Author: Sarah (Page 1 of 7)

Penitence

Away amidst the desert wastes,
Underneath a furnace sun,
Great stones stand, reaching upward from the plains,
While strong winds, streaming free across bare land,
Make sharp, hard currents of the sand
And scourge the towering rocks continually,
Smoothing, shaping, sculpting,
Their impassioned rush fashioning something new,
Monuments of firm, enduring glory
From Nature’s hard and patient hand.

Walking the burnt, bare wilderness of self-denial
Beneath the Spirit’s ineffable fire,
Our spirits worn and chiseled by the swirling, sandy winds
Of trials that with love we bear,
Yet may joy’s deep torrent through us flow,
For our great Sculptor guides the wind,
And plies it, not to wear us all away,
But that our sculpted souls might take the shape—
From earthly roughness hewn to glorious shape—
Of that which they were always meant to be.

Sadness at Christmastime: A Meditation

Amid the bubbling, glittering rush of excitement that accompanies Christmas, a considerable number of people feel themselves outside the whirl of merriment. Whether anyone is to blame or not, many hearts are weighed down with sadness at the time when joy is most widely emphasized. If Charlie Brown were to raise his questions today, he would find himself in very good company.

The reasons vary. Some are going through their first Christmas without some loved one, in whose absence the festivities can easily become painful reminders of how things were when that person was there. Others find themselves left alone, with no family or friends to share any sort of celebration with them. Still others may feel unable to rejoice in the face of physical or mental illness, the suffering of someone close to them, material hardship, family conflicts, anxiety over a troubled past or an uncertain future—any of the things that can cripple the heart and impede even peace, to say nothing of joy, from rising inside.

These are the souls for whom there is no room in the inn—no room in the comfortable space where everyone streams to congregate, no way into the realm of merry cheer that our culture has established.

It is these souls who are especially invited into the stable.

All through Advent, we’ve been hearing the promises of the Old Testament writers: “The wilderness and the parched land will exult, the desert will rejoice and bloom” (Isaiah 35:1), and a few verses later, “Say to the fearful of heart: Be strong, do not fear! Here is your God, He comes with vindication; with divine recompense He comes to save you.” The promised Lord is coming for the parched land, the withered, afflicted places, the fearful of heart who wait in darkness for a rescuer.

Now He is here—and He did not come so that halls could be decked, feasts consumed, lights set to twinkling, or even hymns sung, appropriate as all that may be. He came to become one with His broken, tormented creatures. He came to enter into the entirety of human life, “like us in all things but sin,” to deliver us from sin, from death, and from all the disorders in the world. He came to descend into all of our darkest, most hopeless places, that He might be with us there, our light and strength and life.

Ultimately, He came to raise up our lost humanity to a new life in which every wound, even the deepest, will be healed for good and no evil or pain will ever trouble us again. His Nativity doesn’t bring that about all at once, but it is the beginning of that transformation. It is His promise to us that God’s saving work has begun, that deliverance has arrived, that our God is here among us from now on. We are never alone. He is Emmanuel, “God with us”—He knows and understands everything we experience, and He cares more than we can ever know. His presence in flesh reveals that to us.

If you, then, are one of those who feel only emptiness amid the gaiety of the season, know that the Newborn King, Whose coming we celebrate, is here especially for you. Be strong, do not fear. Here is your God. With divine recompense He comes to save you. You may not be able to feel particularly cheerful, but you can make the choice to believe in His love for you and to accept the gift He offers you of Himself.

Rest in quiet before the Lord in the manger. Lay at His feet all that’s weighing on your heart, as the Magi laid before Him the precious and bitter myrrh. And know that if you have to follow Him from here up the road to Calvary, He will also lead you on beyond the crucifixion to an Easter you can’t even imagine now, one beside which “the sufferings of the present are as nothing” (Romans 8:18). The joy of Christmas is a promise, a bright forerunning glimpse, of that future glory, offered to us to lift up our weary hearts.

I leave you with these excerpts from the great hymn “O Holy Night”:

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn . . .

The King of Kings lay in a lowly manger,

In all our trials born to be our friend.

