, I was afraid he was lost forever. But two months ago, I started praying the prayer you shared every day, offering the blood of Jesus for him. And yesterday I had a dream. I saw my father. He was in a dark place, alone, but suddenly a light appeared, and from that light came Jesus.
Jesus approached my father, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said, “Come, your son prayed for you; now you are free.” “When I woke up, I cried for hours, because I know, Antonia. I know my father was saved, and it was thanks to prayer. I read that message three times and cried with him because I understood—I understood the pain of losing someone without knowing where they were, and I understood the joy of discovering that God is merciful, that He doesn’t give up on anyone.
Another woman named Lucia from Italy told me, “My grandmother died when I was 10 years old. She was very Catholic, she went to Mass every day, she prayed the rosary, but she had a sin that tormented her. She had had an abortion when she was young. She went to confession, she did penance, but until the day she died she cried for that baby. Three weeks ago, I started praying the prayer of the Most Precious Blood for my grandmother’s soul and also for the baby she lost. And last week I had a dream.
I saw my grandmother; she was smiling, and in her arms she held a small, radiant baby.” She looked at me and said, “Now we are together forever.” When I read that testimony, I understood something profound. Purgatory is not punishment, it is healing. It is the place where God purifies, where He restores, where He prepares souls for eternal joy. And we, those of us who are still alive, can accelerate that process with prayer, with sacrifice, with love. But the testimony that touched me most was that of a priest.
Father Juan from Brazil wrote to me, “Antonia, I have been a priest for 30 years. I have always prayed for the deceased, I have always celebrated Masses for the souls in purgatory. But I confess something: I did it automatically, without truly believing that anything was happening, until I began to pray the prayer of the Most Precious Blood. A week later, I was celebrating Mass alone in the seminary chapel. It was early morning. When I elevated the consecrated host during the consecration, I saw souls, hundreds of them around the altar, looking at it, weeping, giving thanks.”
And then, one by one, they vanished as if being lifted upward, toward the light. I finished Mass trembling, weeping, unable to believe what I had seen. But from that day on, I was never the same. Now, every time I celebrate Mass, I know it. I am not alone. The souls are there waiting, asking, and being set free. I replied to Father Juan, “Father, thank you for sharing this and thank you for believing, because many priests still don’t believe. Many still celebrate Mass automatically, but you saw the truth.
Keep celebrating, keep offering, because every Mass liberates souls. And it’s true, every Mass celebrated anywhere in the world, at that very moment, has infinite power. Because it’s not just the priest who offers, it’s Jesus. It’s Jesus himself offering himself again to the Father. And when we unite our prayers to that sacrifice, heaven opens.” A few months later, I was invited to give a talk at a spiritual retreat in Assisi. There were about 200 people. I told the whole story, the dream with Carlo, the prayer, the testimonies, and at the end, I invited everyone to pray with me.
We prayed together. Eternal Father, I offer you the most precious blood of your divine Son Jesus, in union with all the Masses celebrated today throughout the world, p
For the souls in purgatory, for sinners everywhere, for sinners in the Universal Church, for those in my home, and for those in my family. Amen. When we finished, the silence was profound. No one moved, no one spoke. And then something happened. Several people began to weep. Others fell to their knees. A woman raised her trembling hand.
I saw my mother there now. She was smiling and said to me, “Thank you, daughter. I am free.” Another man stood up and said, “I smelled a very strong rose fragrance. Did anyone else smell it?” Several people nodded. Yes, they had smelled it too. I stood there in front of everyone and understood. It wasn’t me doing anything. It was God, it was Jesus, it was the infinite power of his blood. And Carlo, Carlo was orchestrating it all from heaven. But what I didn’t yet know was that while I was sharing this prayer for the world, something was happening to me, something that would take me deeper into the mystery of purgatory than I could ever have imagined.
