Quote of the day, 17 December: Miguel Márquez Calle, ocd
Dawn in Úbeda, December 16, 1591…
The rooster’s crow greets the rising sun, its call echoing through the neighborhood of Úbeda. It tells the neighbors it’s time to face the new day as best they can. This age-old cry, woven into their lives, symbolizes a defiant courage—a resolve to face the dawn boldly, even in the shadow of death. This spirit is deeply embedded in the hearts of the neighborhood’s humble residents.
Down the winding cobblestone path threading through the neighborhood toward the olive groves, the creak of a farmer’s cart is heard. His weathered hands and sun-darkened skin speak of a life spent toiling in the fields.
Morning stirs gently in this corner of Úbeda, where a woman’s soft singing accompanies her domestic chores. Her voice, worn but steady, reveals a heart hardened by struggles. She hums a folk tune learned in childhood:
A shepherd-boy his grief is brooding o’er
Alone, uncomforted, disconsolate.
His thought is fix’d upon his heart’s true mate;
His breast with love is stricken very sore.
He weeps not for some love-wound giv’n of yore,
For no such thing could pain and grieve him so,
E’en though it overcharg’d his heart with woe
He weeps because she thinks of him no more.
Elvira learned this song from her father, a shepherd by trade. It’s the only one she remembers, though not in full—it was her favorite. Now around forty, she looks older. Her serene gaze is shadowed by dark circles, hinting at silent sorrow. Her determined, nimble gait betrays a resilience born of necessity.
Twelve years ago, Elvira married Felipe. Their union wasn’t born of love, but over time, she grew to care for him quietly—true to her nature. Felipe, though, doesn’t need words to feel her affection; he knows.
Felipe owns no land. He works in the stables of a city nobleman and earns a little extra during the December olive harvest. It’s barely enough, but they make do. Three years into their marriage, Luisina was born, though the birth nearly cost Elvira her life. She can’t have more children now. Luisina’s frail health, plagued by a blood disorder, confined her to bed two years ago. Despite life’s hardships, the family finds strength in the unspoken warmth that binds them—a quiet trust that fuels their hope for better days.
Luisina’s illness has drawn the family closer. They keep mostly to themselves, though kind neighbors often inquire about her. The notable exception is Don Ambrosio, a physician nicknamed “The Licentiate.” Diagnosing Luisina’s condition as incurable, he still visits weekly, offering her treats or funny stories that lift her spirits. His composed demeanor and gentle approach endear him to all.
As Elvira gathered firewood one morning, she wondered why Don Ambrosio hadn’t come. He usually visited by Friday or Saturday. She recalled him mentioning a Carmelite friar in need of care, and then remembered hearing funeral bells from San Miguel Chapel early Saturday.
After preparing the firewood, she checked on Luisina.
“Good morning, my dear,” she said.
“Good morning, Mama! Guess what I dreamed today?” Luisina replied.
“Let me see… A beautiful castle? A journey to the Indies? A knight?”
“No! I dreamed that Papa planted a tree in the garden. As he watered it, it grew so quickly that flowers bloomed. Suddenly, I heard someone ask, ‘What would you like these flowers to become?’ I didn’t dare say it aloud, but in my heart, I wished for cakes. Then, the flowers turned into the most delicious cakes! I ate and ate until I woke up. Oh, what a shame!”
“So, in your dreams you gorge on cakes, but at meals, you barely eat! That’s why you’re so thin,” Elvira teased.
Luisina, chuckling, sat up to wash. As her mother combed her hair, Elvira remarked, “You must look nice… perhaps Don Ambrosio will come today.”
Just then, there was a knock at the door. Luisina ran to greet Don Ambrosio with joy. He embraced her warmly and said, “Come now, back to bed. No straining yourself. I couldn’t bring you anything today, but I had to see you.”
As they chatted, his gaze lingered briefly on the simple crucifix on the wall. Elvira, sensing a change in his mood, asked gently, “What is it, Don Ambrosio? You seem preoccupied.”
He sighed. “Last time, I mentioned the Carmelite friar I was treating. His name was Juan de la Cruz… He passed away on Friday night at midnight. I attended him often in his final days. I’ll never forget the moment I had to lance his foot to drain infection. He bore it calmly, even encouraging me, saying it was good for him to suffer a little since our Lord endured so much for love of us.”
Don Ambrosio’s voice softened as he recalled the friar’s humility and the hostility he faced even in his final days. “He chose Úbeda to heal precisely because he was unknown here. Yet, despite the hardships, there was something about him—a richness of spirit in the midst of poverty and pain—that deeply moved me.”
Elvira listened intently, setting aside her sewing. She felt drawn to visit San Miguel Chapel that afternoon, hoping for a miracle for Luisina. The chapel was abuzz with activity as news of Fray Juan’s holiness and miracles spread.
Kneeling in prayer, Elvira found herself captivated by the words of the prior, who spoke of Fray Juan’s life: his unshakable faith, his love for God, and his poetry that sprang from profound union with Him. “He lived like an olive tree,” the prior said, “unyielding in hardship, yet offering oil that warms and nourishes.”
Elvira left the chapel not with a request, but with gratitude—a newfound peace and trust in God. That evening, as she tucked Luisina into bed, the girl asked for a story. Inspired, Elvira began to weave a tale of a sparrow who, despite ridicule, found joy in reaching for the moon.
Luisina fell asleep before the story ended. As Elvira kissed her goodnight, a tear fell—not cold, but warm with hope. For the first time, she felt anchored not in despair but in love. Tomorrow would be a new day.
Miguel Márquez Calle, o.c.d.
Un 16 de diciembre de 1591…
Note: We are grateful to Discalced Carmelite Father General Miguel Márquez Calle, o.c.d. for his gracious permission to translate and publish his award-winning short story.
John of the Cross, St; de Santa Teresa, S; Peers, E 1934–1935, The complete works of Saint John of the Cross, doctor of the Church, translated from the Spanish by Peers, E, Burns Oates & Washbourne, London.
Translation from the Spanish text is the blogger’s own work product and may not be reproduced without permission.
Featured image: Spanish photographer Juan de la Obra Millán captures this image of the Úbeda skyline after a rainstorm. Image credit: Juan de la Obra Millán / Flickr (Some rights reserved)
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