He knows our need,

To our weakness is no stranger.

 

Related posts: Glory of a Winter Night

Special Announcement: New Book!

Dear Gilded Weavings readers,

I am excited to present my first book publication! It consists of my first ten short stories, updated and gathered into a collection: Eyes of the Night Sky and Other Stories. Most of the stories are some form of fantasy.

The book is available on Amazon here. At present it is only in paperback form, but the Kindle version should be forthcoming soon.

Thank you for your interest in and support of my work!

God bless you,

Sarah

The Reason for the Season of Advent

Originally published on Catholic Stand

Excitement is in the air as the “holiday season” begins. Around the same time as the reunions and feasts of Thanksgiving, Christmas lights begin to appear on houses. In many stores, similar lights and decorations have probably been in place since before Halloween, marketing Christmas-themed products within.

Of course, this is to be expected. People naturally become excited for festive occasions long in advance, and the commercial world regards these holidays as financial opportunities to be seized before the day arrives. Most people in our culture have no reason not to begin their Christmas celebration right after Thanksgiving.

On the other hand, there is something strange about seeing Catholics beginning their celebration of Christmas as much as a month in advance. This practice essentially skips over the four weeks of Advent, the period of preparation for the great holy day.

Given this occurrence, before any discussion of what’s better to do in December, perhaps it would be helpful to explore what exactly Advent is and why the Church has given us this tradition.

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All Souls’ Day

November wind flies swift and strong and cool
Across the crystalline blue lake of sky,
And strews without a clear design or rule
The leaves that so magnificently die.

As splendidly as for a bridal trail,
They tumble, orange, pale gold, spicy red,
And in a gentle tribute lightly sail
Around these stones that mark the sleeping dead.

Some, like small towers, witnessing the losses
Of those who could spare half a fortune’s worth;
Some, sweetly carved with angels or with crosses;
Some, lowly, worn, and sunk into the earth;

But over all, a solemn silence lies,
Thick, heavy, peaceful, like a holy veil,
Unbroken by vain fears and stormy sighs
That thunder round the earth’s embattled pale.

Here, no one worries any more if life
Ne’er granted them success or wealth or fame,
Thinks on the outcome of their weary strife,
Minds mortal talk—to them, ‘tis all the same.

One thing alone is of importance here:
Did these souls, sprung from out the Father’s hand,
Direct their flight up through earth’s little sphere
Home toward His light, the destiny He planned?

If so, they have no more to grieve or dread;
Their earthly quest fulfilled, they now are free,
Or will be soon, for even to the dead
He grants the grace to reach full purity.

And whether plunged in His ecstatic sea
Or passing first through purifying rain,
They’ve gained the priceless pearl, eternity
In His embrace—for which all loss is gain.

Then, too, they rest awaiting even more,
Full, endless life not only for the soul,
For ‘tis their Lord’s design unaltered for
Man’s flesh and spirit that they form one whole.

The day will dawn; the veil o’er all their tombs
Will by a hand on high be rent asunder;
His own will rise as from some poor bedrooms,
Ring out their grateful praise while angels wonder.

One day I too will lie beneath this field,
Desires and fears of mortal life long gone;
What then I’ll find and be remains concealed,
And yet it’s pleasant to reflect upon,

That in my tangled life, the only care
That won’t be borne leaf-like on winds of time
Is following the souls gone safely there,
True home, true life, dear country, hope sublime.

So now I kneel upon their sacred ground,
My mortal mind half grasping all of this,
And lift my suffrage for those laid all round,
To speed their passage to their Father’s bliss.

O great Redeemer, by Whose gift we hold
A hope so full of immortality,
Grant them, and us, when flesh’s fire grows cold,
Your unveiled Face for evermore to see!

Of Rain and Ropes

The soil of earth is parched and cracked,

The dust of earth runs dry;

The sandstorms on the barren sands,

Unblocked, beat hard and sigh.

 

The souls of earth are parched and thin,

Blown fast with pains and fears,

And still run dry in barren lives

Not whole enough for tears.

