Her breath hitched in her throat, paralyzed by the desperate need to hide as she scrambled like a deer to flee. Hide. Get away. Escape.

Oh please great Lord protect me, she cried, save me from sin!

Her bare feet quickly echoed on the cement breezeway. Quick, but loud. The late night moon followed her from the chapel to the gardens where she ran between hedge bushes and into a group of trees. There, she ran toward the pale stone splendor of an angelic statue and fell to its feet, clutching her rosary and whispering under her breath.

“St. Michael the Archangel, 

defend us in battle. 

Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. 

May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, 

and do thou, 

O Prince of the heavenly hosts, 

by the power of God, 

thrust into hell Satan.”

She looked up and stared wide eyed and begging into the statue of Michael. His chest out and lance ready to pierce the wickedness of anything in its way. A statue too tall for her to see his gaze of determination for God.

The only thing to respond was the night air and the smell of the fruiting trees around her. Crickets in the distance called out, carried by the warm breeze….called out, but quickly stopped.

A stillness in everything engulfed her, like a moment in time being stretched to agony.

She couldn’t bare it. The weight of it was all too much.

She tightly closed her eyes and wailed, reaching out to the feet of the angel statue in desperation. And yet, in this desperate act there was a feeling of comfort as the clutched onto the cold surface. It’s hard medium weighed her down and grounded her. And even though her tears were still flowing, over time her breathing became regulated with deep controlled breaths. Slowly, yet surely, she started calming down. Peace was returning. She laid there draped over for a time, until she felt calm.

She looked up towards the handsome statue once more.

And Michael looked back, judgement filled in his eyes.

He lowered his lance towards the Sister.