This is a Faith based short story I wrote in the summer of 2024
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We were together in a small room when the paramilitary burst in upon Fr. Yamid, Mother Maria Josepha, and some of the faithful, including myself.
Columbian Christians still suffer persecution and violence. We are constantly in danger from drug cartels. Fr. Yamid has continued to give us solace through the word of God and the Eucharist and encourages us to resist involvement in the drug trade.
Mother Maria Josepha has protected girls from harm under the cover of hospitals and orphanages. She prays daily to the Blessed Mother, asking her to protect the girls in her care.
I watched in silence as Fr. Yamid, Mother Maria Josepha, and those who tried to intervene in what was happening, were dragged from the room. I saw one man savagely struck by a paramilitary using the butt of a rifle.
The few who remained quickly drifted away, doing their best not to draw attention. I heard two trucks start up outside. After gunning the engines, they drove off.
I remained in the room and wept bitterly. I had not lifted a hand to help. I had, in my estimation, denied Christ by my failure to help. Mother Maria Josepha had refused to even look at me while she was being dragged away. I’m sure she was disgusted with me and found my cowardice contemptible.
I finally left the room and walked down the corridor to the woman’s ward in the hospital. I went to the bedside of an old woman who was recovering from a broken leg and arm. As I tended to her, she asked me if I’d been crying. I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
As I turned to go, she whispered urgently, “Aren’t you going to pray with me?” I answered that I wouldn’t presume to 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 had been 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 was protecting you! That wasn’t disgust; it was a gift—the only one she had left to give. She protected you by not acknowledging 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 Maria Josepha’s quick intelligence and courage. I realized that if she had looked at me, I would have tried to help. It would have prompted me to step in and end up in the back of that truck as well.
The woman asked me, “What are you going to do with your gift?”
“I will pray with you if you like,” I answered.
I realized I had been given more than my life. I had been given a choice. I could live my life protecting myself, or I could accept the courageous and persistent flame that was the light of Christ the nun had entrusted to me. I could choose to hold it, protect it, and carry it out into the world.
And that is what I did until the day of my own arrest.
I, like Mother Maria Josepha, gave a young girl witnessing my arrest the same gift that Mother gave me. With eyes downcast, I willed the flickering flame to be entrusted to the girl and prayed to the Blessed Mother for her protection.
As I was led away, I imagined all the small lights of Christ that were burning around my troubled country. Then, as I died, I witnessed the greatest light, that of His love, and within its glow I saw the gentle smile of Maria Josepha.