The longest seven days of my life were spent in the shriveled orchard when I was thirteen.
At that ti, I believed faith was an unbreakable rock, not yet knowing how sharp this intangible thing could be.
Sharp enough to peel away a person’s life so easily.
The blight spread silently like a plague in my hotown, with the orange trees in the orchard losing their green, their leaves curling up like scorched paper.
My parents had long since given up, sitting in the dim house all day, awaiting the sa destiny as other orchard owners.
But not .
Under the oldest orange tree in the orchard, I prayed.
One day, two days, three days...
My knees sank into the soil, my lips cracked from the lack of water.
On the fourth day, I heard the cries of the neighbors; they decided to burn the orchard and move elsewhere.
On the fifth day, my brother tried to pull into the house, calling crazy. How could the lofty Divine lower themselves to listen to prayers from people as humble as us?
On the sixth day, I could barely hear my own voice, with only a sea of withered yellow before my eyes.
On the seventh day, at dusk, as the setting sun soaked the sky, they ca.
Not the gentle and kind woman depicted in the stained glass of the town’s church, but a presence warm as sunlight.
I could not see their face, but I could feel that gaze, like a mother watching her sleeping child, fall upon .
"Why persist?" Their voice was like a breeze through the orchard.
"Because these trees are the life of my family," I croaked, "I don’t believe the Divine would sit idly by and watch everything die."
Then the sunlight brushed over the withered orange trees, the dry branches sprouted new green, the curled leaves unfurled as before, the scent of orange leaves enveloped the twilight, and tiny white flowers blood on the branches.
When I stumbled back ho and told my family about this miracle, they didn’t believe it at first until they saw the orchard full of revived orange trees.
That night, the sweet juice quenched my parched throat.
But when I went to the neighbor’s orchard the next day, hoping for the sa miracle, I saw only dead silence.
The blight still raged, with more and more orchard owners preparing to leave.
The miracle seed to descend only where their gaze fell.
Back then, I didn’t understand why the grace of God was so glorious yet so stingy, bestowing only a drop, letting the whole land wither, while treating this special favor as supre glory, attributing it to the call of God.
That autumn, when the baskets were filled with harvest honey mandarins, I bid farewell to my family and embarked on the path of serving the Divine, dedicated to offering my entire life and all my devotion to the great presence that saved my family’s lives.
...
Thirty years have passed.
My hair is now gray, with many wrinkles added to my face.
I feel I am devout enough, yet my talent is limited.
Even in the bishopric, where I was closest to the Divine, bathed in the Holy Light of the Mother of All Things, over ten thousand days and nights of sincere prayer did not allow to progress further, only to serve in an obscure corner of the Church as a small manager.
Of course, I do not feel disappointed by this.
Having long decided to dedicate my life to that great "Mother," even if I can only share the most insignificant ray of Her dazzling light and beco Her agent in the mortal world, I am already satisfied.
"Priest Moen, please preside over the prayer ceremony for the residents of the South District." I took the ornate schedule, with the prayers written in gold powder.
During the ceremony, I wore a ceremonial robe adorned with silver threads, leading the congregation in chants, my loud voice resonating in the air filled with the scent of incense and burning candles, drowning out the faint stench wafting from the distant slums.
I looked at those sunken, emaciated figures below the stage, those eyes filled with hope due to faith, and even though my heart was long numb, my stomach still churned.
Accompanying the prayers I’ve repeated countless tis is a heart growing increasingly dead silent.
I know the cost of this ceremony, rely the squandered candles lit and discarded, the exquisite vessels bearing simple food... is enough to feed a village on the Kingdom’s edge for a month.
"The bishops’ robes are more precious than the tenant’s wheat."
I whispered to myself, recalling the scene I witnessed a few days ago.
Three Big Shots, bathed in sacred light, closer to the Mother of All Things than myself, argued for an entire morning about seating arrangents for a sacrificial ceremony, while at the sa ti, refugees outside the city fought over a piece of bread.
Countless quiet nights, I knelt in the church, praying to the silent goddess statue, only to be answered by the cold moonlight spilling from the do.
Once, I was in charge of distributing relief supplies to a disaster-stricken district.
I saw with my own eyes, the originally ample food and dicine on the list, reduced to almost nothing after being deducted for various "procedures" and "managent fees."
When I, holding the original list and final receipt, trembled as I rushed into the district bishop’s room to speak for those disaster victims too weak to pray.
Sitting behind an expensive wooden desk carved with intricate sacred marks, the bishop, known for his piety and wisdom, rely lifted his eyelid, and with a single sentence, blocked all my grievances:
"Priest Moen, the Church’s vast body needs to function, a little ’lubrication’ is necessary."
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