Today is St. Therese's feast day. The Little Flower, they call her. Her presence can be signalled by the fragrance of roses. The keeper remembers how on her feast day they all anointed hands with rose oil and how once later in the afternoon after the Feast Mass was long over, and long after the oils had been put away, the sacristy suddenly filled with a sweet sweet rose fragrance. She said that it was at the beginning of her service there, and it was a consolation. By the way, I used to live at St. Therese when I was a kitten. My friend Downs and I lived in the parish house. Those were great days for us. Speaking of roses and remembering, the keeper also remembers her mother telling the story of how after her grandfather Pierre had died in the middle of winter, the doorbell rang at their Fargo home and piles of long stemmed roses rested on the doorstep. Roses in Winter. Light in Darkness. Hope. Miracles.
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