By Luciana Ballesteros-Heras
Summer came without precipitation. She came without warning. She came suddenly, and mellow sunshine, airy afternoons, and maintainable garden beds were brusquely chased away before we could bid our goodbyes to sweet, gratifying springtime. Nonetheless, summer arrived with blooming lantanas, cloudless skies, and perpetual heat. However, this summer’s presence evoked unexpected contention between the world’s inhabitants, accompanied by a quiet battle raging within the hearts of God’s children, and while the world was whipped into a fervent hurricane of both delirium and displeasure, fifteen-year-old Theodore Bowman, lying peacefully on a verdant field, his pallid face listless yet turned to the unclouded sky above him, was caught in the tranquil eye of a raging storm.
Serene, peaceful Theodore was immersed in reflection and contemplation when his cogitation was suddenly interrupted by the disquieting sound of melancholic sobs. Theodore, as secure as he may be, was an inquisitive child and could not deny his unquenchable curiosity.
Off Theodore trampled to explore the distressing sensation. Beyond the Bowman fence was situated a dull and lifeless house, vacant and untenanted. Regardless of its purported emptiness, a soulful and voracious cry sounded from the back-lawn, and Theodore discovered six-year-old Anna Julieta Pereira, his youngest yet most intrepid neighbor, sitting against the wall, holding her head in her trembling hands, fervently shedding desolate tears of dread and anguish.
“Anna,” began Theodore as comfortingly as possible, even though his tone conveyed the shock he felt from witnessing such an audacious child of indomitable spirit at the peak of her dejection. “what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Still unpacified, Anna responded with a quivering voice, “I am afraid of leaving.”
Theodore remained confounded. Leave what? Leave where? Leave where to? He did not have the faintest idea of how to console his companion. He could only embrace the weeping child tenderly and stare wistfully, again, into the unbounded azure sky above him.
Truly, Argentinian Anna Julieta was well aware of the present battles raging in her “Free Country,” and even more assured of the trials and tribulations her family was to face because of them.
Theodore, regardless of his knowledge on the subject, had an unfailing solution linked directly to his faith. “Surely, He will know how to help her,” was Theodore’s internal consolation.
“Anna, why not pray and ask the Lord to calm your worries?”
“I was never taught, Theodore,” was her glib response.
“Then you must be now,” he replied , “Praying is truly not as much of a strenuous laborious practice as it is reputed to be. Praying is writing a letter to Heaven, but there is a distinctive border between writing to a divine Correspondent and human recipient. The notion of a neighboring recipient responding is never inevitable nor probable, but the chances of the God dwelling in distant, obscure Heaven replying avidly to your message supersede those of the sun setting and rising. But recall this, Anna. You must end each of your letters with ‘Amen.’ That word can shape the entire message.”
Anna remained perplexed on the subject of God replying to her letters, but when an educated and experienced adolescent mentors an uneducated and innocent child, the latter cannot help her inclination to learn and observe his teachings.
The letters were continuous and placed in the shrubs of the Pereira garden because Anna could comprehend that a prayer’s route to paradise did not begin in a mailbox, but in a more suitable garden-bed. What Anna did not know was that her cogent, sincere messages, conveying unfeigned piety and unsullied innocence, had already woven its way from her delicate mind to obscure, faraway Heaven where the King of the Universe abided, but messages and stories have an indisputable genius for becoming omnipresent. They seldom confine themselves to the sole awareness of their writer and recipient, and Anna’s letter did not differ. Her unconventional praying habits were evidenced in the sundry papers, delivered by the wind to the various inhabitants of Orafield. More and more of her prayers were reaching the Ears and Heart of the Lord whilst the bewildered townspeople were becoming more and more curious of the girl’s unwavering faith. But their curiosity was quenched by a desire to follow the fortuitous.
Unconsciously, Anna and Theodore had gradually been contriving Orafield to accompany them in letter-writing. Some wrote letters of gratitude, others of petition. Some wrote sternly and others affectionately and sentimentally. But regardless of their tone and wording, everybody ended their messages with the essential word: Amen.
It is not uncommon that we should become estranged by our comrades during balmy summer, for either by seclusion or isolation it is inevitable. The humble, simple, and now pious citizens of Orafield exemplified that communication is never limited nor unachievable. How long it would be before He responded to their prayers was yet uncertain, but what would occur meanwhile was indubitable: patient waiting, faithful hoping, and cheerful letter-writing.
