In the hush of Lilith's Garden- The Aftermath
In the hush of Lilith's Garden
In Lilith's garden, veiled in the deepening snow of December 30, 2025, the black and red roses pulse like hidden hearts, their thorns sharp reminders of love's quiet wounds. Beyond the brambled walls, Christmas lights still tremble over bombed-out apartments and crowded camps, where carols were drowned by sirens and drone-song only nights ago.
The saints and Marys sit in a loose circle, the frost weaving crowns upon their brows, as the conversation turns inward, to the ache that echoes through eternity. Somewhere far away, a shepherd in white pleads from a balcony for hearts to open and weapons to fall silent, his words cut into soundbites before being swept back into the noise.
Perched high in a bare, snow-laden tree above them, Selene the snow owl watches with luminous golden eyes, feathers blending into the falling white. She tilts her head in silent agreement, a living emblem of ancient wisdom bearing witness to every word.
Thérèse begins again, her small hands clasped, eyes distant as if gazing into every forgotten nursery.
Thérèse: “Every year, they forget. The true love, that first bond, mother to child, the one that cradles without condition. We watch their hearts scatter like petals in wind, chasing the Father's gaze instead. They sit before glowing screens, parsing the latest speeches and strongmen’s gestures, ‘What did he mean? What will he do?’, yet never asking how the mothers of the fallen sleep tonight.”
A soft sigh from the Sacred Mary, her blue mantle gathering snow like unshed tears. She places a hand over her chest, where the sword once pierced.
Sacred Mary: “Yes, little one. I know that bleeding well. They run to Him, arms full of proofs, ‘See my holiness, my worth!’, and now, statistics and strategies, casualties counted, ceasefires debated, alliances weighed like offerings on cold altars. But behind the veil, it's the mother's thread that holds them, the comfort in the dark hours, the whisper when the world turns cold. I waited at the foot of the cross, not for glory, but to gather the broken pieces. Today, I keep vigil in hospital corridors and refugee tents, where no cameras linger and no headlines sing.”
Magdalene nods, her scarlet robes a vivid stain against the white, fingers twisting a red rose stem until a drop of imagined blood wells up, symbolic, eternal.
Magdalene: “And oh, how it bleeds us. Not just in the grand betrayals, but in the everyday forgetting. The child who grows and turns away, seeking the Father's stern light over the mother's soft embrace. I anointed feet with my hair, poured out love without measure, only to be dismissed as the sinner. Now they replay footage of shattered streets and shivering children between festive commercials, as if sorrow were another program to be queued and left behind. Yet it's that same love, the maternal fire, that redeems. They exploit it, year after year, in their chaos of headlines and hollow cheers, never pausing to mend the wounds they inflict on the heart that birthed them.”
Rita leans forward, her voice steady as the winter rose she once summoned from barren earth.
Rita: “Impossible, they say, to hold both, the seeking and the bleeding. But we've lived it. I've felt the thorn in my brow, a mother's pain for wayward children. They crowd into cathedrals at Christmas, nodding as the new year’s blessings are spoken over nations, then hurry home to analyze markets, sanctions, and polls as if these alone could save them. They parade their best selves at Christmas altars, then abandon the cradle for the circus of power. All while we wait, hearts open and aching, ready to comfort the falls they deny. That thread of care, it's the vine that sustains, yet they trample it underfoot, taking its strength as their due.”
Maria, her youthful face etched with timeless compassion, speaks softly, as if to a child in need.
Maria: “We bleed because we love without end. The mother-child bond is the first grace, the one that teaches mercy. But they forget, turning to the Father for validation, their works like shiny offerings, peace talks staged for cameras, relief pledged in careful phrases, leaders wrapped in flags and rhetoric. Behind it all, we're here, the comforters in the shadows, mending what pride breaks in the quiet places where no broadcast reaches. If only they paused in this lull, between feast and new year, and felt the pull of that granted care, perhaps the bleeding would slow.”
The snow thickens, a gentle shroud, as Lilith's presence stirs the roots once more, a wordless affirmation from the first mother, exiled yet enduring. Selene spreads her wings once, silently, scattering snow like quiet absolution, her gaze affirming every unspoken grief. The roses seem to weep frost, mirroring the unseen sorrows, while the divine women sit on, their conversation a balm for the world's ingratitude and a counter-chant to the week’s unending scroll of breaking news.
In the hush, the invitation deepens: feel the bleed, remember the comfort, honor the thread beneath the headlines, before the new year claims it anew.
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