Red had always been Madeline Hill’s favorite color, as evidenced by the swarms of deep red roses that famously lined the fence and walkway in front of her lakeside cottage.

She was one of just a scarce remnant of year-round residents in Claymore, Maine. Most of the occupants of the surrounding homes were vacationers who came and went for just weeks at a time in the summer, but even they seemed to be keenly informed of her treasured rose garden. Hardly a day passed between May and September without some nature photographer or social influencer encroaching on her property to gather some snapshots of the rich scarlet color. As an elderly widow, Madeline welcomed these visitors. She was often out in her yard tending to her roses anyway, and always made a point to answer the many questions of the curious tourists who stopped by.

Today was a particularly active day for visitors, and so she had put out a pitcher of iced tea and relaxed on an Adirondack chair as they probed her for information.

“Where did you learn to grow flowers like this?” Asked a middle-aged hiker who was leaning heavily on her fence while his younger wife stood impatiently behind him. “This looks like something that a team of landscape artists would have trouble maintaining, and here you are all on your own. Are you Mother Nature herself?”

Madeline chuckled as she took a sip of iced tea.

“No,” she said. “Not Mother Nature. But I learned everything I know from Mother Scholastica. She was my superior up at Stonemount, many years ago.”

“Stonemount Abbey?” Asked the hiker. “I know that place. We used to go camping up that way. Remember, Honey?”

He glanced back at his wife, who made hardly any attempt to respond. Shrugging, he turned back to Madeline.

“But if you were at Stonemount, that must mean you were a nun, right?”

Madeline nodded.

“In a past life, I was.”

Her interviewer almost fell over the fence in fascination.

“Well, sounds like there’s quite a story there! Care to elaborate?”

It had been a long time since anyone had asked her about her convent days. Sometimes she briefly forgot that she had been a nun herself. But whenever she remembered, she became enraptured in potent memory.

In the Spring of 1964, Madeline was only a few months into her novitiate when she was assigned the role of gardener’s assistant. She was under the direct supervision of the Mother Prioress, the second-highest authority in the Abbey, under only the Abbess herself. Madeline, only a couple of years removed from high school, could do little to contain her nerves as she approached the esteemed gardener on the first day of the assignment.



The prioress looked neutrally at her new recruit. “You’re late,” she said.



Madeline thought better than to defend herself, so she just nodded submissively.



“I know what you’re thinking,” said the prioress. “Morning chores begin at Nine, immediately after breakfast. But you must remember, as gardeners, we are following the earth’s schedule, not our own. And if we were to begin watering the roses at nine, the sun would already be too high in the sky, and its heat would cause the water to scald and wither them. Therefore, as gardener’s assistant, it is understood that you are to be dismissed from breakfast early so you can begin your work at a more effective time. I did not tell you this until now, because I wanted you to fully understand the reason for it. We must be mindful of everything we do, young novice. Mindfulness is what distinguishes us from fanatics.”



Madeline considered everything that had just been told to her. It was frankly very intriguing to her. She had never known that there were so many special facts about roses and other flowers.



As the months went on, she learned many more little-known insights from the Mother Prioress. The work was hard, and much was expected of her, but she thought little of it if it meant she was able to discover all she could about the enchanting art of gardening.

Madeline told this story so intentfully that she hadn’t even noticed that her audience had grown. It was now a young mother who was questioning her. She was wrestling three young children to keep them from climbing the fence and trampling the roses, but she was still acutely focused on Madeline as she asked her questions.

“No wonder your garden is so breathtaking!” She said. “But I can’t help but wonder, why did the sisters spend so much time planting flowers? Don’t get me wrong, I think they’re wonderful, but shouldn’t you have been spending that time serving the poor instead? I mean, that’s the point of religion, isn’t it?”

Madeline smiled warmly. “The roses were for our own personal reflection,” she said. “The red petals reminded us of the blood of Christ, which was shed for the salvation of the world. Now, I don’t think anyone could ever serve the poor better than that, do you?”

The woman smiled back appreciatively. “No, I guess not,” she said. “Gosh, it sounds like it was such a lovely life. What made you decide to leave it?”

Madeline was expecting that question to come, but had half-hoped it wouldn’t. Nevertheless, she had already told so much of her story. It was only fair to finish it. She took a crisp, cleansing breath, and continued.

When Mother Prioress passed away in 1970, it was anticipated that Madeline would inherit her role as head gardener. But by that time, vocations were on such a decline at the abbey that she had no asisstants to teach herself. And so, much to her dismay, she was instead entrusted with the newly-established role of recruiter. It was now her duty to make a tour of schools and parishes across the state in an attempt to inspire young women with the prospect of living a life given fully to the Lord in prayer and communal charity. The problem was, she had become such an introvert working quietly in the garden for almost seven years that she could never muster the stage presence to win over even a single sisterly soul.



She was walking back to the train station from a state university campus after yet another unsuccessful afternoon of recruiting, when she was approached by a tall and inquisitive-looking young man.



“I’m sorry, but we only take women,” she said half-jokingly as he scrambled ever-closer to her.



“Yeah,” he said. “But we take everyone where I come from.”



“And where is that?” Madeline asked.



“It’s an organic farm a few towns over from here,” He said. “We’re all about creating a sustainable future for our bodies, souls, and for the environment. And we need an extra gardener. I heard you talk about your experience at the abbey on campus earlier. What we do is a lot like that, actually. Except there really aren’t any rules. I think you might be a good fit there.”



Madeline remained cautious, but couldn’t help being slightly curious as well.



“If there are no rules,” she said, “then it is nothing like an abbey.”



“Well, maybe,” the stranger said. “And maybe that’s not quite as bad a thing as you think.”



He scribbled down an address on a gum wrapper he pulled from his pocket and handed it to her.



Madeline didn’t leave the abbey right away. She continued recruiting for several more months, and eventually even had some success. Thanks to her efforts, three new postulants entered the following September. She saw that as her final service to her fellow sisters: finding someone to replace her.

Yet another voice from the small throng at Madeline’s fence spoke up. This time, it was a snowbird who had just recently returned from a winter at Myrtle Beach.

“I heard about that organic farm,” he said. “It ended up being a safe-haven for communists. They found Chinese spies hiding out there and shut the place down, didn’t they?”

Madeline finally stood up out of her chair.

“Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately, that was some information that I was not made immediately aware of.”

She picked up her gardening tools and started getting back to work.

“So, what did you do?” the man asked. “Did you try to go back to the convent?”

“Or did you try to find another farm to work at?” Suggested someone eise.

“Did you get married and have kids?”

“Are you still religious?”

“You could’ve become a florist.”

“You should write a book about your experience.”

The more they peppered her with speculations, the less she listened. She was too entranced by her beloved roses to bother paying attention to them. Red was her favorite color, after all, and these roses were such a fine and radiant red, like none other she had ever seen. They reminded her somewhat of the precious blood. They haunted her slightly with the memory of the communist flag. They even seemed to resemble the flushed crimson in the faces of those who always asked her questions.

But most of all, they were simply the burst of natural glow that mirrored the strong pink of the sunrise every morning. They were the cheerful banner of blossoming growth that was intensified by dewdrops and rainfall. They were the pleasant company that remained loyally by her side every day, bobbing and curtsying in the light summer breeze. They were Madeline’s roses, and that’s all she needed them to be.