Madre
started to protest, but he held up his hand
and continued. “We have a room in a nearby inn.
Besides, it’s going to rain tonight. Sleeping with us,
you’d at least be dry, and you won’t have to pay a
centavo
.”
Madre
still continued to decline the offer, so the
couple left, saying they would be back later. I
looked up and saw angry-looking clouds rolling in
from the East. Sure enough, it began to rain shortly
afterward, and we were soon completely drenched.
I ended up crouching on the wet ground, holding
my blankets over my head in an unavailing attempt
to shelter myself from the unabated torrents of rain
and the strong wind.
By the time the couple returned,
Madre
and I
had endured two hours of steady rain, thunder,
and lightning. Finally, she unwillingly relented,
murmuring, “Que el Señor te bendiga. May the Lord
bless you,” as the señor and his wife helped us roll
up our bedding.
Later, as I lay on a soft cot in the generous couple’s
room in the inn, I still could not sleep. I kept
thinking about the miracle the young shepherds –
and Madre – were so certain would occur the next
day. I never really got much of an education – I had
to quit school at a young age and work as a maid so
we could keep our tiny cottage – but those young
shepherds were describing a very complex event in
great detail. I mean, they probably did not get much
of an education themselves, since they tended to the
sheep all day every day. So maybe this whole thing
was not just something the children were making
up. It was too complicated for me to try to figure
out, and yet, all I wanted to do was to figure it out.
I could hardly believe it, but I was actually excited
to see what would happen the next day at noon.
Holding these thoughts in my head, I finally nodded
off to sleep around midnight.
A few hours later, however, I was awakened by a
commotion outside on the street. I cautiously sat
up, checking to see if anyone else was awakened
by the noise. They were all breathing slowly, so
I figured they were still asleep. I tiptoed to the
window and peered out. Someone outside was
holding a kerosene lantern which cast enough light
for me to see that there was an angry mob banging
on the door to the inn.
“Let us in!” they yelled.
“We just need a roof over our heads for the night, to
get us out of the rain!”
“Please, kind
señor
, we’re here to see the miracle
tomorrow, and we just need a place to stay!”
On and on went the pleas for shelter, and my heart
went out to the travelers when the innkeeper finally
came out in his nightclothes and ordered them to
go away. The poor people were pilgrims just like us
–
Madre
, I mean, not me –who were here to see the
miracle.
Once again, I lay on my cot, this time thinking about
the travelers. I wondered if they would be able to
obtain lodging for the night. I shivered to think of
Madre
and me in their place, forced to sleep outside
in the rain. But maybe, just maybe, the miracle
tomorrow would be worth the wait of sleeping
outside in the rain all night. I said a quick prayer for
the people sleeping in the field that night, and that
they would not catch pneumonia as a result.
“Maria! Maria, wake up, sleepyhead! We have to get
going if we want to be close enough to the shepherds
to really see the miracle,” singsonged
Madre
as she
shook me awake the next morning.
The last time I had heard
Madre
this cheerful was
the day she first heard about the miracles at Fatima
and had declared that we were going to make a
pilgrimage.
As we ate breakfast downstairs in the inn, the couple
with whom we had stayed that previous night told us
a little about the miracles that had already occurred
at Fatima.
Rezar | Chantal LaFortune | Grade 10
25
BAYLEY BULLETIN, MAR-MAY 2016
