I had read of a saint--though now I cannot remember which--who had asked on a certain feast day that one thousand souls from purgatory be freed. At first she was afraid that she had asked too much, but Jesus was quick to console her and say that they were all now in heaven.

I was no saint--but I was going on a pilgrimage to see Our Lady of Guadalupe, and my intentions were not for things displeasing to God--I would be just as bold. 

"Our Lady," I thought as I lay curled on the couch, "I ask for a thousand souls to be freed from purgatory, and--" I hesitated for a moment but continued in a rush "a thousand children saved from abortion, and also... that I may love God a thousand times more than I do now." Pausing and considering that thousand times zero is still zero, I added "and if my love now is nothing, than add a thousand to it."

A little shocked at my own daring I finished my novena to Our Lady with a smile--I wondered if there was more I should ask for, but I was also too afraid to push my luck and left it as is. 

Then the pilgrimage came and before I knew it--though at the time it seemed as if years had passed before it finally happened--our plane touched down at the Mexico City airport. Our group, Trailblazers, was supposed to walk from three fourths of the way up a mountain named La Malinche to a town outside of Mexico City, and from there we would be bussed into the Basilica. I walked across countryside more vibrant and wild than anything I had seen before--there were snow-capped mountains, fields of corn, and a volcano belching smoke and ash as we walked. The road was always under our feet, winding ever on toward our goal.

I often had recourse to St. Thérèse, the Little Flower, in the past. During the trip I had remarked to a friend that I loved the saint "because she sends me flowers" resulting in an outburst of laughter from both of us and a mental picture in my mind of me grabbing a rose and yelling "Yay, presents!". That wasn't the real reason for my devotion to the saint, though--I had read the book she wrote,  A Story of a Soul, and was frankly in awe of her devotion. Her entire life was one offering of love up to God, and still she called herself “a little flower”--in heaven, she wrote, there were roses and lilies to grace Jesus' garden, but such a fate was not for every soul or the roses and lilies would loose there splendor. She was content to be a little wildflower so that Jesus could look down at her and smile. 

She had wrote that she would spend her heaven doing good on earth, and would send down “a shower of roses”. Sometimes she does just so.

The closer we drew to the tilma the more nervous about my petition I became. "It's better to ask for something small and have that than ask for something too large and receive nothing." I thought to myself. Saving a thousand children from abortion? I pictured in my mind the situation of a mother who would want one, and I shuddered. It would take a miracle just to save one!  

The thing that scared me the most was that nothing was ever given to a doubter, and that seemed to be my current predicament.

We were drawing closer to the tilma by the day and my problem had not lessened. After thinking over it for awhile I wished to myself that I could have some sort of sign--St. Thérèse! The idea struck me like a thunderbolt. A rose! I'll have her send me a rose!  

“Little Flower,” I whispered to myself, “You've sent me flowers before, and I was hoping that you could send me one more? If my petition is pleasing to God, I mean. It doesn't have to be an actual rose, if it's a painted onto a box or whatever, that's fine, but if you could send me one, that would be great.”

I wasn't sure how long I should wait for the flower, but in the meantime I boosted my courage enough to pull Fr. Paul Ward, the director of our group, aside  and ask him in a voice that shook slightly if he had time to listen to me. "Of course." He replied and focused his bright eyes with a silent intensity on my face, waiting for me to voice my problem. I whispered my intention and asked him if it was too much. No, was the reply. It is impossible to ask for too much from God. 

At our final goal, the Basilica, we sat under the tilma and prayed. I have rarely known such a feeling of peace as we experienced there. It was as if we had finally thrown the  One Ring in the fires of Mt. Doom  and come back to rest at Rivendell, in a way, but even if we had done just that I don't think that we would have been happier than we were under the tilma. “Happy” isn't really the right word to describe the feeling, though. I can get closer by describing it as an explosion of joy and peace at the same time, but that still seems to miss the mark. Never would I have dreamt that I would someday be praying under the tilma of Our Lady, and without God gracing me with so many blessings I never would have made it there.

The gift shop, in contrast, was a sea of faces and a marching band's worth of noises. My mom and I waded into the crowd in an attempt to find something to take home--not being able to speak Spanish well didn't help, either. I drifted around the shop and eventually found my mom was examining the rosaries. "But mom," I yelled over the noise, looking at the price tag, "The vendors outside were selling way prettier ones than those and they were way cheaper, just get some of that." 

"No," My mom went to the counter to buy her choice. "I know what my family likes, we need to get them from the Basilica."

It wasn't until the next day that I asked for a rosary. "Here, pick one." She told me and offered me a plastic bag full of several cases. I picked one at random popped it open, smiling as a sweet smell wafted up from the scented rosary. I flipped the case over and the rosary spilled into my hand. I examined it more closely and for the first time in my life tears shot to my eyes for a reason other than sadness or frustration, 

While the Hail Mary beads were very simple, no more than wood died red, every Our Father bead was stylized as a glimmering silver rose blossom. The Hail Holy Queen medal had a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe on one side and on the other, imprinted with delicate handiwork, was a glimmering silver rose complete with stem and leaves.

I had asked for one rose from St. Thérèse--I had received five.