After observing the debate between the Catholic and the atheist at the university, I returned home—only to discover that I was locked from the house, my hosts off to attend a celebration. A little smile crept onto my face, and I found myself crawling into the truck’s bed and then onto its rain-sprinkled roof. I laid back and crossed my ankles. Above was the night sky, thick with clouds, but I sensed the galaxies beyond the veil.

I thought about the atheist and his belief that the universe did not come from God, and I felt the emptiness in that—I felt how crushing the weight of the universe could be without a God to explain its purpose. Why this world? Why us if not Him? Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes.

Around me the woods were melting, releasing the tangy fragrance of the pines. Every tree begins with a seed. Indeed, everything natural begins with something—this we have observed. Every creature has a father and a mother. Every landslide begins with one stone shifting. Every effect has a cause, and this pattern can be traced back into infinity. But infinity itself has no cause by definition, thus rendering it unnatural—or rather, supernatural. What is infinity, then, but existence sustained by He who is eternal?

I think the atheist must have a comeback, but in the end . . . what cannot be disputed is that innate desire in every human heart to be satisfied, to be fulfilled. Why? I’m thinking it’s because that desire was placed there by God, to be satisfied by God, who is supernatural.

Glory be to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,

who was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. 

Amen.

When I stepped into the barn, my eyes began to sting—but it was not from that pungent, earthy smell known to animals, but from that unshakable thing in me that loves the lifestyle that dances with creation. A farm. My heart squeezed when I saw the gray-and-white cat, and I might have cried with happiness were children not gathered about me. Silly me, yes? But, oh, how I love you, cat. And I would sit with you in the straw, sheep and goats, if I were not wearing a dress. May I stroke your silken neck, dear cow? Chickens, I love you less than the others, but I will admit that your clucking and ruffling feathers is something like music (to my ears anyhow).

A farm to love. Milk from a Jersey cow, speckled brown eggs from hens, vegetables from the garden, berries from the woods. A rope swing in the barn, a rocking chair beneath the eaves, a braided rug on creaky walnut-stained floorboards. Ay yi yi, I have the horse, but not the pasture; the blue-and-white dishes, but not the cupboards; the will, but not the means. And so my little place in the country remains a little getaway in my mind.

Is it strange that something in me is a little sad that I no longer must spurn tea, now that Lent is over? Perhaps less strange upon some reflection.

Why do we fast in the first place? It is to sever attachments to other gods, yes, but the heart of fasting is to become more attached to God himself. How is this accomplished by giving up tea, coffee, chocolate, or whatever else? When we sacrifice, we suffer, and when we suffer, we seek consolation. Deprivation craves satiation. When you cannot turn to tea, you must turn to something else, you must turn inward, inward to God.

And I think that explains my sadness—because during Lent my soul drew closer to its Maker. Under His wing, against His breast, I am warm—as I should be always. Which leads me to the point that sacrifices must, absolutely must, extend beyond Lent, or a soul will not draw nearer the Lord. Lent, as a friend told me, is a detox, a time to cleanse one’s system from toxins—afterward you must begin a lifestyle that is “healthy”, otherwise detoxing is without lasting purpose. Sacrifice—suffering—is not optional for the Christian if we wish to be healthy in spirit. Without sacrifice, there is no sanctity. Without sanctity, who are we but of the world? And we were not made for this world but for the next.

I was not made for tea but for Truth.

I wish I had something more profound to write today other than that when I smelled a marshmallow bunny, I was instantly returned to my childhood and nearly cried for homesickness. And I think that that was my cross to carry this Lent: not being with my family. Mistake me not, here on the island is where I am called to be. And the Triduum was beautiful, especially the candlelit vigil in the looming basilica, where I found myself absorbed by the readings that span history—and by the choir that filled the sanctuary with their harmonies. Beautiful too was the cloudless sky Easter Sunday morning, and the joy we shared throughout the day as we played and cooked and ate together. And my hosts were sweet to gift me with my favorite tea (Cream of Earl Grey) and dark chocolate, all I desired in the face of the children’s weighty chocolate bunnies and copious jellybeans. Yes, it was a good Triduum. But it wasn’t home.

And I believe in this homesickness, because I believe in the Resurrection. Every cross, if carried to the end, is rewarded by life everlasting. Would we be Christian if it were otherwise? This is my hope.

Christ is risen.

Planet Earth is suspended just where it should be in the universe. Within this little world, clouds form in the atmosphere, darkening until they must release what was never theirs to keep. Where man lives, the soil drinks, and where man toils, the soil gives. A vine creeps up, and one day, human hands come to pluck the fruit and bleed it into wine. Wheat blankets the land, growing golden at harvest—as golden as the bread it will become. When the bread and wine are placed on an altar and offered to Heaven . . . He who created the universe emerges. And I am finally coming to understood how magnificent this miracle truly is.

