CHAPTER 13
HEROINES IN BLACK AND WHITE
IN THE months following her death, the fame of Rose Flores
spread throughout South America. Each day hundreds of people came to Santo
Domingo to ask her prayers. As the holy remains had been buried within the
solemn cloister of the convent, however, no woman could enter to pray beside
the grave. Finally, because of the increasing demand of Rose's friends, the
Archbishop gave permission for the body to be moved into the public church. At
this ceremony, which took place on March 19, 1619, some nineteen months after
Rose's death, the remains were placed in a golden casket and set in a niche
near the main altar.
The new site was not satisfactory, however. Crowds were
continually coming and going through the sanctuary, even while the Holy
Sacrifice was being offered. Finally the relics were moved again. this time to
the shrine of Saint Catherine of Siena a little chapel on the Epistle side of
the main altar.
As the years passed, Maria de Oliva was amazed to find her
position in society changing. No longer was she the simple wife of a man who
made weapons for the Spanish armies in Lima. She had become an important person
in her own right. Hardly a week passed that people did not come to pay her
tribute, to congratulate her on being the mother of a saint. Many even left
sizeable alms in gratitude for favors they had received after praying to Rose.
But the woman did not become proud. Her character had
undergone a considerable change since Rose's death, and it was hard to believe
she was the same person who had once ridiculed the Rule of the Dominican
Tertiaries, and flown into a rage when told she would end her days wearing the
habit of Saint Dominic's family.
"May God forgive me my many sins!" she often
thought. "Dear Rose, pray for your poor mother!"
On February 10, 1624, the people of Lima flocked to the
dedication of a new convent for women-the sixth to be built in the city. It was
the Monastery of Santa Catalina, that had been foretold by Rose when she was
living as a hermit in her father's garden. It was the first convent of Dominican
nuns to be founded in Lima, and the tears flowed freely from Maria's eyes as
she assisted at the Mass being offered in the new chapel. Her blessed child had
been right. Father Luis de Bilbao was saying this first Mass. And in just a few
minutes Doña Lucia de la Daga, whose husband and five children had died some
years ago, and her young sister Clara, would kneel to receive the Dominican
habit.
Within four years of its dedication, the Monastery of Santa
Catalina sheltered one hundred and forty-five nuns. Soon this number increased
to three hundred. Many priests, explaining the large number of vocations,
stated that those already living behind the walls of Santa Catalina believed
Rose Flores was in their midst. They felt she was helping them with her
prayers, that she would make them saints. What wonder that Santa Catalina was
flourishing? Not only was Saint Catherine of Siena its special friend and
protector; Rose was watching over its welfare, too.
One afternoon, immediately after the nuns of Santa Catalina
had finished chanting Vespers, a young lay Sister sought out the Prioress-once
Doña Lucia de la Daga, now Mother Lucia of the Most Holy Trinity. The young
religious wore a worried look.
"Sister Maria is worse, Mother. She's been calling for
you all afternoon."
The Prioress looked up with surprise. "But she was so
much better this morning, Sister! Doctor John de Tejada told me so
himself."
The lay Sister sighed. "She's over seventy, Mother, and
not too strong. I think you'd better come at once."
So Mother Lucia made her way to the tiny cell where the old
Sister lay ill. Famous throughout Peru as the mother of Rose Flores. Sister
Maria of Saint Mary had been a nun at Santa Catalina since 1629. But that was
only four years-surely the good soul wasn't going to die yet!
Sister Maria thought otherwise, however. As the door opened
and the Prioress hastened to her side, she raised herself on a feeble arm.
"Dear Mother Lucia, Rose said she would come to get me
when I died. I think it will be tonight."
The Prioress fingered her rosary nervously. The lay Sister
had been right: Sister Maria had suffered a change for the worse since morning.
Her wrinkled face was now very pale and her breath came in labored gasps.
"But my dear, you mustn't say such things. Why not ask
Rose for a cure? She's helped you before so many times."
"A cure? Why should I want that? I'm an old woman now,
of little use to anyone. My husband is dead, my boy Ferdinand, my little
Rose-ah, I just want to go to Heaven to be happy with these dear ones!"
There was silence in the little room as the sick woman fell
back on her pillow. Mother Lucia looked down at the worn face, and a thousand
memories rushed in upon her. The walls of Santa Catalina seemed to melt away
and she was a young woman once again, a happy wife to Antonio Perez de Mondeja.
