Vincente was familiar with the Madonnas that had appeared in clouds. Or statues that had shed tears of milk, blood, and honey. And now in the new century, the internet had become an instantaneous and integral source of reported apparitions and the sharing of faiths, genuine and otherwise. Through it all he knew there were those who’d cast critical eyes on anyone who challenged their beliefs. And so, he’d surrounded himself with a wealth of learning to inspire, sustain, and ready him for the conflicts he’d always known were ahead.

He remembered how Jhana-Merise had kept to herself during school, and how her fellow students had thought she was strange, but not as strange as they would have thought, had they known her one friend was God.

40

40

Vincente knocked on Sister Helen’s door. She welcomed him into her office.

Vincente stared at the crucifix hanging over the desk behind her. His anger at that symbol had diminished in the days since his daughter came back to life.

Helen told him the marriage had its ups and downs.

He wasn’t sure what she meant.

“We’re all married to Christ here,” she said with a smile. “We nuns.”

She showed him the simple wedding band she wore.

“It must be lonely,” he said without thinking. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s all right. Yes. It used to be. But I realized I must give myself completely. Doing that, I’ve found who I am. Oh, there were many dark nights. But they’re not the same now.”

His hands moved almost against his will, running his fingers through his hair, rubbing his face, his hands, rocking back and forth, uncomfortable with her honesty and connection.

He continued to avoid her gaze.

She sat back in her chair, eyes on Vincente.

“I was surprised when I saw you at the door, Vincente. I wasn’t expecting you. Would you like to see Jhana-Merise?”

It had been less than a week since Vincente had seen his daughter. And he missed her.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“About your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have to ask her.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

He rubbed his hands on his thighs.

“You’re a good man, Vincente. I hope you know that.”

He went to the open window. He saw a family of swallows had made their home in the hollow of the orange tree. Their song dotted the air.

“I thought God had abandoned me. Then Jhana-Merise was born.”

He spoke of that September morning when his daughter’s voice came to him for the first time, and of the grace that came into their lives with her birth.

“She was born with the scent of roses,” he said.