Jan 18, 2018 2261 Donna Marie Klein, USA

Hospitality for a Thirsty Rose

A pillar of Benedictine spirituality is hospitality. According to the Rule of Saint Benedict, everyone, without exception, is to be received as Christ. As a novice oblate of Saint Benedict about to make my final oblation, I was convicted of breaking this iron-clad rule by two strangers on the night of December 12, 2013, the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. After praying the evening office, I had just settled down to meditate when the doorbell sounded a clarion call I felt compelled to answer. Peering through the peephole, I recognized the face of a fellow Legion of Mary member whom I was planning to see later that evening at our weekly meeting. Brother Jack lived miles from my neighborhood in the opposite direction—alarmed, I opened the door.

Instead of Jack, there stood a tall 30-something man with remarkably similar features but much longer, wavy brown hair reaching to his shoulders. In spite of the frigid weather, he was wearing only a long-sleeved black crewneck shirt and a striking gold cross that caught the porch light. His arms were at his sides, as if standing at attention, and his hands were empty. He smiled expectantly, his warm brown eyes silently regarding me through the glass of the unlocked storm door that still separated us, apparently waiting for me to open it and invite him in. I was too dumbstruck to speak—all I could do was smile back and, with flailing arms, motion him apologetically away. Instead of going away, his smile widened and, mimicking my gestures, he said, “What’s this? Signing? I can do that.” Feeling foolish, I shook my head and slowly shut the door. As it closed, he said reproachfully, “Thanks for your hospitality!” Ouch. I may as well have slammed the door in his face.

Where were my manners? What was I afraid of? Being taken away from something on my agenda or being asked to do something I did not want to do? Ashamed, I opened the door to call him back, but it was too late—the stranger had already vanished into the night, leaving no calling card or flyer in sight. I attempted to resume meditating, but my rhythm was off and my mantra, “Come, Lord Jesus,” rang hollow. Instead, I decided to visit the adoration chapel before my meeting, instead.

Contrite in His Holy Presence, I read, then re-read, Mother Teresa’s “I Thirst” meditation that someone had handed me earlier at Mass. Though I thirsted for Jesus, did Jesus really thirst for a sinner like me? Stretching out my arms toward the monstrance, I whispered: “Come, Lord Jesus, come back to me,” but it was already time to leave for my meeting. As I made a quick stop to my car, a middle-aged man bearing a bouquet of roses approached with a question in Spanish. Smiling apologetically, I explained that I did not speak Spanish—a convenient excuse for avoiding conversation. Then he asked in perfect English if I knew where he could get water for the flowers. Caught off guard, I shook my head and repeated my excuse—now an inexcusable brush off. As I turned away, he said reproachfully, “I speak all languages.” Nailed again! I wanted to turn around and ask for another chance, but I knew this was my other chance and I had blown it, big time. Ashamed, I fled to my meeting.

Why had I not been helpful? Why had I not suggested the restrooms in the building where I was headed? Of what was I afraid? Being late for a meeting I knew could easily start without me? Being judged unfavorably for tardiness? Though I arrived on time, a goal I had been working on recently, self-congratulations, seemed cheap, won at the expense of fragile flowers, obviously meant to honor Our Lady on her feast day. As I pondered both encounters on the way home, all my petty sins became magnified in the harsh light of my selfish neglect of those flowers. Did Jesus really thirst for a sinner like me? Parked in my driveway, I wept at the hardness of my heart. Upon entering my house, my spirits were lifted by the surprise of Christmas lights my daughter had strung in the foyer. A little flower had been added to a vase which, only hours ago, had contained a few sprigs of red berries. On closer inspection, it was a rose—a spotless red rose with a stunning head of velvety petals! My daughter confessed that a mysterious woman had dropped it at the metro station; before my daughter could return it, the lady had vanished into the rush-hour crowd. I said no worries. The tiny rose, an advent symbol of the baby Jesus—sprung from the root of Jesse through the stem of Mary—welcomed her hospitality, while I welcomed another chance to offer mine.

Over the next few weeks, I cared for the thirsty rose, replenishing its vase frequently, enjoying its sweetness and beauty. I also became a better servant of the moment, stepping up in an emergency to lead the next Legion of Mary meeting, offering a parishioner a ride home from Mass in an unexpected snowstorm and wishing a telemarketer a blessed evening, despite my interrupted prayer time.

On Epiphany Sunday, the day of my final oblation, the rose was still lovely, remarkably preserved after 24 days. Though still unworthy of the promise to dedicate myself to the service of God and others according to the Rule of Saint Benedict, I was ready to make it, renewed through my belief in the “Rose E’re Blooming’s” infinite thirst for a sinner like me.


Donna Marie Klein

Donna Marie Klein is a freelance writer. She is an oblate of St. Benedict (St. Anselm’s Abbey, Washington, D.C.).

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