Six months after I began praying the prayer of the Most Precious Blood, something happened to me, something I didn’t expect. Something that made me understand purgatory in a way that no book, no sermon, no catechism class ever managed to teach me. It was a cold, silent November morning. I was alone at home. Andrea had gone on another business trip, I had prayed the rosary, I had said the prayer, and I had gone to bed. But in the middle of the night I woke up. It wasn’t a natural awakening; it was abrupt, as if someone had shaken me.
I opened my eyes. The room was dark, but different. It wasn’t normal darkness; it was a dense, heavy darkness, as if the air had become thicker. I tried to move, but I couldn’t. My body was paralyzed. Panic began to rise in my throat. “Jesus, Jesus, help me,” I tried to say, but my voice wouldn’t come out. And then I heard slow, dragging footsteps coming from the hallway. I strained my eyes to look toward the bedroom door and saw her. A figure standing in the doorway.
It was an old woman, hunched over, dressed in tattered, worn clothes. I couldn’t see her face clearly. It was obscured by shadows, but I felt her eyes fixed on me. Who? Who are you? I tried to ask, but I still couldn’t speak. The woman stepped into the bedroom and then, in a harsh, broken voice, said, “Help me. My whole body is trembling. I can’t move. Help me,” she repeated, this time louder, and then she began to weep. A deep, desperate, painful cry.
I am forgotten. No one prays for me. No one remembers me. I strained every muscle in my body and finally managed to move. I sat up in bed, panting. “Who are you?” I asked aloud this time. The woman moved a little closer. And now, in the dim light filtering through the window, I could see her aged face, marked, filled with sadness. “I died 60 years ago, alone, with no one. And ever since, I’ve been waiting.” “Waiting for what?” “For someone to pray for me, for someone to offer something for me, for someone to take me out of this place.” I swallowed.
“Are you in purgatory?” She nodded slowly. “I am. And the pain, the pain of being forgotten is worse than any flame.” I began to cry. “I will pray for you, I promise.” The woman came even closer and held out her hand. “Pray now, please.” I took the rosary that was on the nightstand, clutched it tightly, and prayed. “Eternal Father, I offer You the most precious blood of Your divine Son Jesus, in union with all the Masses celebrated today throughout the world for the souls in purgatory.”
When I finished the prayer, the woman began to glow slowly, gently. The sadness on her face began to fade, and she smiled. For the first time, she smiled. Thank you, thank you. And then she disappeared. I sat there on the bed trembling, crying, clutching my rosary, and I understood—I understood something very profound. Purgatory isn’t just fire, it isn’t just physical purification; it’s loneliness, it’s oblivion, it’s the pain of knowing that no one remembers you anymore, that no one prays for you. There are pains that burn the body, and there are pains that burn the soul.
In the following days, that visit never left my mind. I began to pray more intensely, more urgently, because I knew that there, in purgatory, were millions of forgotten souls, people who died alone, without family, without friends, without anyone to remember them, and they were there waiting, asking, pleading. I asked my spiritual director, “Father, what more can we do for the souls?” He answered me, “Antonia, prayer is powerful, but there are other things too. Sacrifices, almsgiving, fasting, indulgences, and above all, the Holy Mass.
Every time Mass is celebrated, souls are freed, because the Mass is the very sacrifice of Christ renewed, and there is no greater power in the universe than that.” I wrote it all down and began to put it into practice. I started offering small sacrifices: getting up earlier, offering up my tiredness, giving up something I enjoyed, offering
The renunciation, enduring pain in silence, offering up the pain. And each time I offered something, I said to myself, “Jesus, I offer this for the souls in purgatory, especially the most forgotten ones.”
And things continued to happen. More voices, more lights, more presences, but now I was no longer afraid. I knew they were grateful souls, souls being freed, and they wanted me to know. One night, while praying the rosary, I had another experience, this time different. I was in my bedroom with my eyes closed, meditating on the Sorrowful Mysteries, and suddenly I was no longer there. I found myself somewhere else. It was a strange place. It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light either.