Surrounded by at least fifteen other young women, I knelt before the exposed Eucharist in a small but beautiful Adoration chapel, and we sang to Him in the night. Princesses adoring their King. I sensed that as we were captivated by Him, He was captivated by us. While everything else seems to be spinning into chaos, departing from its true purpose, there we were, suspended just where we should be in the universe.

I asked God to give me at least one kindred spirit here on the island. Well, I’ve discovered something “kindred” in at least four young adults already—and unexpectedly in a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired girl. Our connection? Horses. Again and again God floors me with His blessings. Who am I that He would go all out? I am loved, that is all I know.

Today I snowshoed with two of my new friends. Ducking under snow-crusted evergreen boughs, chucking snowballs, gasping at the orange blaze of a fox, we wound our way through a tranquil treed segment in Charlottetown. Decked only in sweaters and light gloves, we found the blue day a perfect beginning to spring, often throwing our heads back to sigh in delight. I’ve been told, however, that it is the calm before the storm—as it is before every storm on this island. Consolation before desolation. Ah, well, enjoy the calm while it lasts, and then break out the hot drinks when the ice crystals descend to gust against the window panes. The approaching storm has not yet arrived, but soon. And I doubt it is the last.

We are all aching to know summer again—but I confess I do not mind having dropped into this faraway world while it is overflowing with snow. Because it means I will journey with these people from season to season, as the snow recedes, as the mud forms, as the grass grows green, as the flowers peep forth. And when we find ourselves skipping on a beach for the first time, we will share and understand each other’s joy.

A friend called me a chameleon at heart, and I think I may be, because already I feel comfortable in this home, with this family. They are good souls, very kind to me, down to the youngest with her pigtails and thoughtful chocolate-brown eyes. We’ve laughed together, prayed and sung together, traded recipes and stories. I imagine they will begin to feel like my own kin as the weeks pass.

It is a charming, light-filled home, and I love the sanctuary that is my bedroom, but how I wish to venture beyond these walls into the woods. And yet storm upon storm has buried the island in snow, and my boots are only shin-high. If my suitcase were bigger, I would have packed the clothing required to head out into the blustering snow and romp with the little ones. As it is, I must await the melt that will come—I await wildflowers. I am told we will be on the beaches in sweaters as soon as possible.

Until then, I play with the children, help them with their school, sweep the floor, change the baby’s diaper, read by the wood-stove, and do whatever else is necessary in the moment. Sometimes this involves brewing coffee.

For a few desperate moments, I was an eaglet, safe in the dark beneath their wings. What am I, that I cling to the nest, even as my lungs burn to taste the air above the peaks?

I am young. Time will one day see me clutching my own child in my arms, crying into her hair. Until then, I am building my own nest. And the first twigs have been found not in some distant land, but have been given to me from home. They are the tears that say I love you, and so I let you go.

Woah. Once again, this season at home is over and I am leaving behind the familiar to set out into the unknown. I look at Islander and I am sad to let him go. But even though our time together was short, I know it was meant to be. I guess that’s what I’m learning about life: no season lasts. Something in me wants this season to carry on a while longer—this time spent learning to speak Islander’s language, playing boardgames with my brothers, going on dates with Dad and to horse clinics with Mom—but, like the trees and their leaves that fall, I do not control the tides of my destiny.

I’ll be honest, I feel little. I am leaving to live in a place where I know no one, to give my whole self to strangers . . . even as I know I have absolutely nothing to give them. But this is good. Good because in my littleness I must run to He who is big. And Abba has everything to give.

Into deep snow I plunge (literally), but also into a new beginning. Spring is coming.

You are dust and to dust you shall return.

It seems a bizarre and far-off prospect, that day when this body I know so well will be like the dust on which I now walk. And yet I believe those words above go beyond the physical—and when they are interpreted as spiritual, they become an in-the-moment reality.

We are called to return to dust today, for unless a grain of wheat falls to ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.

It is death of self. It may mean simply wiping clean a sticky spot on the floor, or coming when the six-year-old calls. It may be more difficult, like shutting down the computer before you’re pulled into a sinful habit, or placing a hundred dollars into the collection basket. Every moment we choose to die is a moment when a new fruit comes into existence and is fixed into history—not only your personal history, but the universal history too. Souls pulled from darkness by the love discovered in your eyes, your hands, your words. Beautiful things can come from dust. It must be why, way back in Eden, God looked at the dust beneath his feet and thought, Ah, now from this I shall bring into being my greatest creation. And man was born.

Every moment you choose to die—and in doing so bear fruit—you are sharing in God’s creative power. And how great it is indeed.