Mario Hilton, Humble and Poor Adorer (16 Jan, 1924-16 July, 2017)

A Coincidence at the Point of Death

The day was the fifteenth of July, 2017, the day before the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Two of our novices were talking on the community’s weekly walk. One had just arrived, less than two months previously, and had only received the holy habit six days before. This was his first walk in the habit of a monk. The two talked together of various subjects, but especially the subject of holy people.

“I may have known a saint,” the newly clothed novice said. The other novice wanted to know more, and so the newly clothed novice spoke about a remarkable man he had known as a child, a man who seemed to spend all his time in adoration or praying the rosary, who was always kind to everyone, whom everyone seemed to think of as a saint, about whom strange stories were told.

“His name is Mario Hilton,” continued the new novice. “He’s very old now. He’s probably on his deathbed as we speak. Let’s pray an Ave for him.”

So the brothers paused to pray for Mario.

Mario Hilton died the next day, the sixteenth of July, 2017, the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Mario was 93 years old.

By the grace of God, this novice went on to make solemn vows. Could it have been that Mario was helping him from heaven?

Meeting Mario

After praying the Ave, the elder of the novices asked how the new novice had known Mario and why he thought he was so holy.

I met Mario when I was ten.  I had just come back from a trip to Israel, Rome, and Assisi with my family where I had learned to be an altar server and had discovered the Mass ad orientem. My mind was full of all these holy sights and sounds, so when my parents arranged for me to spend the summer with my godmother at Domino’s Farms, it was only natural for me to meander down the steps from her office to Domino’s Chapel. I discovered that they had Mass 8 AM, 10 AM, 12 AM, and 5 PM, and they had no servers. So I asked if I could serve. For whatever reason they were reluctant and asked to think about it, but eventually they said ‘yes’.

Mario was the Sacristan. I remember him moving slowly, ever so slowly, towards the tabernacle. I vividly remember him carrying the cruets with a creaking gait. Then I would see him kneeling on a prie-dieu for what seemed like hours, the beads of his rosary slowly passing through his hands.

When I got home, I told my parents about him, but my parents already knew about him. They told me he was a saint. That was always in the back of my mind as I got to know him. Since I was there frequently during week days, I volunteered for whatever little jobs were needed. That meant I worked closely with Mario. What struck me about him was his mild manners, his perpetual smile, and his unflappable peace. I always wondered if he was really a saint. It was 8 years later when I asked a priest about it, and the priest told me of some unusual mystical phenomena that made a great impression on me, though I wanted it verified by others. Since then I have heard others tell of the ecstasies and unusual favours.

One day, he pulled me into his office. This wasn’t unusual, because we worked closely together, but it seemed more formal than usual. Usually he simply listened to my ramblings and found ways to exercise my creativity — writing book reviews for Credo magazine, for instance. That day he did the speaking.

“If you are going to be a priest,” he began (but I don’t remember ever mentioning a vocation to him?), “then you need to learn Latin.” My initial reaction was one of disbelief. Latin? I had hardly even heard of Latin. Why would I need to learn it if I was to become a priest? What priest needed Latin? But he gave me no time for my protests. In a way that made me feel I was under obligation (I remember being none too happy about it, as I had a distaste for memorisation), he handed me a card and said: “This is the Pater Noster, the Our Father in Latin. I want you to memorise it.”

In fact, I never successfully memorised the word quotidianum, which meant that I only had the first part memorised. But it was prophetic of the future, because five years later I began taking courses in Latin and later would go on to teach it.

I remember how impressive it was in his last years see Mario, shoulders so hunched it seemed he could not even look up, abiding before the Most Blessed Sacrament exposed. I did not know, yet suspected, that he spent all night before the Lord. This was later confirmed. Mario spent his retirement in front of the Most Blessed Sacrament, and on Friday nights, he would spend all night in adoration.

My last time meeting him, I grasped his hand whilst he was in deep prayer. He looked up at me with sincere eyes. “Pray for me,” I asked. “I’m going to a monastery in Ireland to try to become a monk.” Ohh!” he exclaimed. “Write me letters!”

In fact, “Write me letters!” were the last words I heard him speak.

 

The Grace to Hunger for Adoration

The monks here have the incomparable grace to abide before the Eucharistic Face of Jesus. When you devote yourself to adoration for any length of time, you quickly learn that adoration cannot be done by mere human effort and psychological exertion. Adoration is a gift. Mario’s continual gravity was towards the Most Blessed Sacrament.

Mario had that grace. Week after week, year after year, he awoke early to be in front of the tabernacle and weekly spent more than 24 hours straight at adoration.

Waking at 3 AM

Mario rose early to adore the Lord. Although at the end of his life he may have awakened a little later — perhaps as late as 6 AM, so that he could be there at the 7 AM Mass — at least at the age of 69, he was rising at 3 in the morning to pray. The priests of his parish, Saint Thomas the Apostle in Ann Arbor, Michigan (USA), turned over the key to him after they discovered him day after day praying outside the doors of the Church.

