The Blush Bloom

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          I didn’t return from a good work day today. It certainly felt like I had been torn and scratched and clubbed – with more to come in the weeks ahead. I had to bring home work as well, and it threw a pall over the weekend joys I normally look forwards to.

          All that saved the rest of the week from spoiling was the promise of good, wild rain coming shortly.

          Given what is happening in so many parts of the world where terrible winds and rain are bringing so much sorrow this year, it might seem terribly remiss of me to want  the rain~winds to blow strong.

          But this wasn’t the hour for rational thinking. All I wanted was a storm that matched my mood and troubled heart.

          The angry clouds rushed to do my bidding, pouring down silver~grey torrents in a determined fury. Yet, I didn’t feel them fall upon my storm-tossed spirit; my heart had been caught elsewhere.

          When the rains started, my son had insisted on running out to the flower beds being battered by the stream of water pellets. He had planted a rose plant some months back, and it had borne him his first bloom. She had raised her blushing head in the pale sunrise hours before, and calmly took in her new home in the passing hours. In the blinding rain that was coming down now, the little rose no longer held court in grace and serenity. She was bent and trembling against the violence of nature.

          My son rescued her and brought her in, wee rose wet pink from the pelting. He gave her a home by our statue of Our Lady of Fatima. The storms raged on outside, resuming a few hours later after a brief late sunset respite.

          But my heart and my worries were no longer snagged in the vortex of the rain madness. A calm had slipped in. Not strength. Not optimism for the coming tough days. Just a slow gentl-ing of the sharp shards of emotions within.

          In this newly formed oasis, I found the will to go into my kitchen and cook a hearty dinner for my husband and children. I found the patience to empathise with my husband, himself frustrated and hurting from work wounds as well. I found the heart to laugh and cuddle and banter.

          I didn’t think to ask why. To ask where this stream of gentle, living water had come from to douse the flames. I didn’t ask – for the week had been hard and I was too tired to think. All I did was to open the gates of my heart and let the cold silver in unhindered over seething ridges.

          It was night, the clouds quiet and spent from its weeping, when I realized Someone had watched my return home from work worn, angry and frustrated. Many years ago, on a day clothed much like today, she had caught the eye of my spirit and touched me with the bloom of a pale, pink rose, to let me know I was not alone in my struggles. That she understood how hard the hours had been.

          Tonight, when I read Ellen Fassbender’s post on St Theresa the Little Flower of Jesus, when I read the little prayer to the Bloom of Jesus ~

Saint Theresa, the Little Flower,
please pick me a Rose from
the Heavenly Garden and
send it to me with a Message
of Love.
Ask God to grant me the
Favor I Thee implore and tell
Him I will Love Him each
day More and More.

 

….I knew then that the saint who resides among the roses understood the pain that comes harder on some days. While I waited for the storm to fume and rage and match my troubled stirrings just so I was assured I was not alone, St Theresa, just like that old day years back, chose to soothe my hurt by sending that bloom of soft blush of baby pink into my home, into my heart.

          To lean against Our Lady of Fatima. And by that, to gently beckon that I rest my wounds in Her.

 

 

 

 

 

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