It was like an eternal twilight, gray, silent. I looked around and saw thousands of them, standing still, waiting. Some were crying, others were looking up, others were simply waiting. “Where am I?” I asked aloud. No one answered, but then I heard Carlo’s voice. It didn’t come from a specific place. It was as if it resonated within me. Mom, are you seeing purgatory? I began walking among the people. They didn’t see me, or perhaps they did, but they didn’t react. I saw their faces: weariness, longing, hope.
And I understood something else. They weren’t suffering physical torment; they were suffering something else: absence, the absence of God, or rather, distance from God. They knew He was there, that He loved them, that they would soon be with Him, but not yet. And that waiting was purification. Carlos, why are you showing me this? I asked as I continued walking. Because people have forgotten, Mom, they’ve forgotten that the dead need the living, that the communion of saints is real, that we in heaven, they in purgatory, and you on earth are all connected.
And prayer, Mom, prayer is the bridge. I stopped in the middle of that place and wept. I wept for all those souls. I wept because I understood that many had been there for decades, perhaps centuries, waiting for someone, someone in the world, to pray for them. What can I do, Carlo? How can I help more? His voice answered, keep praying, keep offering, and teach others to do the same. Because every prayer liberates, every sacrifice hastens, every Mass saves. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, I returned.
I opened my eyes. I was back in the bedroom, the rosary still in my hands, but I was no longer the same. I had seen, I had been there, and now I knew. The next day I wrote everything down in a notebook and shared it with some close friends. The reactions were varied. Some believed immediately, others doubted, but I didn’t care because I knew it was real, and testimonies kept coming in from all over the world. A woman from Poland wrote to me, Antonia, after I started praying the rosary, I had a dream.
I saw my great-grandfather who died in World War II. He was wearing his uniform, but it was clean and bright, and he said to me, “Thank you, my daughter. Now I can rest.” A man from the United States wrote, “I am Protestant. I don’t believe in purgatory. But my wife is Catholic and she convinced me to say the prayer, and I had an experience I can’t explain. I felt the presence of my father, who died 10 years ago, and he hugged me. I felt the hug physically, and he said, ‘Son, now everything is alright.’
I don’t know what happened, but I know it was real.” And so, little by little, prayer began to change lives, to open hearts, to reconnect the living with those who have passed on, and to free those who were being held captive. But now, brother, sister, I need to speak directly to you because this story isn’t just mine; this story is also yours. If you are listening to me now, brother, sister, I don’t think it’s by chance. Perhaps you have recently lost someone. Perhaps you still carry the pain of a goodbye that never had time to happen.
Perhaps you ask yourself every night before falling asleep, “Where is she now? Where is she? Is she okay?” I know that pain. I lost my son when he was 15. I watched him fade away in a hospital bed. I held his hand as his heart stopped. And even knowing that Carlo was a saint, even knowing that he was with Jesus, the longing didn’t go away. Longing never goes away. But you know what did change? The fear. The fear that he was suffering, that he was alone, that he would never come back. Seeing him.
That fear vanished. Because I discovered something the Church has always taught, but few truly believe. De@th doesn’t stop. De@th only changes direction. Our dead are not far away; they are closer than we imagine. They are in heaven interceding for us, or they are in purgatory awaiting our prayers. And we here on earth have the power to help them with prayer, with sacrifice, with love. Did you know that a single Hail Mary can alleviate the suffering of a soul in purgatory?
Did you know that a glass of water given to a thirsty person in the name of Jesus can free a soul? Did you know
Can enduring pain in silence, offering it to God, open the gates of heaven for someone who has been waiting for years? The Church calls this the communion of saints. We on earth are the Church militant. We fight against sin, against evil, against ourselves. The saints in heaven are the Church triumphant. They have already won; they are already with God.