In 1994, the local secular newspaper, the Ann Arbor News, reported that “Hilton rises at 3 a.m. each day to meditate and pray in his apartment on Ann Arbor’s near north side. He then walks over and opens up St. Thomas Catholic Church. ‘Ice, snow, sleet or rain, Mario is here,’ says Sister Linda Bates.”

May a double portion of that spirit of adoration that animated Mario, rest upon all of us who are devoted to adoration!

Giving Away His Coat

The same article from the Ann Arbor News reported about an incident well in character for Mario.

On a cold day a few winters ago Chris Vaughan saw Hilton walking downtown, wearing an old lightweight jacket. He was clearly chilled. Vaughan knew, however, that Hilton’s co-workers at Travis Pointe Country Club recently had bought him a warm winter coat. He asked what happened to the coat, but Hilton was reluctant to talk about it. Vaughan persisted. “Finally, he told me he saw a man who was cold,” Vaughan says, “and Mario took off his new winter coat and gave it to him.”

The Rosary

When at adoration, Mario often seemed to be nearly immobile before the Lord, in a profound posture of humility. When he was still able to, he would kneel. Later on, he sat still. By the last years, he needed help rising from his sitting, and he would wait till some kind person would go behind him and push so that he could arise.

While standing or kneeling, his beads passed slowly through his fingers. Many who set themselves to pray the Rosary discover it can be hard to pray it well. Saint Thérèse is an example of this. She famously admitted that praying the Rosary for her was more difficult than wearing an instrument of penance. But to watch Mario pray the Rosary was to watch a men exuding a deep peace and profound stillness. His Rosaries appeared unrushed, calm, and contemplative.

Favourite Saints

Despite his — at least external — difference from Saint Thérèse vis-à-vis the Rosary, he resembled her in many ways. He was very fond of and a practitioner of her Little Way. Like her, he filled everything that he did with great joy, simplicity, and, above all, love. He considered Saint Thérèse his favourite Saint along with Saint Rita of Cascia.

Strange Stories

As to be expected for a practitioner of the Little Way, there was nothing visibly extraordinary about Mario — beyond, that is, his extraordinary kindness, gentleness, and cheer. In many ways, he seemed so normal, so mild mannered, the sort of person it was nearly impossible to imagine as a John Bosco, always active, surrounded by miracles, or like a Simon Stock, withdrawn from the world in ecstasy seeing visions, or like a Bernard of Clairvaux, drawing numerous people to religion and founding monasteries in uninhabitable swamps.

Yet strange stories were also told about him, sometimes people identifying themselves as eyewitness. It was said he was caught in bilocation. It was said he was seen in ecstasy praying during the night, and the one who saw him was unable to awaken him. People testified he seemed to know things about the future and to almost read hearts. When asked to pray for people, he would remember to pray for them for years, and when reminded to do so he would indicate he already was. Moreover, the problems he prayed for had an uncanny tendency to resolve themselves. The 1994 article from the Ann Arbor News noted: “Vaughan, who may know Hilton better than anyone, believes Mario’s prayers are answered. ‘My experience,’ he says, ‘has been that this fella has a direct connection to the top guy. It seemed his prayers were frequently answered.'”

Yet, from external appearances, all most people saw Mario do was set up for Mass, be kind to people, kneel before the tabernacle, and pray the rosary.

He Impressed the Secular Society Around Him

The 1994 Ann Arbor News story was written from a secular perspective, and it reflected the attitude of those outside of the Church to Mario.

Hilton has touched scores of people in Ann Arbor, from the impoverished and lonely to the prominent and powerful. Hilton has touched scores of people in Ann Arbor, from the impoverished and lonely to the prominent and powerful.

Dama Creal, erstwhile first lady of Ann Arbor, is even more matter- of-fact: “He is the finest man I’ve ever known,” she says.

“You always wondered why he isn’t doing something more, but everybody has to be happy,” says George Cress, chairman of Society Bank. “I imagine he was happier than all the rest of us, beating our brains out (in stressful jobs.)” Mario never wanted more. “I’m pretty happy,” he says.

Hilton is widely known among the city’s elite because he has spent more than 40 years working in the dining rooms they inhabit in the Old Ann Arbor Town Club at the former Allenel Hotel, in the Travis Pointe Country Club, in the executive dinning room and now the cafeteria at Domino’s Farms [named Mario’s, after him].

“Every man downtown who had a business or really did anything knew Mario,” says Dama Creal, whose late husband, Cecil, was Ann Arbor’s mayor from 1959-65. “All the so-called ‘big boys’ knew Mario. They all knew something good out him.”

And yet few know many details. Some people consider Hilton part of their family but know nothing of his upbringing. Some have known him for decades but have no idea how far he went in school. A few suggest he has a sound foundation in mathematics, but they’re not really sure. He reveals little of himself, and seems genuinely surprised that people think he’s special.

“I don’t ever recall having him sit and tell me about his personal life,” says Mark Ouimet, a vice president of Great Lakes Bancorp. “He probably doesn’t feel that’s important. What’s important is the people he’s working with.”

His Poverty

The article goes on:

In the old days, if you gave Mario a ride home he would ask to be dropped off at a corner, not at his apartment. “He didn’t want anybody to know here he lived,” Mayor Creal says.

