Shining orchid

There is a street that gives into the church of the Blessed Virgin Mary. It used to be that on the day of Our Lady’s weekly novena, people would squat on one of its sides. Vendors offering various kinds of orchids claimed the other side, on which I preferred to pass, not so much because I relished looking at the Dancing Lady, my favourite yellow orchid, as because I wanted to avoid the folk lining up across the street.

They came from a place given to those who had recovered from leprosy. They would stretch out their misshapen hands to ask for alms from those passing by, who were about to attend or had attended the novena, and doubtless warm with charity, of course in varying degrees, since the amount of donation differed, if not deferred, when not then available.

But there was a lady, in her late sixties, that of all the passersby the panhandlers awaited the most. Her appearance would send a murmur of delight through the ranks and immediately they would get themselves into line. Because straightaway the woman would put money on every palm. The amount was not much, but everyone received the same.  I saw this and, by methodically attending a series of Wednesdays, Wednesday being novena day, I confirmed for myself that this was indeed her practice.

Now the erstwhile lepers have disappeared, and this may be attributed to the death, if not of the lady, who could have moved to another place (in this life), then of that which in us is perennially terminal, charity.

I think of the incident in the Gospel of Mark about a leper who came to Jesus and pleaded on his knees, “If you want to,” he said, “you can cure me.” Feeling sorry for him, Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him. “Of course I want to!” he said. “Be cured!” And the leprosy left him at once and he was cured.

Jesus told him to show himself to the priest and make the prescribed offering as evidence of his recovery and not to say a thing to anyone.

But no sooner did the man leave than he began telling everybody about it, so that Jesus could no longer go openly to any place, and people from all around would come to him.

In a way, what the woman did was a continuation of the healing that Jesus performed. The money that she gave to the indigents only answered a minuscule part of their needs, but her generosity was infectious, and the bug of kindness bit not just many others but one particular observer as well, because eventually he moved from the flowers to the other side likewise to give to a startled beggar what amounts to a widow’s mite. The total receipts of the street people must have averaged out to one or two days’ provisions, enough for the curing of hunger to the same extent.

Not only was there physical healing, no matter if only pro tanto, there was besides, more than anything else, a healing of the soul, a restoration of the spirit, because what the poor expect is less the material help than the confirmation of their faith in selfless giving, which the greedy world does its best to put out.

As to the woman, she got the best part of the healing. Each time she put money on a palm, she grew in beauty, and was restored to her youth in God’s eyes, and though I felt reproached by what she did, likewise in my eyes, which in the end turned away from the yellow orchids to watch and admire in the brighter yellow of the sunshine a far greater and more dazzling Dancing Lady.