Sara on The Journey Home

How Can I Keep from Singing

This hymn says it all. (a quick take, recorded in my living room)



My Life flows on in endless song, above earth's lamentations
I hear the real though far-off hymn that hails a new creation
Through all the tumult and the strife, I hear the music ringing
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing!

What thought the tempest 'round me roars, I know the truth it liveth
What though the darkness 'round me close, songs in the night it giveth
No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I'm clinging
Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing!

I lift my eyes, the cloud grows thin, I see the blue above it
And day by day the pathway clears since first I learned to love it
The peace of Christ restores my soul, a fountain ever springing
All things are mine since I am His, How can I keep from singing!

Composed by Robert Wadsworth Lowry

Epiphany

"What star is this, with beams so bright,
more lovely than the noon-day light?
'Tis sent to announce a newborn king,
glad tidings of our God to bring."


This is the view from my window, looking east towards the center of Edgartown (brought closer by my telephoto lens). This star has been shining on top of the town clock (above what was once the town's Methodist church, my grandmother's church) every Christmas for probably 60 years or more. When I was a little girl, I thought it was the real star of Bethlehem. Actually, I still do.

All That Is Hidden

Yesterday afternoon found me with twenty-or-so empty minutes, which chagrined me at first, since I'm more of a do-er rather than a waiter, but once I made up my mind that I would make the best of these twenty minutes by taking a walk - who knew, I thought, I might even find something to photograph (but doubting it a little since the sun was so bright, and I didn't think I'd find anything particularly new or interesting in that familiar neck of the woods) - I settled into the perfect September afternoon that it was.

The first treasure I happened upon was the group of bicyclists that had stopped to snack on the wild grapes that were growing alongside the bike path. As I stopped to chat, the tallest member of the group, the only one who could reach the high vines, generously handed me a small, perfectly shaped cluster of the dark purple fruit; another day and they'd be over-ripe, but today they were as sweet as sugar. Pleasantries were exchanged - they were from Chicago; city folk who were delighted to be on the island for the first time and partaking of nature's bounty, as well as being somewhat intrigued by having met an authentic native - after which I set out once again on my merry way.

Within another five minutes I noticed a narrow, almost-hidden path that led into the woods. I was curious because in all my years of bicycling this route - almost every day in the summer; or driving the nearby road - almost every day in the winter - I never saw this path. I thought at first that it might have been an impromptu "rest station," and that it would end abruptly in a smelly pile of human waste, but was instead intrigued to find a small bridge over a stream (where we used to catch frogs, as kids, I realized), that led to a path that meandered in twists and turns; up hill and down, through the sunny woods. It was a pathway that was neither heavily trampled; nor, apparently, was it a deep, dark secret, as the trail was well-defined, and some of the trees bore a white paint marker.

I couldn't help but be amazed by this find - not because it was one of the Seven Wonders of the World - but because it was something that had been there for quite some time, in a neighborhood I thought I knew fairly well. But until yesterday, I never saw it; it was hidden from my sight.

Which makes me wonder: how much more am I missing because of my break-neck pace through this life?







September light.

Conversation Stopper

Here's how to stop a conversation at a party:

While standing amidst a small circle of conversation (at a party comprised mostly of aging Vineyard hippies along with their children and an assortment of grand-babies and grandchildren) it was noted that orange seemed to be a dominant color in the guests' attire.

"Orange is the color of life according to Buddhist tradition," I offered.

He: "Really? Well, yes, I suppose so, what with the saffron robes and all." The gentleman went on to ask (while either ignoring, or somehow completely missing the large purple wampum cross prominently dangling against my white tee-shirt background), "Are you of the Buddhist tradition?"

Me: "No. I'm Catholic. And proudly so." At which point she walked away while he stammered out a few words, including something about "a new pope," before disappearing into the crowd.

Checking In

So sorry to be so far behind in my writing. All I want to say, one year and three months later is, I am so happy to be home, and so happy to be Catholic. I mean, really - every time I'm at Mass, which is every day, I think to myself, Why would anyone bother with anything besides this: the absolute straight story. I mean, we're talking pure drop, here: forgiveness, the Bible, the sacrifice at the altar, and the Real Presence in the Eucharist. The rest is commentary.

St. Jude

A couple of days ago my head was spinning with a seemingly overwhelming number of problems that I couldn't see an end to or solutions for. I was seriously down for the count. Beaten. Later that evening an ad appeared in the margin of my Facebook page, an ad for St. Jude. My mother loved St. Jude, swore by St. Jude, so, out of curiosity - or maybe desperation, after all, St. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes - I clicked the link and ended up at an option to post a prayer to St. Jude. I typed out my prayer, donated $10, and went on my way.

Yesterday, the answer to my prayer came. Not as thunderbolts, not as the mighty arm of God parting the sea and knocking people into place, but as a still, strong voice; the answer to a conundrum that has plagued me and my family for some time now, an answer that will be implemented as the coming months unfold but in the meantime gives me peace and strength.

I honestly don't know how this stuff works - and I certainly could never prove, scientifically, that it does - but I do know that it works.

Thank you, St. Jude. I definitely got my 10-bucks worth, and what's more, you have a new devotee.



The little St. Jude medal my mother once wore that has been in my jewelry case for the past twenty-one years is now sharing space with my once-lost Miraculous Medal (related story, here).