St. Rose of Lima - The New Home

 

CHAPTER 11

A NEW HOME

M ARIA WAS almost beside herself at Rose's words. She a Dominican nun? Never! Yet the young Tertiary refused to listen to the protests of her mother. One day, when the Monastery of Santa Catalina was a reality, Maria de Oliva would go there to ask for the Dominican habit. She would spend her last years in God's service.

The months passed and Rose continued her hermit's life. There were times, however, when she confided to some of her friends that her real desire was to be a martyr.

"If I were a man, I'd like nothing better than to be a missionary," she told Frances de Montoya, a young woman about her own age. "Just think how many missionaries have gone straight to Heaven because they died at the hands of savages!"

Frances shivered. Although she, too, belonged to the Third Order of Saint Dominic, she had always found it hard to practice mortifications-even very small ones. Indeed, her visits to Rose caused he much concern. There were so many mosquitoes in the garden of Gaspar Flores. They filled the adobe hermitage and Frances always emerged with a great number of painful bites.

"I'd never be brave enough to want a martyr's death," she sighed. "I can't even stand being bitten by these mosquitoes of yours."

Rose smiled. "Yet you still come to see me, Frances. How do you explain that, if you're so afraid of suffering?"

"But this is different! You don't know how much better I feel after a talk with you! I'm so grateful you still let me come, Rose, even though you really don't want a lot of visitors. There's just one thing I wonder about."

"What?"

"Why don't the mosquitoes bite your mother? Or Doña Maria de Usátegui? Or you?"

"Because we've promised never to hurt these little guests."

"Guests? Is that what you call these wretched insects?"

Rose nodded. "Suppose you make the promise, too, Frances. Then you won't be bitten any more."

The visitor looked ruefully at her arm. Already there were three red marks on it. "If I could have a little peace when I come to see you, I'd promise anything."

"All right. Offer the pain of these three bites for the Poor Souls, in honor of the Blessed Trinity. Then make your promise."

Frances could not help laughing. "I'll never kill any of your guests again," she announced firmly. "I just hope they understand what I'm saying."

Rose smiled. Of course the little creatures understood. From now on Frances de Montoya would be one more person who could visit the adobe hermitage in peace.

On April 30, 1615, Rose had her twenty-ninth birthday. Some weeks later she was surprised to find her small garden retreat surrounded by an excited mob. Women were crying. Men-husbands and sons-were pale with fear. Word had just been received that a fleet of Dutch pirate ships was anchored off the harbor of Callao. This seaport, only ten miles from Lima, was poorly defended. Probably the newcomers would begin a successful invasion at any moment.

"Rose, you must pray hard!" cried Don Gonzalo de Massa. "The Dutch intend to seize our gold and silver, our slaves, even our children!"

"They're Calvinists," put in his wife. Doña Maria. "They believe it's their duty to kill every Catholic they can find."

Doctor John del Castillo, one of the finest physicians in Lima, nodded. "They'll burn the churches first," he declared. "They have a great hatred for the Blessed Sacrament, Rose. They've committed dreadful outrages in other cities. My dear, will you pray as you've never prayed before?"

Rose had come out of her hermitage. There were a great many people in the garden, and fear was stamped on every face.

"Of course I'll pray," she said quietly. "But  there's no real reason to be alarmed. The Dutch won't try to land at Callao. They won't fire on the town, either."

In vain Don Gonzalo described the dreadful things done by pirates in Panama and other Spanish colonies. Rose insisted that during the night the enemy fleet would lift anchor and sail away from Callao. But the crowd found her words hard to believe, and in the end she agreed to pray for Lima's safety, to ask the special protection of Saint Mary Magdalen, whose feast would occur the next day.

All night the city made ready for the expected attack. Couriers kept arriving from Callao with the latest news. Special services were ordered in all the churches. Confessionals were crowded. The scene was much like that which had taken place eleven years before, when a sermon by Father Francis Solano had converted enormous numbers of sinners. Fear and anxiety filled the hearts of everyone-Spaniard, Indian and Negro. No one cared to go to bed that night. People flocked to the churches instead, or followed the numerous processions of the Blessed Sacrament which wound through the darkened streets.

