The last seven weeks
have been some of the worst for our world. The nightly news is a grim reminder
of everything, and more importantly, everyone we have lost. Medical
professionals, literally and figuratively, bruised from giving care to others
say, “I didn’t sign up for this.” Yet, they return day after day risking their
own lives for the sake of others. I am sure others say the same: clerks at the
grocery, tellers at the bank, restaurant workers, or any essential workers.
Going
into week five of teaching via Zoom, I catch myself saying, “I didn’t sign up
for this.” But neither did my students and tomorrow morning (after my second
cup of coffee) there is no place I’d rather be. It seems we are all in a
place of uncertainty and fear. Our plans and dreams have been put on hold, not
unlike the people in this past Sunday’s gospel on the Road to Emmaus.
Jesus was with them as
they walked the seven mile journey home, but they didn’t recognize him. They
said, “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening and the day is almost over.”
Jesus’ unaware hosts knew it would be dark soon. One should not be traveling
about after the sun went down. It wasn’t safe. What is it about darkness and
nighttime that can leave us a bit afraid? Perhaps Luke was reminding readers
that Jesus is the true light and without him we are left not able to see our
true selves, perhaps even a bit frightened. I am sure we have all felt that way
recently. But we need to remember that this story was taking place during or
shortly after Passover. There would have been a waning full moon. They would
not be overcome by darkness. Light would shine--even amid the confusion,
treachery, and death experienced in Jerusalem those days before
. There is hope
in our darkness. We experience things we may not otherwise see. Here at the
monastery, as the sun hints at setting in the western sky, one will see deer in
the fields, or hear an owl whose day is just beginning. Frogs are chirping and
croaking full force as spring dictates they must. And on the luckiest of days,
you will then witness one of the most glorious sunsets you have ever seen.
Darkness does not dampen the smell of the flowers or the greening of the grass.
The hillside is coming to life whether one looks at day or night. It will not
be discouraged. And when we make the request, “Stay with us,” my faith tells me
we are heard and my hope tells me there is light. Victor Hugo writes, “Go to
sleep in peace. God’s awake.” And today, even night gives me hope for a better
tomorrow. And that is something I’ll sign up for every time.
A few weeks ago, I came
across this poem by Kentucky poet Wendell Berry.. I think it says the same
thing.
“The Peace of Wild
Things”
When despair for the
world grows in me
and I wake in the night
at the least sound
in fear of what my life
and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where
the wood drake
rests in his beauty on
the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of
wild things
who do not tax their
lives with forethought
of grief. I come
into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the
day-blind stars
waiting with their
light. For a time
I rest in the grace of
the world, and am free.
Sr. Eileen O'Connell, OSB
