by Sr. Sheila Campbell MMM                                  Ireland                               15.12.2024

Recently I had the opportunity to meet up with two old friends on separate occasions.  One was a priest and the other a widow and busy grandmother.  It has led me to think again and joyfully give thanks for the value of these long friendships that date back over many decades to when we were all young.

Sometime back I wrote a “fable” about love and today I would like to share it.   It is called “Bouquet of Love”.

“We want to know of love”, they said. “We want to taste of its delight”. Up and down the village they went, looking for a lover. Down to the village square, up to the church, over to the market and round by the mill stream. No one could find a lover. All they did was bump into one another, mutter some apology, and rush on around the corner.

After some days of futile searching, someone wailed, “Why can’t we find a lover? Have we no experience of love amongst ourselves to guide us in our search?” Thus it was that she was chosen to share what love she had. “You are young enough, close to the taste and smell of it. Tell us what you know.”

She thought for some moments, then asked for time. “My love lives up in the hills, and down there by the river. Let me go and stay with him awhile. I’ll be back to tell you what I can.” They agreed to this and let her go. They asked her to return by mid-summer, at festival time.

Away she went to meet her love. Indeed, she did not have to search for very long, because there he was, sitting under an old oak tree, right at the edge of the woods. Her heart was lightened at the sight of him, and she found comfort in his presence. And yet she sighed. How very curious! She bent to pick a small blue cornflower and said to him, “How can I ever talk about love? It isn’t in the telling.” “Never mind about that”, he said, “Just come and sit beside me for a time. Or rather, let’s gather wildflowers in the woods – see how the blue of that flower dances in your eyes and makes them sparkle.” She smiled at that, and off they went.

As they wandered through the woods, they talked of this and that, laughed at memories of their own foolishness, shared their hopes, their plans, their little fears, and all the while, they picked the wildflowers. There were so many of them, and of such variety that often she stood uncertain how to choose. At these times, he came up behind her, ruffled her hair, and bending down, gathered up an armful, thrusting them into her arms with very little ceremony.

Soon enough, (too soon, she thought), the time arrived for her to return to the village. There was a great bustle of activity taking up the main square, spilling over into the side streets. The whole village gathers once a year for the festival. “The major social event of Anyland”, or so the posters proclaimed. There was a lot of hammering and banging, dragging of tables and food cooking on open fires. The villagers were all in good form. They were laughing, shouting greetings to their neighbours, and haggling for bargains.

“I have come as I promised”, she said, in a suddenly loud voice. All at once the noise quietened. They looked at her expectantly. “I’ve come as I promised”, she said, “to tell you about love. Look and see.” She held out the bouquet of wildflowers. There was a sudden moment of silence. No one knew quite what to do with the gift. Then a motherly sort rustled forward, clasped the girl to her and said, “Why, child, what a pretty bunch of flowers! Now, stick them in the corner there, and come and join the fun.”

All at once the flowers were taken from her hand, and she felt herself propelled forward into the circle of dancers. She wanted to cry out, to step away, but she was firmly held until the dance was over.

The festival lasted late into the night. It was a great success. Everyone proclaimed it to be so, and so it must have been. Finally, alone, she wandered restless along the deserted streets. A mist of loneliness wrapped itself around her. At dawn, she came upon her flowers. Someone had put them into a vase of sorts and left them by the church door. She sat on the steps and stroked each petal. Memory flared. “These are a gift of love,” she whispered to herself. “Will I leave them in the church as a gift to Love Divine?”

As she was thinking this over, an old woman hobbled by. She looked at the flowers and smiled. “They remind me of when I was a girl and climbed the hills,” she said. “And so they shall again”, the younger girl replied. Jumping up, she placed the bouquet in her arms. As she did this a sudden flash of joy came into the old woman’s face and tears fell silently down her cheeks. Both smiled. Each woman turned homeward. Their steps were light. Gifts had been given and received. Love abounded.