I Didn’t Sign Up for This

       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