by Jane Brunton

Created on: May 23, 2008

Faith

Three minutes and counting: I checked the porch to make sure we hadn't forgotten anything. The three foot wood and plaster image of Jesus on the Cross was hung by the entry door. On the other side was the bust of Jesus made by Julio's father. The realistic bruises, the bleeding cuts on his poor face, and the real crown of thorns were lovingly rendered.

Placed on a side table was the image of Santa Barbara. She sat in a crude wooden chair holding the baby Jesus on her lap. He could be removed from her arms and dressed in the finery readily available in Ecuador. At Christmas time the faithful bought expensive pearl-encrusted velvet robes with which to swaddle him. Their own children might be in rags and go hungry but baby Jesus was well cared for.

The narrow wooden table had been covered with a cloth crocheted by my Aunt. On it were vessels for holy water and wine. Melida, my housekeeper, was preparing dinner. All was in order.

As I waited I looked out over the patio. Sunlight sparkled on the limpid turquoise ripples of the pool. The patio was alive with roses, impatiens and baskets of hanging ferns. This pleasant scene belied the murky undercurrent of the house. But the day was glorious and spoke of renewed hope.

Right on time the door bell rang and I pressed the button to open the heavy gates at the top of the hill. I knew without asking that it was our friend Manuel bringing Father Rivera, a priest of the Salician order.

A tiny man emerged from the car. He was dressed in white satin robes richly embroidered with gold thread. His small black bag contained his vestments, holy water, wine and the wafers for the sacrament.

He surveyed the porch and pronounced it good, "A flower. I need a flower," he said. I ran to the garden and picked an innocent pink rose. "Excellent, "he said, dipping it into the water and giving it a trial shake.

There were only Manuel, Julio and I in attendance. Father Rivera was an old friend of Manuel's and had agreed to help us out in our unusual request.

After a prayer and some rituals that I, who am not Catholic, didn't understand, the good Father was ready to proceed into our house, carrying the holy water and the rose.

In each room he paused, dipped the rose and shook the blessed droplets vigorously on the walls and furniture while speaking in Latin.

He paid particular attention to the bed in the master bedroom, one of the guest rooms and the kitchen. After he had covered every room of the house he asked Julio to show him his truck. The

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