“What do you want!?” Iburga snapped at Gertrude, the young kitchen helper.
“The venerable Sister Prioress has asked me to remind you that tomorrow is the feast of our Blessed Mother’s Annunciation.”
“I know that!” growled Sister Iburga as she tried to reclaim her swirling spoon.
“And since it is a great feast, Sister Prioress said you would honor our Blessed Mother by preparing something special for the convent table.”
“Sister Prioress is a glutton!” hissed the cook, whose apron grew more stained and soiled with each successive stir.
“The venerable Sister Prioress mentioned that she saw some fat hens that would bake most excellently. She said she saw them at…”
“Sister Prioress is a fat hen herself! Besides, I rule the kitchen and the cellar, not the prioress!” As she spoke, she wielded her spoon as though it were a scepter. Iburga was the descendent of thirty-two noble ancestors, twice the number required for entrance into the convent of Sankt Mergen. Her father was a count who ruled a castle and one hundred soldiers in the Lower Rhineland. “Besides, a more suitable honor for Our Lady would be to thicken the soup for the poor with those chickens. Now then, Gertrude, help me carry this pot to the gate. God’s poor people are waiting hungry while we discuss feasting.”
Sister Iburga enforced strict order among her “guests” at the convent door. In the six years since the great flood, the crowds increased so dramatically that the cook’s stern nature was needed to maintain order. However, she also shared a comforting and encouraging word with each one who passed through her line.
A six-year-old boy raised his bowl to Sister Iburga, who could never resist his imploring smile and penetrating blue eyes. She dipped into the pot for some good pieces of meat to add to his soup. “May God reward you, Sister Iburga!” chirped the small boy with the bright voice. “Mother says that in heaven you will get a golden throne with a velvet pillow for your goodness.”
“Did your mother really say that?” laughed the cook.
“Truly she did. I’m not lying!” the boy insisted. “I think she also said that you would get a red velvet pillow!”
“So, a red one! But tell me, Herman, how is your father?”
“Oh, he still coughs so much,” he said sadly.
“Then you must pray much,” Iburga urged.
“I pray to Mother Mary all day long!” Herman responded eagerly. “But now I must go home before the soup gets cold.”
“Wait a minute, Herman,” the cook said. Her hands fumbled in her pockets before she presented him with a beautiful red apple. “Here. This is for the red velvet pillow.”
“Oh thank you, Sister Iburga! An apple this wonderful must be from the convent garden, from the last tree way in the corner.”
“Look how much you know about our garden. But go now, Herman. Many more people want soup, and we mustn’t keep them waiting.”
Since the Capitol church was right next door, Herman decided to stop in for a moment to pray. The soup could wait for that. He had to push one of the doors of Sankt Mergen open with his foot. Today he had no time to admire the beautiful and intricate carvings which adorned it. The heavy pot of soup also prevented him from dipping his hand into the holy water.
Herman struggled to reach the statue of the Little Madonna which was his favorite, and he heaved a heavy sigh after releasing his grip from the steaming pot. Then he knelt on the steps of the Blessed Mother’s altar, folded his hands, and prayed the glorious prayer which the crusader-preacher Bernard had taught the people of Cologne. Now it echoed throughout the churches and within the hearts of Cologne: “Salve, Regina!” “Hail, Holy Queen!” Then Herman spoke to his Holy Mother with his own simple, innocent, and loving words.
Sister Iburga’s red velvet-cushioned, heavenly, golden throne was soon transformed into the uncomfortable, wooden chair directly across from her glaring superior. The ingenuous Gertrude had repeated to the prioress all that Iburga had said about her. Sister Prioress then told the abbess, Mother Adelaide, whose stern demeanor told Iburga that she had not been summoned for a commendation.
“You have seriously offended the law of charity, and what makes it worse is that you have scandalized our kitchen girl. You could have damaged her esteem for Sister Prioress. Is that the proper example to set for Gertrude?” the abbess asked.
“I know I said she was a glutton, but it was not intended in such a mean spirit. And the ‘fat hen’ came out unexpectedly. Now I understand that it resulted from not holding my tongue in the first place.”
The abbess nodded. “You must apologize to Sister Prioress. Now go to the church and ask our Blessed Mother to give you a bit more patience and gentleness.”
“I will gladly do that. And then I will proceed to the store where I can buy Sister Prioress her chickens.”
“That isn’t necessary, Iburga,” smiled Mother Adelaide. “You are right to say that improving the poor people’s soup honors the Mother of God. Do so, and Sister Prioress will also be content if she thinks it over.”
The cook of Sankt Mergen passed through the church door to do her penance before the statue of the Virgin Mary. She was surprised to notice little Herman kneeling in prayer before Mary’s altar. She had sent him off nearly an hour ago. With pride she remembered the good meat she had saved for the boy, who failed to notice her approach. His eyes were transfixed on the statue of the Madonna, but his hands, which had been so peacefully folded, were now extended in supplication.
“Please, Mother Mary, ask your Son to heal my father. Maybe you could whisper my request into His ear. Then father will not cough any more, and mother will not cry so much, and Sister Iburga won’t have to cook any more soup for us. If we were not so poor, Mother Mary, I would give you something for hearing my prayer.” The boy looked at the pot beside him. “Surely you have better soup in heaven.”
Sister Iburga winced before realizing that it was her pride that caused her to be here in the first place. She felt that something miraculous was about to happen.“Wait a minute.” The boy fumbled through the pockets of his pants. “Here! Look at this apple. Sister Iburga gave it to me. It is a heavenly apple, so truly you deserve it. Here, Mother! Take my apple!”
Sister Iburga knelt spellbound, her heart pounding fiercely as she watched the miraculous scene unfold before her eyes. The boy climbed toward the statue of the Little Madonna. Then he reached up to her and held out his apple.
“Take it, Mother. Please put out your hand!”
A brilliant, golden radiance enveloped the altar and the child. Sister Iburga was momentarily blinded, but she cried out when she could see again. The statue of the Little Madonna was no longer there. Mary, the Queen of Heaven herself, stood there instead, holding the Divine Child in her arms. Herman continued to extend the apple toward his Heavenly Mother.
Then Sister Iburga witnessed a miracle of love as Mary smiled and extended her hand. The boy laid the apple in it, and, once again, she smiled. Overwhelmed, Sister Iburga covered her face. Then she heard Herman’s voice again:
“Don’t forget my father, Mother Mary!”
Sister looked up again to see the statue of the Little Madonna over the altar. Herman quietly came down the stairs, picked up his pot of soup, and left the church with a wobbly gait.
Sister Iburga recounted the experience to the abbess, at times doubting what she had seen. Mother Adelaide said she had been immeasurably blessed to witness such a miracle. “Miracles are not so strange on earth. And why shouldn’t our Blessed Lady perform a miracle for a child whose love impels him closer to her and her Son? You have witnessed a miracle, Iburga. You saw our Heavenly Mother hear the prayers of a child whose heart is pure.”
The next day Sister Iburga, her face beaming, surprised Sister Prioress. “Forgive me, Sister, for the mean names I called you. But I thank you a thousand times for telling Mother Abbess. Because you did, I witnessed a miracle!” Smiling, she listened to the hundreds of bells which joyously proclaimed throughout Cologne the feast of the Annunciation.