Having received permission from Father Alonso Velasquez to leave her little hermitage, Rose hurried to Santo Domingo with a few women friends. Her heart was torn between two desires. If the Dutch pirates were allowed to attack Lima, she might have the chance to die as a martyr. Since they were not, thousands of lives would be saved.

Yet, as she found a place in the crowded Chapel of Saint Jerome in the Dominican church, she smiled at the thought of obtaining a martyr's crown and going straight to Heaven. Certainly if the Dutch were to come, she would make no effort to hide from them. With her rosary in her hand, she would give her life in defense of the Blessed Sacrament.

When the grey dawn finally lifted, it was upon a very different scene from that of the night before. People were singing in the streets. Gone were the anxiety and fear of a few hours before. The latest message from Callao had stated that some time during the night the Dutch ships had lifted anchor, and were now no longer to be seen.

"It's a miracle!" Doña Maria de Usátegui told her husband. "And I'm sure our little Rose is responsible! Gonzalo, don't you think she may have offered her life to spare Lima from destruction?"

Don Gonzalo nodded. "I wouldn't be surprised," he said. "She has more courage and charity than any other girl I know."

There were others who shared the same opinion. Presently, to the accompaniment of joyful church bells, the air was echoing with one cry:

"The prayers of Rose Flores have saved us from harm!"

In the company of her mother and friends, Rose went slowly homeward. She was tired and a little confused. Why did people think her prayers so powerful? Didn't they realize they owed their deliverance to God's mercy? She, Rose Flores, was less than dust and not worthy of any honor.

"But I'm glad you saved the city, Lord," she thought. "And I'm not too sad that You didn't let me be a martyr. After all, You do give a kind of martyrdom to everyone in this world. It's a rather plain sort, without swords or bullets or fire-just our many little trials and troubles. If we bear these cheerfully, we can please You as much as the holy martyrs do."

It was a few days later that Father Alonso Velasquez came to his young friend's hermitage. He had some very special news. Rose was to leave her parents' house and go to live with Don Gonzalo and his wife. Doña Maria had been to see him recently, asserting that Rose's health was failing; that the hermit's life was too hard for her.

"You're lucky that Don Gonzalo and Doña Maria think so much of you," said Father Alonso. "They're very wealthy people and their one wish is to see you strong and well. You'll have a very fine home with them."

Rose could not hide her distress. "But how can I leave my own family, Father? My parents aren't young anymore. They need me."

The priest smiled. "You understand what obedience is, Rose. It is my wish that you put an end to the hardships in your life. I want you to go to the de Massas' and try to build up your health."

Rose was silent. As a member of the Dominican family, she owed obedience to her Superiors. If Father Alonso thought it best for her to live elsewhere, she had no choice but to do as he wished.

"I'll go," she answered. "But I'm not really sick, Father. Our Lord has given me more than two years in which to serve Him."

"You'll live longer than that, my child, if only you take care of yourself. From now on you're to think more about your health."

So Rose went to live with Don Gonzalo and Doña Maria. From the start she assured these two good friends that she wanted only a plain little room and that she wished to be of use as a nurse to their younger children.

Micaela and Beatrice, the two older daughters, tried to make the newcomer feel she was their honored guest, that there was no need for her to work in her new home. Their efforts met with little success, however. Rose had been in love with humility too long.

"She's a real saint," Micaela told her mother. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's canonized as soon as she dies."

"We're really lucky to have her here," put in Beatrice. "Some day this house of ours will be famous. People will come from all over the world just to see the little room where Rose lived."

Doña Maria nodded. "There's not a day passes that I don't thank God for letting her come into our family. She does worry me a little, though...."

"You mean because she says she's going to die in two years? On Saint Bartholomew's day?"

"That's right. She'll be only thirty-one years old then. That's far too early for her to leave us."

