Mark was a seventeenth century Italian from Aviano, in the northeast corner of the country. He enrolled at a Jesuit college in Gorizia, which is so far east that it is just about Austria. Or maybe Slovenia. Or even Croatia. In fact, at one time or another, it has probably been part of each of those countries.
At age sixteen, Mark set out from the college on foot, bound for Crete. Maybe the school's geography program was weak and he didn't know it was an island. Then again, maybe he just figured the Lord would provide the means if he provided the will. His plan was to preach to the Turks who were attacking Crete. He guessed he would either convert them and save the nation or he would be martyred. It's a no-lose situation, right?
After a couple of days walking, he stopped at a Capuchin monastery to ask for food and shelter. The abbot (who knew his dad) took him in, fed him, let him sleep, and then sent him back home. Being an impressionable young man, Mark (called Carlo Domenico Cristofori) decided to become a Capuchin. Good thing it wasn't the Turks who took him in and fed him, huh?
He took the name Mark when he received holy orders. He seemed destined for a successful, if not brilliant church career until he prayed with a nun who had been bed-ridden for thirteen years. She had a miraculous recovery, and his fame had an equally miraculous growth spurt. People came from all over for healing, and many of them found it, which was nice for them, for the Church, and consequently for Mark.
He became a close adviser to Leopold I, the Holy Roman Emperor. He was also a papal legate and nuncio for Pope Innocent XI. His diplomacy was critical in stitching together the Holy League (Poland, Austria, Venice, the Papal States) that stopped the Turk's advance on Vienna. That battle was actually the high water mark for the Turk's invasion of Europe, marking the beginning of the long, slow ebb to drive him back into Turkey.
Some folks attribute Cappuccino coffee to him, since he was exposed to Turkish coffee during the campaign and preferred to cut the bitterness with milk and honey. Other folks say that's bunk. Certainly the diplomat who stemmed the Ottoman onslaught doesn't need attribution for a beverage recipe to secure his reputation, but if you feel like lifting a steaming cup of frothy, sweet coffee in his honor today, who am I to spoil the fun?
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