And the souls in purgatory are the Church suffering. They are being purified; they are waiting. But we are all connected like a family, and a family doesn’t abandon anyone. I ask you now sincerely, when was the last time you prayed for someone who has already died? Perhaps you think they don’t need it. My father was good; surely he’s in heaven now. Perhaps, but what if he isn’t? What if he’s in purgatory, waiting, suffering, pleading? And you, you who have the power to help him, do nothing.
It’s not your fault. No one taught us this properly. Hardly anyone talks about purgatory anymore. Hardly anyone talks about the dead anymore. As if they had ceased to exist, but they didn’t.
They are alive, more alive than we are. They are just in another place, waiting. I learned this in the most painful way. I lost my son, but I received a mission.
The mission to remind the world. The dead need the living. And the prayer that Carlos taught me is simple, it’s short, but it’s powerful because it offers the Father the most valuable thing that exists in the universe: the blood of Jesus.
Let me explain why this prayer has so much power. When Jesus died on the cross, he shed all his blood. That blood has infinite value. That blood paid the debt for all the sins of humanity—past, present, and future.
So, when you pray, “Eternal Father, I offer you the most precious blood of your divine son Jesus,” you are offering the price of salvation. You are offering the most valuable coin that exists, and the gates of purgatory open.
I have seen it happen hundreds, thousands of times.
People from all over the world write to me saying, “Antonia, I prayed and my father visited me in a dream.
He was at peace.” Antonia, I prayed a novena and on the ninth day I smelled the fragrance of roses and I knew, I knew he was freed. This isn’t magic, it’s faith. It’s the faith of the Church, the faith of 2,000 years.
That’s why I ask you now with all my heart: Pray, pray for the forgotten, pray for the souls no one remembers. Every night, before you go to sleep, pray the prayer of the Most Precious Blood.
Offer the Blood of Jesus for the souls in purgatory.
Pray the Rosary every day if you can. And at the end of each mystery, pray: “O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those most in need of Your mercy.”
Saint Catherine of Genoa said, “No happiness can compare with that of the souls in purgatory, except that of the saints in Heaven, because they have certainty, they know that…” They will go to heaven; they just need to wait a little longer, and we can shorten that wait.
So, brother, sister, if this story touched your heart, don’t keep it to yourself. Share it, send it to someone who has lost a loved one, to that friend who is grieving
. Subscribe to the channel, write the name of someone you have lost in the comments. I will pray for every name that appears here. I truly read all the comments and pray because this isn’t just content; this is a mission, this is a chain of faith. And if this channel has been an answer for you, please consider leaving a super thanks.
This help, however small it may seem, sustains this mission and allows us to continue bringing profound and transformative messages to more people who need this word.
I want to end by telling you one last thing. A few months ago, I was praying in Carlo’s room. That room that I kept exactly as he left it. The computer, the books, his All Star sneakers.
I was there on my knees praying the rosary, and suddenly I felt something, a hand on my Shoulder, soft, firm, warm. I didn’t turn around.
Because I knew who it was. “Carlo,” I whispered. And he answered, “Not with an audible voice, but with that inner voice that doesn’t need sound to be heard.
Mom, keep going. Keep doing what you’re doing, because from heaven I see. I see souls being set free. I see families being reconciled. I see love conquering de@th.”
And then he said something I will never forget. De@th is not the end, Mom. It is only the door. And on the other side there is more life, more love, more Jesus.
I tell you this today from Milan, Italy, almost 20 years after my son’s de@th.
I still cry, I still feel his absence, but I am no longer afraid because I know where he is and I know that one day I will meet him again and on that day we will be together again, forever.
And until that day comes, I will continue to pray, praying for the living, praying for the dead, because this is my mission. This is the mission that Carlo entrusted to me, and now it is yours too.
Blessed Carlo Acutis, pray for us.Souls in purgatory, pray for us. Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us. May God bless you, may He comfort you in your longing, may He fill you with hope, and may He use you to free those who are captive.
For sadness is looking at oneself, joy is looking at God, and holiness is looking at others, living or dead, and loving them to the end. It all began with a dream.
