He had not been prepared. It was meant to be a routine check-up, not a death sentence, so he didn’t blame himself for the things he said in anger. Anyway, now his mind was clear. The tidal wave of shock and grief had washed away every excess concern and left him with one solitary desire which he now realised had always been there—he just hadn’t noticed it among the clutter he’d been collecting. The foundation was bared. His heart was exposed, and focused like never before.
He wanted to live.
That’s why he bought the yacht. The salesman kept going on about luxury features, but he changed the subject to “how many knots?” and “how long can she stay out?” and he didn’t even listen when they told him the price. He was rich enough, and that used to matter, but nothing mattered now except the leaf.
Stellafloria Medela, with the blue-star flowers and the red-veined leaves. He knew the picture by heart. It was his one obsession. His one hope. The doctors told him it was his one cure—if only he could find it. The original specimen had been mishandled, wasted, and no new sightings had been recorded for years. Never mind. He knew where to look, and the yacht really was as fast as they told him, maybe even faster, driven as it was by the wind of his own mortality.
The vegetation on the first island was thick, and the days he spent there were frustrating. On the second island, he sprained his ankle badly. It took time to recover. On the third, he cried in desperation for God’s help, and that was the night of the hurricane. It came just after the prayer, like a violent response—tearing the vegetation, destroying the camp, and damaging the yacht. He had no choice but to limp home to his mansion.
A week later maps and botanical reports were covering the expansive oak table as he eagerly said to his wife, “this section of the jungle, here—it has potential. I can be there the day after tomorrow, all going smoothly.”
“Couldn’t you hire someone else to go?”
“No, darling, you know I have to do this—no one else could possibly be as motivated as I am.”
“I understand.” Then, “Dear, could we re-hire the gardener? The rose beds are full of weeds.”
He almost exploded—“What?? Who cares about the roses! Can’t you see this is life or death? Nothing else matters. Nothing. Leave the garden rot. Better it than me.”
All did not go as smoothly as anticipated. There were delays finding a guide and gathering provisions. The jungle was large, and the most promising areas turned up nothing. As he scratched his mosquito-bitten arms, he prayed silently, “where else can I look, God?” Just then, like a bolt from heaven, a tree fell on the tent. He dodged it, mostly, but a branch caught him from behind and broke his leg. It was a difficult journey out.
There are many jungles and islands in the world. Together, they are larger than a fortune, and more indomitable than human will and endurance. He consulted experts, hired guides, paid off local officials, and flew and sailed and trekked to every lead, however tenuous. On one trip, he prayed for a sighting of the leaf, and lighting struck. On another, he pleaded with God for direction, and his maps burned in a fire. Crashes. Bandits. Sickness. Each excursion, and each prayer, ended in some form of disaster. Each disaster forced him home. Each day at home, he planned and prepared for his next journey. Still, the illusive leaf was undiscovered. The diagnosis was catching up. His fortune was spent, and time was slipping away.
He finally admitted to himself that he was a broken man. Physically, financially, and spiritually. Every prayer of desperation ended in disaster, every burst of hope in despair, every promising new path became a new dead end. Never mind. It would all be over soon. With his search ended, he hardly knew what to do with himself. He picked at his food. He picked at his books. He picked at his wife. One day, annoyed with everyone and everything, he slammed the door and found himself outside. The garden wasn’t pretty. His wife had given up on the roses. They were a lost cause, like him. Vaguely, he remembered caring deeply about this place—another lifetime, another man. The roses really had been lovely. Did he ever see them for what they were? Did he ever enjoy their fragrance for its own sake? Did he ever notice how his wife had bloomed among them?
A hint of colour caught his eye. Could a rose really have survived such an onslaught of weeds? No—they never had blue roses, and the petals were pointed. The leaves were striking as well, with their red veins.
She found him in the garden, weeping.
Sometimes, God gives us disaster as a gift, to bring us back to life.
sethlewis.ie 