Snow Melting at Agnus Dei

Rain fell softly through the night. The snow is mottled, khaki blend of earth and grass appear like hide of a dappled animal--like a short-haired mutt with multi-fur.

Gentle rain isn't even silence, though, for the nothing hears the effects if not the actual drops: slight washing of the windows, trickles down the spouts and along the exterior siding. But melodic rain soothes like keeping one's eyes closed yet awake, seeing grayish light through the lids but still deep in thoughts within the soul. It is dawnlight with blinds drawn shut. Then the sounds diminish as the blinds open, and sight surpasses, and thoughts stand up out of the soul and walk about, thinking of what is to be done. Being awakens to doing.

So the nothing Catholic hermit readies some hot water, toasts German sunflower seed rye bread, slabs some grapefruit preserves on it, and while the bread toasts, continues the regimen of bleaching pebbles.

Yes, it seems that there is likelihood the standing water in the pebbles upon which the orchids are set, may have molds, and that is what has caused the nothing such on-going sinus problems for four months now. We hope the orchids adapt to not having the added moisture. The other possibility, suggested by Sam at the local used book store, could be a developing allergy to book spores.

Now, this would alter the nothing's routine some; but it would be all right to not have the plethora of books on the shelves and all about at beck and reach. Variety is delightful, like God's creation of such variety beyond ability to comprehend. But it is delightful, also, to have few or two or one, such as one type of flower. St. Francis de Sales had but a few books on his shelves in his simple room in the Bishop's palace. He chose a room quite humble, yet exteriorly he dressed and offered noble accommodations for others. One time he was criticized by a Huegenot for riding about in Paris in a "fine coach and four."

Turns out the King had offered one of his royal coaches, four fine high-stepping steeds, and his livery men to take SFDS about when he was nine months in Paris. Is it Scriptural? SFDS pointed out to his critic that St. Philip road in a fine coach when he was instructing the eunuch. And, SFDS had not asked the King for this kind offering of transportation, and he did not refuse, for it provided a means to get from one appointment to another, preaching and offering the Sacraments, converting thousands.

Yet on the interior, and in his private space, St. Francis de Sales was himself, and ever humble. Maybe like the snow that is glorious when falling and covering the earth, and then mottled in melting, shedding its white raiment to reveal humus beneath. Both are required for life: the moisture of the snow seeping down into the dirt.

Yesterday at noon Mass, the rector celebrated the mysteries. The Gospel was Jesus' imploring us to love our enemies--and to be perfect as our Heavenly Father is perfect. The homily was excellent: direct, quiet, genuine, and honest. It is not easy to love our enemies, but Jesus tells us to do so. If we follow Jesus, if we are His disciples, His children, we do as He asks. To be perfect is what comes from following Jesus, yet it is always a state of following, and of striving, and of becoming. To be is not "we are." Jesus did not say we are perfect; we are to be perfect. Love of enemies is requisite.

Even with eyes open and writing pursued, the wind has its way of tossing rain against the window to say: Listen! We drops have something to say to you this morning!

"What is it?" The eyes look out and see the transluscent globules clinging to the windows, Lake Immaculata grayish in its beyond.

"Be limpid like the raindrops! Listen to Jesus wanting you to love your enemies and to be perfect as the Father is perfect. Listen to love; learn to love; listen to God loving you in telling you what He wills."

So the thoughts turn to love of the woman who has written an e-mail, reporting on the elderly friend. The nothing writes back, not mentioning the elderly friend, but offering to meet with the woman to "catch up." And the thoughts turn to the love of one who has ceased communications, even though the nothing has asked what it has done, some offense perhaps, and to be forgiven. But no, there is ice. The raindrops melt the ice in loving thoughts of this person who desires not to communicate any more. It is all right. We pass in life, like the snow falling, sun shining, rain washing, snow melting, earth showing.

It is all about transfiguration. We become transformed in the phases of life, through the conditions of following Jesus, in being perfected, to be perfect as our Heavenly Father is perfect. We are able to love commensurate to our comprehension of God's love for us. We are able to love commensurate to, then, God's suffering for us. How much does He love? How much does He suffer?

Resistance melts through suffering, and love soaks deep down into the soul. The wind sometimes pounds the pain into our lives, but mostly the love and suffering come together in a near-silent washing. To be limpid in the process, to have limpidity and be transfigured by God in His will: thus is love united, by one small drop of a will into His will.

It is like the clear drops of rain, now merged and flowing in wide swaths of limpidity, flowing en masse, sheeting down the window here at Agnus Dei on the Second Sunday of Lent.