The Healing Rose

The ominous cumulonimbus had been watching the presbytery as a hawk ready to snatch away his prey. The veil of shroud seemed heavy and destructive. It was quite a contrast with the east orange glittering sky and the twinkling of a new day. Soon, the quietude of a religious aged couple heading to the matinal mass became moments of terror. As usual, they had been holding hands, the limping man comforted by his frail companion. Staring up to the second floor of the presbytery, unable to comprehend the catastrophe, they were petrified to see shattered windows and carbon black surroundings of the eastern side of the building. Could there have been a fire during the night? Was it possible for a siren and flashing lights not to have awakened their sleep? However, the other part of the big house stood proud with the spring face-lift it had been gratified with a few weeks ago. The insignificant stretch to the church appeared endless. Finally, shaking and with faces pale as death they entered into the paisible church only to discover the same terror on their pastor's face.

Since that tragic morning, Theophobia and Satanophobia had become the daily bread of the small community. Was God or Satan the master of the event? The uninterrupted snail paced procession of curious onlookers moved nervously along the poplar-lined alley to enter the haunted house. Only adults were permitted to visit and survey the destruction. Terror, incredulity, and thoughts of punishment entered the mind of every villager. In their hands they held rosaries and mumbled a prayer asking for God's forgiveness and protection. Like a pyromaniac at the scene of a fire, I quietly hid myself behind a tall and heavy woman. The protection was still a reflex of survival. My first steps into the living quarter brought sheer terror. The spectacle made my blood run cold. The office and the adjacent tiny bedroom were a desolation of aging and desertion. People were witnessing undisturbed years of aging. The damp and chill air induced some shivering under my unprotected skin. The musty and nauseous air brought sickness to my stomach. The persistent and glacial wind coming from the shattered windows didn't bring any relief to the stuffy place. Everything in the room appeared dead but for some wandering black widows flourishing over their creation and progenies. Mice were rushing to find refuge under the mildewed furniture and behind the nibbled books. The noiseless destructor was at work. The walls showed their empty sockets and the chipped paint formed a row of dust along the unpainted wooden floor. The grayishbrown-upholstered furniture welcomed the vermin and bugs. Even the silence of the adjacent cubicle was only troubled by the rusty weeping tap. Behind the bedroom door hung a moth-eaten cassock. The single metal framed bed, like an artifact, had lost its original color. The mattress showed the weight of the last user.

In spite of this mummifying scene my attention had been directed to the beauty of a ruby-red rose. It had found its way out of the ravaged wooden floor and stood proud of its splendor. The gentle melody and the emanation of a sweet fragrance touched my soul. Bending over, its voice resonated to my heart: "I am your healing".