I was preparing to go to a shrine early in the morning of the 18th of July, when this picture came to me. It caught my heart, this little girl, so many other things to go to like others her age, but there she was, at a little shrine, intent on giving her Mother a rose. Nothing else mattered to the young one. No storm, no gaiety could force her gaze and spirit away from this sacred deed.
Yet, my mind remained on the rose the girl in the painting was trying to thread through the statue. I planned to place flowers at the shrine I was going to. I hoped there would be a good choice of blooms because I wanted nothing but the best.
I thought pink roses would be beautiful.
About to hurry on to something else, St. Pio quietly came, showed me the Rosary and whispered his old words to my heart, I always pray the Rosary.
There were to be no rose blooms for my Mother that day. We searched the whole town, only to come up empty. It wasn’t until the journey began that the angels knit together the pearls. Just like the young lass in the painting had given Her, my Mother was asking for a Rose from me too. A rose from my heart.
And so, I said a Rosary. Rose after rose wreathed through every bend of road framed by wild trees and a morning sky of blues and sun-tinged mists. It was my first with no intentions or petitions attached. Every Hail Mary was my rosebud for the only Mother I ever had.
Maybe some day, I thought, I would understand why She asked for roses on this day of a thousand memories, when giving is never easy because the heart is empty yet longing.
Then, a little orange light gently bloomed. It was the saint of the shrine I was going to, who asked for the Rosary. I had wanted to place the best roses at his rest, and he wanted them as much as I wanted to give, except that for him, the very best of roses could only be the Rosary for his Rose of Carmel.