I rushed my brother in, since there were mere minutes

before the convent closed.

and although I’d been there a number of times before,

I’d never felt this hush, this calm, as only a few were there

in this frequently visited place.

 

We glanced at photos of how this city,

with multitudes impoverished, used to be much worse.

and of a legacy of humble, hard working women

feeding, clothing, caring for the dying, one person at a time

has affected change.

 

We reflected on how, in this city where I lived,

while less than one percent were Christian,

that ‘Christian’ was a word synonymous with love

(as scripture says it should be, but too often it is not)

because of women like these.

 

And how their leader would say things like

‘this person there before you, dirty, dying,

covered with open sores—

treat them like they’re Christ.’

Embodying his words ‘do this as unto me.’

and how, although our theology in other ways differed,

we most heartedly agreed.

 

And that when this lady passed,

the line outside the church

was a mile long at least.

 

As we stood beside her tomb quietly reflecting, her sisters,

gathered for prayer in the chapel above,

without notice began to sing,

 

an angelic, ethereal sound f-l-o-a-t-i-n-g.

Image found on Wikipedia, photographer unknown