Don Gonzalo reassured his wife. "With good food and plenty of rest, it'll be a different story, Maria. Just look at her father. He's ninety-three. If Rose takes after him, she'll be with us for a long, long time."

So the days passed. Rose missed her little garden cell, and the flowers and trees she had loved to tend, but she still kept busy. For years she had been an expert at needlework. In the de Massa house she continued this activity, making clothes for the younger children and altar linens for various churches. From time to time she also entertained the family and servants by playing the harp, the zither and the guitar. Her voice was sweet and clear, and everyone enjoyed her songs.

Father Alonso had insisted that she was not to tire herself with too many prayers or sacrifices, so all in all Rose now led a somewhat easier life. Yet she never forgot how she had dedicated herself to saving souls from Hell. Not an hour passed that she did not offer some short prayer for sinners. One of her favorites was the beginning of Psalm 69: "Incline unto my aid, O God; O Lord, make haste to help me." There were numerous short ejaculations, too. They took little time to say and were richly indulgenced.

Most of all, however, there was the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass-the greatest prayer of all. When she had been a hermit in her father's garden, Rose had been given a very wonderful grace: She had been privileged to hear in spirit, through the window of her little cell, all the Masses being offered in Lima's churches. Now that she was a member of Don Gonzalo's family, the wonderful grace continued, and the young Dominican Tertiary always applied the merit of these Masses to the welfare of others.

Sometimes Doña Maria regarded her guest a little fearfully. It was a great honor to have Rose living in the house, yet a little frightening, too. The girl worked miracles so openly; she conversed with saints and angels, and people were always coming to the door to ask for prayers and to report cures of various kinds. These clients of hers were not only the poor and ignorant. They included, for instance, no less a person than the Prior of the Dominican Convent of Saint Mary Magdalen, Father Bartholomew Martínez. This holy priest insisted he had been cured of a grievous illness because Rose had offered some prayers for him at Santo Domingo.

There was also the case of Maria Euphemia de Pareja and her only son, Roderick. Although the mother had always wanted her boy to be a Jesuit priest, Roderick showed little inclination for the religious life. As time passed, Maria Euphemia sadly admitted the truth: her boy was interested only in worldly pleasures. Finally she came to Rose. Surely if the holy woman prayed, Roderick would receive the grace of a religious vocation.

"And that's just what happened," Doña Maria thought to herself. "Overnight the boy reformed. He decided to be a priest, although in the Franciscan Order, not the Society of Jesus. Today his mother's so proud of him! I don't think she'll ever stop being grateful for the prayers Rose said."

As the months passed, Doña Maria often found herself watching Rose closely. The girl seemed well, yet there was something about her that caused the older woman to worry. It was now the year 1617. Could it be true that God would soon call her to Heaven?

"I just can't bear to lose her!" thought the good woman. "She's become another daughter to me."

Rose felt sorry at her adopted mother's grief. One April morning she approached her rather humbly. "Doña Maria, when I come to die I'll be tormented by great thirst. Will you give me water when I ask for it?"

A shiver ran through the older woman. "Of course, my child. But don't talk about dying. You're enjoying much better health here lately."

Rose smiled. "There's another thing, too. I want you and my mother to be the only ones to prepare my body for burial."

Doña Maria stared, then burst into tears. The feast of Saint Bartholomew was now so close! Only four months...

"Don't say such things!" she begged. "Life will never be the same if you leave me, Rosel"

The good woman's fears began to fade, however, as summer approached. Rose had become the picture of health. Even Father Alonso Velasquez agreed that she was looking very well.

"I should have sent her to you long ago," he told Doña Maria. "The life she led at home was far too hard."

The woman nodded vigorously. "You're right, Father. The Flores' servant, Marianna, was here the other day. What stories she told me of Rose's prayers and sacrifices! I still don't understand how anyone could do so much."

