wolves of discouragement, loneliness or abandonment from howling at the door.
“Dark and cold we may be, but this is no winter now. The frozen misery of centuries breaks, cracks, begins to move. The thunder is the thunder of the floes, the thaw, the flood, the upstart spring. Thank God our time is now when wrong comes up to face us everywhere, never to leave us till we take the longest stride of soul men ever took. Affairs are now soul size, the enterprise is exploration into God” (Christopher Fry).
New Spring
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye” (Antoine de Saint Exupery).
Something spring like remains with me in these weeks following heart surgery, something that suggests the kind of person I wish to be for the rest of my life. An incident in these first weeks has become a symbol of the tiny shoot pushing from old soil. When I left intensive care, my nurse gave me a little pillow made by hospital volunteers. She apologized, however, because mine, unlike “adult” pillows, was covered with figures of a little bear looking at a flower. He wore a yellow shirt, short red pants, and a smart blue hat with a yellow visor. At the time, I felt only the softness of the pillow against my chest. A few days later, the little fellow became my companion.
I was much like a child in the hospital. I did not try to impress anyone with my bravery. Being defenseless, exposed, and dependent, I held the little pillow close to my chest or face, not caring what anyone thought. I experienced, however fleeting, the susceptible attitude and posture that is all too quickly forgotten in the defensive adult world. With my little pillow, I remained a child, mostly helpless, full of wondering and tears, which I welcomed as lost companions. I expected I would graduate from the pillow, but I notice even now that I know exactly where it is at any time. If I wish to take a nap, it is all I need to put me to sleep. Last year when I saw many in Oklahoma City hugging teddy bears at the barricades or in the televised memorial service, I knew in my head what they were doing. Now I understand with my heart.
The other day in cardiac rehabilitation I was pumping away on an exercise bike when an older man entered the room to inquire about the program. He was accompanied by his wife and another woman, perhaps his daughter. Dressed in dark clothes, he wore an indifferent look on his face, blank, hidden. My first reaction was to turn away. Then I noticed that he was clutching one of the little pillows. The way he clung to the pillow betrayed the indifference and detachment on his face. Immediately I felt my pain and his and how much we both were in need of consolation and reassurance. I wanted to get off my bike, go over to him, and tell him that his pain and fear were going to work out ultimately. I looked at him, loved him, but for the same reasons that he came into the room wearing an emotionless look, I kept on pedaling. Many times since then I have thought about both of us and what keeps us and the world apart. I think about my distance from others, and I remember the little pillows we all clutch.
If only we could see the hidden pillows being carried by those we pass on the street, persons whose controlled faces give no hint of vulnerability, yet who filled with fear, clutch at the pain inside them and wonder about their lonely lives. If only we would overcome decorum, self protective habit and security, and get off our machines to hold them.
Spring’s child is exposed, susceptible, precarious willing to admit pain, fear, and hope. She is unashamed to clutch her tiny pillow openly and be who she is. For now though, I use my pillow primarily to soften my ribs as I turn in sleep. I do not think that I have learned all I can from it. It is, after all, a pillow for my heart, not my plugged arteries. It is a reminder to take life into my heart and arms, and press it close, even as a child holds a stuffed animal in the face of threat and fear.14
Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our Hope
As she lived her life as a wife and mother, Mary is our exemplar of the highest hope and complete trust in God. She walked in faith and in mystery, but maintained a deep peace. She came and went quietly, her house was undistinguished among the others in her village. She tended the fire, scoured the earthenware vessels, trimmed the lamps, cooked and sewed. The secret of her hope was that her daily mundane tasks were accomplished with great love and confidence in God’s plan for her. In the evenings, we can imagine her holding Jesus close to her heart, still pondering, and perhaps softly singing a lullaby as Joseph quietly whittles a wooden toy for him.
Hope was Mary’s stronghold. She held onto it in times of great concern, and there were many. After giving birth to Jesus, she traveled in haste to Egypt. While on another journey, she lost her son. Like most women of her time, she worked from dawn to dusk. She was a widow at an early age with a teenage son. She watched helplessly as Jesus was cursed and spit upon, and stayed with him during his agony and death. Mary lived with a vision of hope rooted in faith. Hope drew her beyond herself, her fears and her worries. God was the tower of strength to whom she clung no matter what happened. She kept moving forward even though she did not understand what was happening. She lived the will of God perfectly, and urges us to do the same. The will of God is our sanctification. Therese of Lisieux, who gave us the little way to Jesus, makes this more accessible: “I hope in him who is virtue and sanctity itself. He alone, content with my frail efforts, will lift me up to himself, clothe me with his own merits and make me a saint.”
We are here to spread love and hope as Mary did. Mary was concerned about others. The bride and groom at Cana ran out of wine and quietly, without drawing attention to herself, Mary did something about it. To see with the eyes of Mary is to see the needs of others in our home, church and community, and to address them in quiet, loving ways. As Mary is the woman of hope, so we must try to be signs of hope to others. A kind deed, positive word or gentle smile can spark hope in the heart. Mary is our strength as we help others navigate through these confusing times. It is a sacred duty to replace anguish with hope, anxiety with peace, indifference with love, ugliness with beauty and an earthly vision with a heavenly one. Gregory of Nyssa wrote: “Hope always draws the soul from the beauty that is seen to what is beyond, always kindles the desire for the hidden through what is perceived.”
“We ask you Mother of Christ, to be our guide to the Heart of your son. We pray to you, lead us close to him and teach us to live in intimacy with this Heart, which is the fountain of life and holiness.”15
7. C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain, quoted in Groeschel, Journey toward God, 78–79.
8. Spirit & Life magazine (Benedictine Sisters of Perpetual Adoration, Tucson, AZ) May/June 2012.
9. Teresa of Avila and her associate, John of the Cross, were Spanish Carmelites in the sixteenth century. They brought to the Church a new expression of the ancient rule of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Followers of that expression became known as the Discalced Carmelite nuns and friars. Teresa and John are time honored and highly respected masters of the spiritual life, practical mystics and Doctors of the Church. Their books are spiritual classics that continue to have a universal appeal today.
10. United Christian Broadcasters (UK), Word for Today.
11. Smith, Homilies, xxv.
12. Quoted from Newman’s Idea of a University. John Henry Newman was born in London, and became the 19th century’s most important English-speaking Roman Catholic theologian. He spent the first half of his life as an Anglican and the second half as a Roman Catholic. In both churches he was a priest, popular preacher, writer, and
