We are all one... Berta's Table
We are all one...
In the dim glow of Berta's kitchen, with the Ave Maria still whispering from the phone and the faint echo of Alanis's raw voice lingering in the ether, that truth settles like flour on every surface, quiet, inescapable, covering everything.
St. Therese smiles softly at St. Rita across the scarred table, no judgment between the Little Flower and the saint of impossible wounds. Berta's tired hands rest between them, marked by years of kneading and giving and breaking. The Sacred Mary stands in blue silence; the Scarlet Mary leans against the doorframe, hair wild from the long road, eyes bright with the fire of having been forgiven much.
And then, because even heaven has its quiet jokes, Brother Jerome appears in the doorway to the kitchen. Not the fiery scholar of old, thundering letters against heretics, but the desert hermit in his later years: silent monk, vowed to contemplation, beard long and wild, eyes profound from years of solitude and penance.
He stands there wordless, as a man who chose silence after a life of sharp words. In one hand, hidden behind his rough habit, a half-eaten cinnamon roll, warm, sticky, and irresistible. Crumbs cling to his beard like tiny stars.
One single tear falls dramatic, perfectly round and slides down his weathered cheek.
He doesn't speak. He can't, vow of silence, you see. But his eyes say it all: a pleading glance at Berta, a sheepish nod to the saints.
St. Therese covers her mouth to hide a giggle. St. Rita raises an eyebrow, amused, and silently pushes the plate of fresh rolls toward him. The Scarlet Mary grins outright. The Sacred Mary simply smiles, the way a mother does at a child's small rebellion.
No hierarchy here. No separation.
The virgin who said yes.
The woman who loved fiercely.
The baker who feeds strangers.
The saints of roses and thorns.
The silent desert monk with a secret sweet tooth and one perfectly timed, wordless tear.
All breathing the same incense of yeast and candle wax and mercy. All carrying the same hidden fractures, the same stubborn light—and apparently the same weakness for warm cinnamon rolls, even when vows say otherwise.
We are all one, vessels cracked in different places, letting the same glow through. One dough, many loaves. One song, many voices, some silent. One heart, broken and shared a thousand ways, with a bit of mischief sprinkled in for rising.
Outside, snow continues to fall. Inside, Brother Jerome takes the offered seat, still silent, but content, the phone loops ora pro nobis, and Berta finally smiles.
Not alone.
Never alone.
And occasionally, delightfully, a little human.
We are all one.
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