Suddenly a girl's voice echoed in her ears:
"All this will pass away, Doña Lucia. Your husband and
children will die. You will found the Monastery of Santa Catalina with your
vast wealth. My own mother will seek the Dominican habit from your hands,"
How impossible these words had seemed, back in 1614! Yet everything Rose had
foretold was now a reality. Antonio was dead, their four sons and their
daughter. Gaspar Flores had been called home, too. And the Monastery of Santa
Catalina now gave praise to God by night and day.
Suddenly the sick woman opened her eyes. "Rose...
Rose...where are you?"
Mother Lucia stretched out a soothing hand.
"It's all right, my dear. Rose is in Heaven. Don't you
remember? She's going to be canonized by the Holy Father."
Sister Maria shook her head. "I mean my granddaughter.
Mother Lucia, could I see Mary Rose again? She...she reminds me so much of my
own little Rose."
The Prioress nodded. "Of course you may see Mary Rose.
And I'll call the others, too, if you wish."
"To say some prayers? Yes, I'd like that."
So presently the Sisters were assembled. The majority knelt
in the corridor outside Sister Maria's room, but several gathered around the
bed of the dying woman. All save one wore the habit of the Dominican Order.
This was a girl of fifteen, in a simple black dress. She was Mary Rose Flores.
whose father, Ferdinand, had died when she was very small. Upon her mother's
death, the Governor of Chile, Don Francisco Lasso de la Vega. had sent her to
Lima to be cared for by her grandmother. When the latter had entered Santa
Catalina. Mary Rose had come along, too.
Affectionately the Prioress watched her make her way into
the room. She was a pretty child, the image of her holy aunt, but with one
slight difference. She had a curious birthmark on one cheek-a tiny red rose.
From the moment she had been born this birthmark had excited great curiosity.
It was as though Rose Flores had set a sign upon her favorite brother's child,
a sign which told that this little niece was already one of God's chosen souls.
"Come in, dear. Sister Maria wants to talk to
you."
Mary Rose moved slowly toward the bed, her dark eyes wide
with sudden fear. "You're not going to die, Grandmother? You're not going
to leave me alone?"
Sister Maria smiled at the anxious young face. "I think
so, my dear. But don't worry. These good religious will take care of you."
Mary Rose dropped to her knees. She mustn't cry. Her
grandmother was going to Heaven. Didn't everyone in Lima know that Rose would
lead her straight to the throne of God?
"You-you won't forget me?"
"Forget you? Of course not."
"But couldn't you live a little longer, Grandmother?
Couldn't you wait to see me wear the Dominican habit?"
The dying woman smiled. "No, child. I'll watch that
happy scene from Heaven. Ah, but you're lucky to have realized the worth of a
religious vocation so young! Do you know what this foolish old woman said when
Rose told her she would die a Dominican?"
The girl nodded. She had heard the story many times. Maria
de Oliva had stated she would enter a convent only after she had seen an
elephant fly. "Yes, Grandmother. I remember. But you shouldn't tire
yourself now. You should try to sleep." The woman breathed a deep sigh.
"You're right, child. I am tired. But don't go away. Stay here
beside me."
Mary Rose put her hand in that of the dying woman, and for a
moment there was a deep silence. Suddenly Sister Maria made an effort to speak.
"Mother Prioress..."
The latter stepped quickly forward. "Yes, my
dear?"
"Ask the others to start praying, will you? 1-1 haven't
much longer to live."
The foundress of the Monastery of Santa Catalina tiptoed to
the open door and gave a signal. Immediately the nuns in the corridor and those
inside the room began to sing the Salve Regina, that ancient chant sung by
Dominicans whenever a fellow religious is dying. As the strains of the
beautiful hymn filled the air, a bell tinkled in the distance. For the last
time the chaplain was bringing the Blessed Sacrament to the mother of Rose
Flores.
Sister Maria smiled. Her eyes, shining now with a new
brightness, were fixed on some distant vision.
"Wait, Rose," she whispered, "not
yet..."
Mother Lucia brushed back her tears. She was suddenly very
happy. The air was full of a sweet fragrance now, that same fragrance which had
filled the Church of Santo Domingo as the body of a saint had rested between
tall funeral candles. And though she could not see the vision that rejoiced the
heart of the dying woman, the Prioress knew the truth. A saint had come to keep
a holy promise.
New York City
Feast of the Resurrection of Our Lord
April 25, 1943
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