 

For while we shun the beat of rain,

Our soil shall be dry,

Devoid of sweetness, life, and grace,

A desert made of our own place,

The poison in a sickened face

Not well enough to cry.

 

My heart, like dirt, is drenched from clouds

Of present falling pain,

That saturate my helpless soul

With tears like winter rain;

 

But though it drink this shower cold

Until its soil floats free,

And melts away beneath the flood,

Dissolves as in the sea,

 

I had rather die of precious loss—

Blest ill to perish of!—

Than die like those in deserts bare,

Not well enough to weep or care,

Who gave to life a mere blank stare

And never learned to love.

 

What sky shone bright for ever?

What field stayed e’er in bloom?

What house so noble, high and strong

That Time proved not its doom?

 

E’en should the house or field stand

As long as should the world,

That too must crumble, slip and fall,

Down Time’s swift river whirled.

 

So no love that we joy on earth

Can be had free of tears,

But ever anguish is the cost,

For all things must sometime be lost

That come with passing years.

 

But by the Love that burns through wounds

In hands and feet and side,

Why should our souls then die of thirst

Because we never cried?

 

On earth the souls that never weep

I envy nothing of;

These souls cannot keep all they know,

For everything must come and go;

Their looks of stone can only show

They never learned to love.

 

But I will cherish every grace

That finds me through the years,

And when it passes on again,

I’ll honor it with tears.

 

For we shed e’en our hottest tears

Not as those who lack hope,

But we climb through this toilsome life

As a man climbs up a rope.

 

Though it be steep, and hard to cling,

And too easy to fall,

Above the rope must yet be bound,

Which speaks to us of solid ground,

And in our hope that this be found,

We climb the cliffside’s wall.

 

What’s at the top, no man can see,

Nor heart nor mind conceive,

Wherefore some climbers have denied

A top at all, and dropped and died

All rather than believe.

 

But though my clinging hands may bleed,

I still climb up with hope,

For when I nearly fail, a balm

Comes down and heals each bloody palm

From up above the rope.

 

And when I hear the shrieking winds

That blast my rope about,

Beyond their wails I hear a Voice

That overspeaks my doubt:

 

“Though it be steep, and hard to cling,

And too easy to fall,

I made the way for all your kind

Your joy by tears in faith to find,

Leave then your unbelief behind—

With Me you find your all.”

 

And then I look up wondering,

My heart leaps—could it be?—

All that I’ve lost throughout the climb,

Could it be waiting all the time,

Up at the top for me?

 

“Them you will find, but seek Me first,

And closely heed My call,

The heart that’s given first to Me

Can love the rest most perfectly,

Now take My Hand, though you can’t see—

In Me you find your all.”

 

So in the storm of bloody tears,

His words our hearts defend,

For in that Voice we recognize

The presence of a Friend.

Waiting in Peace for our Vocation

Originally published on Catholic Stand

“Why am I still waiting for my vocation?” I’ve heard variations on this question many times from friends and other young people searching for long-term places in the world. Why the waiting indeed? Reflecting on this lament impelled me to consider more deeply these times of waiting and what place they hold in our lives.

Long waits must be among the most frustrating experiences of human life, even in trivial cases like a check-out line. The time spent in waiting feels like simply a negative quantity, of which one eagerly awaits the end so one can get on to whatever one wants to be doing.

That frustration and longing is all the greater when the goal is one’s vocation. So many wait for the right job, the right potential spouse, the right religious order, or even some hint of what to do with their lives at all. As many young people have found, that waiting can go on for years with little or no sign of change, even after the most fervent prayer, research, and advice-seeking. When this happens, it’s easy and natural to ask what one is “doing wrong,” especially as friends and peers enter their various states in life, prompting one to wonder why one’s own search has been less successful.

In the two years since I graduated college, I’ve come to know this sorrow well: a long-time aspirant to religious life, I have yet to find a place in an order. However, through the longing and searching, our Lord has been gradually teaching me, leading me toward a peace deeper than having every question answered. By sharing here what I’ve learned, I hope to help other “seekers” find, here and now, the peace that is our heritage from Him (cf. John 14:27).

