Author's Note: Several years ago, I was asked by the Sisters of St. Francis of the Holy Cross, whose Motherhouse is in Bay Settlement on the eastern side of the Green Bay, to offer reflections on the Canticle of the Creatures by St. Francis. I shared the reflections during an evening gathering that the good sisters call "Silence and Sunset". After a recent call from the community for a copy of the talk, I decided that I would post them as a series in Embers over the next few weeks. I highly encourage you to read St Francis' poem as a foundation, and consider these 'companion pieces' to help you reflect more deeply on what the good Saint has to tell us.
Those Who Grant
Pardon
The parched earth
lies dormant and dry. Grasses are tawny
and stiff in the wind, lacking suppleness.
The morning dew fails to quench and seems quickly snatched away in the
shimmering heat waves that blur the horizon.
Only the trees still stand in the deep green of deepest summer, but even
there a splash of yellow and even reds are signs of distress like the short
shallow breaths of near death.
The edges of the
shrinking pond are baked and cracked by the unrelenting sun. The frog chorus is silent, no longer sounding
like a symphony of base strings tuning before a concert.
The forming
blackberries are tight and tart and seedy.
At the edge of this year’s fruitfulness, they seem more likely to end
like the barren fig tree cursed by Jesus.
The summer sky day
after day is empty and unpromising. The
blueness itself seems pale as if injured by the sun’s intensity.
The roadside,
charred by a grassfire that quickly blazed, offering up Queen Anne’s Lace and
the Mary-blue chicory in thick black smoke that left behind a charcoal scar of
wildflower ash. The buds of woodland
sunflowers are shut tight as hands clenched in prayers of anguish.
And yet, the swallows
dip and dive across the pond. The
morning dawns afresh each day. Hope is
resilient.
This day, clouds
rise in the southwest like sky mountains, building higher and thickening and
darkening. The breeze stirs fresher in
this new morning. The heady smell of
rain scents the air like a covenant promise.
There is a flash of lightning, like God’s arrow, a sign of the constant
connection of Heaven to Earth and Earth to Heaven followed by a peal of
thunder, like God’s own voice that splits the dryness open like the rock at
Meribah. You can hear the rain coming
through the trees, sounding like a growing rush of wind. You turn to meet it face- to-face.
At the first drop
the earth relaxes, immediately opening itself up to receive the blessed
rain. Then the drops begin - large and
pelting and quickly puddling, then the rain settles, now gentler like the
prolonged kiss of lovers.
The pond is
refreshed, the shoreline edges are now smooth and newly fertile. All drink deeply.
Tomorrow the
blackberries will begin to plump, the woodland sunflower buds will unfold like
hands lifted up in the gratefulness of answered prayer. And in the grassfire scar, new green and supple
blades will begin to push up and heal the land - the fire will be
forgotten.
The land teaches a
willingness to forgive, a desire for healing, the beauty of reconciliation and
the sacredness of life ever renewed, ever renewing.
“You
care for the earth, give it water, you fill it with riches. Your river in Heaven brims over to provide
its grain. And thus, you provide for the
earth; you drench its furrows, you level it, soften it with showers, you bless
its growth. You crown the year with joy,
the meadows covered with flocks, the valleys are decked with wheat. They shout for joy, yes, they sing.” (Psalm 65)
His Peace
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Deacon Dan
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
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