Prologue:
The sudden clamor of bells shocked Sister Maria DeRosa into full wakefulness. Her eyes shot to the clock. Who would be at the door at three in the morning? It couldn’t be good news.
She shoved her severe straight backed wooden chair away from the slab table, causing the remaining stub of a candle to flicker with the movement. Perhaps the diocese, one day, would decide to pay for enough electricity to keep the electric lights turned on in the musty office at the mission church after 9 p.m.
She reached for a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that had fallen from the bridge of her nose and settled across the text of the ancient holy text open in front of her to the fourth chapter of Genesis. The bells sounded again.
She pushed herself to her feet and straightened the hassock that dragged on the floor behind her. When she first arrived at the mission, it fit properly, but she noticed increasingly over the past few years the garment seemed to grow in both breadth and length.
She fingered her rosary, muttering a quick prayer that whoever waited for her at the door did not bring trouble to the children sleeping soundly in the back. The mission was not originally designed as an orphanage, but more and more children had come to live there over the years. They would never dream of turning these poor children away, yet the additional responsibility stretched their resources beyond their limits.
It was war. Not a war of armies, but a war of dollars, a war of drugs, a war between people who never learned to disagree without fighting. A war that the church had no part in. Brothers fighting brothers. Fathers fighting sons. All wars, but especially this one, were the work of Satan. Sister DeRosa chided herself for even thinking the name of the dark one, and another prayer passed through her lips.
Her knees complained and her ankles popped with each step as she shuffled toward the door. Her arthritis had grown much worse lately. If St. Paul could suffer through a thorn in his side, God’s grace would be sufficient for her as well. It would not be much longer, though. She was seventy-nine and confident that the Lord would call her home soon.
Sister Maria lifted the wooden slab that covered the window and peered out into the rainy darkness of the night. She saw nobody. Letting the slab drop, she pulled on the door’s worn brass handle and eased it open into the foyer before stepping onto the sheltered step that guarded the entrance to their holy home.
At her feet, resting on the warn sandstone steps of the church, lay a wicker basket. The overhang sheltered the basket itself from the downpour, but drops slamming into the pooling water splattered up, soaking the blanket tucked neatly inside.
Sister Maria lowered herself to a knee, unconcerned about the growing puddle that soaked her hassock. She reached inside the basket and pulled back the corner of the blanket. Dear Lord!
Two tiny blue eyes stared up, and a miniature hand reached for her rosary. Another resident with no family for the Lord to take care of. She had seen many infants abandoned on their step before. Each time, it tore at her heart.
Sister Maria struggled to her feet and stared into the darkness up and down the street. What type of creature would abandon such a beautiful child? They hadn’t even stayed to make sure the baby was found., Even knowing the sin of her feelings didn’t stop her from wanting to lash out at the people who would throw away the lives of their own children. Goodness, I should have known!
Sister Maria lowered herself back to a defensive crouch over the basket. Her knees complained with groans and pops, but she ignored them. “Surely his grace is sufficient for me.” She said aloud.
Judging by the tattered blue blanket, it was a boy. Eyes wide open and staring directly into her face, the child gurgled pleasantly. No cries of cold or hunger. Nothing but a pleasant, beautiful murmur.
Sister DeRosa’s anger melted, and she reached down to stroke the child’s face. He couldn’t be over two weeks old, yet his eyes appeared so alert, so loving. She felt a tear course down her cheek, warm against the rain. Gently, she slid her fingers under the child and lifted him to her heart.
Something clicked as she eased the infant out of the basket. The explosion shook every building within three blocks and shattered windows up and down the street. Flames burst into the night sky as if the very gates of hell had opened under the church. The mission collapsed on itself and disappeared beneath a cloud of dust and flame.
A choir of car alarms sang their displeasure through the neighborhood in south Chicago. Joined by the urgent whine of first responders rushing to the scene, not knowing they were already too late.