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Sunday by the Sea

I went to church down by the seacoast far;

After the bell rang, prayerful spirits fled:

The notes that sprang out from the steel guitar,

They bounced around like balls inside my head,

And all rolled off down some meandering way

Where neither ear nor tongue nor mind could follow;

Weary and vexed, my thoughts floated astray,

My hungry heart all overstuffed yet hollow.

No sense in all this jangling earthly show

Of Who it is behind that curtain dwells,

Whose might and glory round the planet go,

More so than solar fire or ocean swells.

Though folk come here with hearts pure as they can,

Yet this music draws man’s worship to man.

 

Two hours later, I made for the line

Where foaming breakers rush to meet the sand,

The burbling, tinkling shallows, clear and fine,

With softest breath of melting bubbles spanned.

And out beyond them, rumbling from the deep,

Great waves like organs swell their booming strain,

The mighty rhythm of their crash and leap—

How ancient and ageless the sea’s refrain.

Each sound keeps steady measure in its place,

And in sweet, solemn harmony they blend,

Forever singing canticles of grace,

Of unprobed wonder, glory without end.

On contemplation’s tide my heart floats free,

On the immortal music of the sea.

 

Oh, that the melodies we play and sing

In His house—He Whose Hand brought forth the waves—

Gave off a little of that hallowed ring

That man’s soul, hungering to worship, craves!

Patterns of steady grace would join the sounds,

That all our hearts and tongues might pray in song,

Harmonies like the waves that roll their rounds,

Made, by their very order, sweet and strong.

Their task, to lift the mortal mind and heart

On contemplation’s tide to the Divine,

Him Who in might and beauty reigns apart,

Yet deigns to dwell here veiled in bread and wine.

So may we learn in our own artistry

A lesson from the music of the sea.

The Aviator’s Reply

See original poem by Daniel Whitehead Hicky

No intimacy with the deeps of stars
Or meteors can mortal beings know.
Though engines lift this dusty flesh of ours
Through air, to heaven’s shores they cannot go.

I know my Lord prepares my home on high,
Fair beyond even skies of purest light,
Meanwhile, though I may be glad to fly,
I’ll be content on firm ground to alight.

Enchanted Glass

All we upon this earth are flooded round

By blinding sunbeams of Reality,

And yet our vision’s by our weakness bound,

So none takes in their blaze entirely.

 

But each receives some part, and we must work

To share the light among us as we may,

Burn off deceit and all confusion’s murk,

Pour forth the Truth, a white-gold noontime ray.

 

So we reflect it with small plates of glass,

And we call words these mirrors that we wield,

Given to us that we might freely pass

The beams in wisdom through thought’s motley field.

 

Then, with these words, a strange enchanting art

May turn them to reflect another way,

Beaming realities into the heart

By casting keener lights in subtle play,

 

An indirect beam, aimed at spirit’s sight,

A message in the language of the soul,

And we call verse this deep ecstatic light,

This piercing vision of the unseen whole.

 

In thoughtfulness and beauty it reveals

The knowledge that eludes our mundane speech,

Things every human heart by instinct feels,

But, while we think in prose, stay out of reach.

 

We plainly see the way a ship’s designed,

Of wood or iron, moved by fuel or sails,

But in poetic light, we further find

That it plows over dim and flooded vales

 

Like some magician’s chariot through the sky,

Yet wobbles there, fragile uncertain guest

Skirting a world’s surface, humble and shy,

In water-realms a little human nest;

 

Yet bravely it traverses the abyss

As if to leave the very world behind—

Contemplative reflections such as this

In everything a poem’s light can find.

 

Then let us use it to make bright and plain

The glory that all things hold deep in store,

And give the lie to those who would maintain

Our world is chemicals and nothing more.

 

To catch the rarest lights, let us arrange

Our words exquisitely, as if in dance,

Nor garble them into disorder strange

In shallow hope to startle some stray glance.

 

And if we use it with all care and grace,

Its power may burn through our spirits’ eyes

A light from high beyond the depths of space,

And leave us thankful, and a bit more wise.

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