Universe

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.

Kindred Spirits

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.

Storm Beyond, Fire Within

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.

Nests

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.

Deep Snow

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.

Beautiful Dust

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.

On to Another Island

Knock and the door will be opened. Few times have I experienced this truth as I did last week.

It has been burning on my heart—the desire to go to Prince Edward Island. Even before I left Nahant, I asked myself what I would do afterward, and like a spark flaring in the dark, this thought came: to Canada’s smallest province I would go. Since then, the desire has only grown.

Last week I finally decided to connect with fellow Catholics on PEI. Little did I know, but the night before I sent my email, a husband and wife prayed that God would send help into their bustling life . . . and that the Holy Spirit would make His will clear.

My email was forwarded by one kind woman to her friends, certain there would be a family among them who would accept my offer to live with them as a “family missionary”. She was right.

I spoke on the phone with the couple soon after I received their reply. Seven kids, homeschooled, living on a wooded acreage outside Charlottetown—and they love to go on spontaneous adventures. I think it’s safe to say this match was made in Heaven.

Wonder of wonders. I realize now that I can trust that burning desire on my heart . . . because it was planted there by God. I cannot tell you how beautiful it is, how awe-inspiring, to be aware that He is unfolding His plan before my eyes. My years at home after high-school taught me to find purpose in doing little things with great love, which prepared me to live with my four Italians on Nahant—which prepared me to live with an even bigger family on PEI. At this rate, it looks like I’ll be running an orphanage next.

Yes, knock and the door will be opened. I’m taking that one much more seriously now. Not long from now, much sooner than spring, I will again find myself soaring through the sky, bound for the unknown.

Building a Bridge

Islander no longer lives alone on his island. Today, I sat on his back.

Funny, I thought he would merely be a fun project that I would sell in the spring . . . but he’s more like a chisel on my character. God may have tricked me into this. I’m glad He did. Painful, but necessary . . . and I love the island. Or rather, I love what it means to have crossed onto a feral animal’s land without being kicked off (literally). I am rising to the challenge offered me—although I almost didn’t. When I used the word feral, I meant it. But it was my mother who urged me to not back down. There’s an anointing on that horse. He is part of your formation. 

And so he is. As I am forming him, he is forming me.

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The Old-Ancient Feeling

I call it the old-ancient feeling.

Old because—at a random sight, sound, smell, or touch—you return to a moment in your childhood . . . and ancient because it simultaneously transports you back to a time long before you were born. Suddenly (maybe this time it is a color that ignites the feeling) you are a baby on a kitchen floor, sunlight falling hazy on your head, pungent thyme wafting from your grandmother’s cupboard . . . even as you are there on the day thyme was first discovered high on a mountain.

It is strange, first to relive a moment that has, for years, been buried inside you—and then to experience that same familiarity with that which you’ve never known. An ancient place. Like Heaven. Yes, I believe the old-ancient feeling is ultimately pointing to Heaven. How can we call home a place we’ve never ventured? Yet we know we belong there, just as I know what it is to be deep in uncharted territory, ripping up herbs.

Is this proof that we are as spiritual as we are corporeal, living beyond these tangible limits? Thyme beyond time. I believe so. But even more a mystery . . . I believe the feeling is not a mere feeling, but in fact He who is called the Church’s living memory: the Holy Spirit Himself.

He reawakens in us that which was destined to be from the Beginning: truth, goodness, and beauty.