The priest smiled. "It's been going on for years, Doña Maria-ever since Rose was eleven and saw with her own eyes the paganism existing among the Indians who live in the Andes. At that time she heard Archbishop Turribius prophesy that Quivi would be destroyed. I know what those words meant to her. And then came the earthquake and the floods of 1601; she's never forgotten the hundreds of people who perished miserably at Quivi as a punishment for mocking the Archbishop and the Faith he tried to bring them. Since then her whole life has been dedicated to saving souls through prayer and suffering."

Counseled by the Dominican priest not to worry about Rose's prophecy of approaching death, Doña Maria and her household breathed more easily. And when, late in July, Rose asked permission to visit her garden hermitage, they thought nothing of it. During the night of August 1, however, the whole house was awakened by pitiful cries coming from her room. Rushing to investigate, Doña Maria found her guest sticken with a mortal illness. She could scarcely breathe, and her whole body was paralyzed.

At once the woman sent for Doctor John del Castillo, and for the various priests whom Rose knew well. Doña Maria's husband tried to comfort his wife, but she clutched his arm frantically "She's going to die, Gonzalo! And there's not a thing we can do for her!"

The treasurer of the city of Lima, whose wealth and high social position made him a noted figure throughout Peru, could scarcely control his own grief. For the past two years, ever since she had come to live in his house, Rose had seemed so well and happy. Now there was this calamity, this spectacle of a young and beautiful woman called home long before her time.

"She's resting more easily now that Father John de Lorenzana has anointed her," he thought. "Perhaps, if she's nursed carefully..."

But Rose only smiled as she saw the many medicines brought to save her life. One damp August day succeeded another, and she repeated again that the feast of Saint Bartholomew would be her last day on earth. The dreadful sufferings now afflicting her body could not be eased. They were part of the payment still required to save certain souls from Hell.

It was on the eve of the Apostle's feast that she stretched out a feeble hand. "Could I see my parents, Doña Maria? I want to say goodbye. And I want to ask forgiveness of everyone in your house for any trouble I may have caused."

The woman nodded hastily. Maria de Oliva was already in the house. And servants had been sent. with a comfortable chair, to carry ninety-five-yearold Gaspar Flores to his daughter's side.

Throughout the day visitors of all sorts passed in and out of Rose's little room-men and women she had befriended, additional doctors summoned in the hope they might give aid, priests of the various religious Orders. Everyone wanted to gaze for the last time on the girl whose sanctity had made her famous throughout the city. Only Doña Maria de Usátegui, tears streaming down her face, refused to leave her side. Rose was asking for water now-and the doctors said she could not have it.

"But I promised! I promised!" Doña Maria kept saying, remembering that April day when Rose had prophesied she would suffer from thirst. "How can I break my word now?"

"Ssh!" murmured Don Gonzalo. "Water would only make her worse."

As midnight approached, Rose turned a gentle glance upon the people kneeling in her room. The deathly pallor was gone from her face now and she seemed more beautiful than ever.

"Please don't feel sad because I'm going to leave you," she whispered. "This is really a happy day."

Maria de Oliva stifled a sob. "Rose, my little one, why didn't I try to understand you better? Forgive me, child, for being so stupid...."

From a corner of the room came the murmur of voices as Don Gonzalo, his wife, and their children repeated the familiar prayers for the dying. Near the door huddled a little group of Negro slaves, their dark faces wet with tears. Rose smiled once again at her friends, then lowered her eyes to the crucifix Father Alonso had given her.

"Jesus, be with me..." she murmured.

Quickly Maria de Oliva arose from her knees and seized a flickering candle. For a moment she stood staring down at the frail figure before her. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm:

"It's it's all over!" she said.

The others in the room hurried forward. As though a signal had been given, distant bells echoed through the darkness. Midnight! The feast of Saint Bartholomew! And in every one of Lima's monasteries, priests and nuns were starting the new day by chanting the special prayers of the Church in honor of an Apostle.

Maria turned to her companions. There was a strange look of contentment on her tired face.

"My little girl has gone to Heaven," she said quietly.