The gift of second chances

Author’s Note: This article uses creative writing to illustrate the dangers that the Colombian people face daily. We invite you to meditate with gratitude on the blessings of the Mass and sacraments that we receive without fear. Please pray for the priests and religious women who risk their lives to provide what is needed to sustain the faithful in Colombia.

We were sitting together in a small room when the paramilitary soldiers burst into Father Yamid, Mother Maria Josepha and some of the faithful, including myself.

Christians in Colombia continue to suffer persecution and violence. We are constantly threatened by drug cartels. Fr. Yamid continues to offer us comfort through the word of God and the Eucharist and encourages us to resist involvement in or with the drug trade. Mother Maria Josepha has protected girls from harm under the guise of hospitals and orphanages. She prays daily to the Blessed Mother and asks her to protect the girls in her care.

I watched in silence as our priest, Mother Maria Josepha, and those who tried to intervene to save them were dragged out of the room. I saw a man trying to hold back a soldier, only to be brutally hit by the butt of a rifle.

The few that remained drifted away quickly, trying their best not to attract attention. I heard two trucks start up outside. After firing up their engines, they drove away.

I remained in the room and wept bitterly. I had not lifted a hand to help. I had, in my opinion, denied Christ by not helping. Mother Maria Josepha had refused to even look at me as she was dragged away. I am sure she was disgusted with me and despised my cowardice.

I finally left the room and walked down the hall to the women’s ward of the hospital. I walked to the bed of an old woman who was recovering from a broken leg and arm. As I was tending to her, she asked me if I had been crying. I shook my head, not trusting myself to talk.

As I turned to leave, she whispered urgently, “Aren’t you going to pray with me?” I replied that I would not defile the word of God.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

I explained to her what had just happened in another part of the building. I told her how Mother Maria Josepha was so disgusted that she wouldn’t even look at me. I told the woman that I deserved Mother’s disgust. I was full of self-loathing for my lack of courage.

“You’re wrong!” the woman insisted. I looked at her in surprise. “Mother Maria Josepha protected you! It wasn’t disgust; it was a gift—the only thing she had left to give. She protected you by not recognizing you. She saved your life.”

I looked into the old woman’s face as the truth dawned on me, and I thanked God for Mother Mary Josepha’s quick wit and courage. I realized that if she had looking at me, I would have tried to help. It would have made me want to get in and get in the back of that truck too.

The woman asked me, “What are you going to do with your present?”

“I will pray with you if you want,” I replied.

I realized that I had been given more than my life. I had been given a choice. I could live my life protecting my life, or I could accept the courageous and enduring flame that was the light of Christ that the nun had entrusted to me. I could choose to hold it, protect it, and carry it into the world.

And that’s what I did until the day I was arrested.

I, like Mother Maria Josepha, gave a young girl who witnessed my arrest the same gift that Mother had given me. With downcast eyes I gave the flickering flame and prayed to the Blessed Mother for her protection.

As I was led away, I imagined all the little lights of Christ burning around my troubled country. As I died, I witnessed the greatest light, that of His love, and in that glow I saw the gentle smile of Maria Josepha.

Photo by Random Institute on Unsplash