These days, Hilton’s address is less of a mystery to his friends.

Occasionally one of them will drop a note in his mailbox asking him to pray for a loved one who is sick.

“It sounds kind of corny, but for many of us, it’s really quite special,” says Chris Vaughan, a partner in the local accounting firm Wright, Griffin, Davis and Co.

The apartment he lived in was so small that when Father Thomas Dubay was to be introduced to him, it was suggested they have a meal at Mario’s house, but Mario confessed there wasn’t really a table. In fact, there was a table, but so small that three could not fit in it, nor be comfortable in the apartment. He preferred to live simply and in poverty in every way.

His Kindness

According to the 1994 news article:

Ask about Mario Hilton and people describe his compassion, warmth, dignity and the profound peace that fills him.

“It’s just my nature, I guess,” Hilton says. “If anything bothers me, I say a prayer and get it out of my system. I rely on that.”

Those that knew him reported that he remembered their names and the details of their lives and took a deep and personal interest in them. He was more fond of listening than speaking.

When he worked as a busboy, he would help those he served to overcome their problems, such as their problems with drink, and ensure they made it safely home. On Sundays (and likely other times) he would visit the elderly and the disabled. He lived his life for others.

A Love for the Traditional Latin Mass

Mario had a deep appreciation for the liturgy. As sacristan, he would assist reverently for multiple Masses — perhaps 4 or more — each day. Since Mario hardly drove, and since there was at the time no Traditional Latin Mass in Ann Arbor, he rarely was able to attend the older form of the Mass, but he freely stated his love for it. After the then-Bishop of Lansing, Kenneth Povish, established a “Tridentine” Mass at All Saints in 1989 — following the moto proprio Ecclesia Dei — Mario would sometimes find his way up to Flint, though it took over an hour, and it was only possible if there was a driver.

Mario’s Story

Mario Edgardo Hilton was born January 16, 1924 in Colon, Panama, at the Caribbean end of the
Panama Canal. As an adult, he would sometimes speak of the birds, especially the parrots. His father died when he was a baby.

Since he was so close to the US Military base, he had contact with the soldiers, and he grew to like them more than others he knew. He played games, and especially liked basketball — which he also would play when elderly.

But sometimes his friends did not always act well. “The gang that I was part of would steal food that store owners and vendors put out on display.” He said, “But I never stole any because of what my mother taught me. I would leave when they started to do that. My mother kept me out of a lot of trouble and probably jail.”

His mother was a bit of a disciplinarian. “She would sit down with me and my sister about once a month and teach us about discipline, being gentle, and respecting others. Because she was a disciplinarian, I didn’t get to do things that my friends did. If I went to a movie, for example, I had to be home by nine o’clock.” But the lessons she taught him about being gentle and respecting others served him well.

The first of his many jobs was riding his bicycle as a delivery boy for a store that sold expensive clothes, shoes, and hats.

He wanted an education and since the highest grade in the Colon school system was the sixth, and the nearest high school was in Panama City, he found his way over to the United States.

After the fighting was over, he served in the US Army in a segregated division. After the war, he asked for US citizenship, which he had been promised, and was refused, perhaps because of unjust discrimination. He thus became an illegal alien. This may have contributed to his desire to be hidden, and it must certainly have been part of his purification and sanctification.

He was not always very religious, but at some point God became the centre of his life. He even wanted to become a priest. Both his illegal status and the residue of racial descrimination made this desire unobtainable. Later, when the desire was discovered, he was asked about it but thought it was too late. He was instituted in the ministry of Acolyte instead. The institution took place 16 July, 1983, the same date on which he was to pass away decades later. Eventually he did receive citizenship through the intervention of the friends he had made.

After he moved to Ann Arbor, he began to work in country clubs. There a strong friendship developed with Tom Monaghan, founder of Domino’s Pizza, and it was through this means that he became sacristan at Domino’s Farms, serving there until Christmas in 2010.

Last Years

As Mario became older, he also became less mobile. He lived most of his life in his upstairs apartment close to Saint Thomas the Apostle. Friends would help him climb the stairs by pushing on his back, and he slowly ascended. His speech became slurred, his back hunched, and his gait slower, yet his heart, faith, and kindness remained unchanged.

The apartment was small, simple, and unairconditioned. Because of exhaustion brought on from the heat he had to move to assisted living.

A touching story is told about one time when someone visited him. After touching cordially, tears began to come from his eyes. “What’s wrong, Mario?” she asked. Perhaps he was in pain? “I wasn’t able to receive the Eucharist today,” he said in tears.

Mario’s devotion to the Eucharist was his complete sustenance. Some even thought that he ate so little that he seemed to subsist more on the Eucharist than on earthly food.

Mario had become a Secular Carmelite, and so 16 July was an especially important date for him. It was thus fitting that he should pass away on this feast, on Sunday 16 July, 2017, and early enough that he could celebrate the Heavenly Liturgy in the place of his customary Mass.

The National Catholic Register

The month after Mario died, the National Catholic Register published an article about him entitled “Forget Super Mario–Meet Saintly Mario.”

There is a nice — if short — summary of his life included in it.