The Hermit's Desperate Wound

On occasion, the nothing Catholic hermit experiences the recurrence of that "wound desperate so as to refuse to be healed" (Jeremiah 15:18).

Like the "falsehood of deceitful waters that cannot be trusted," the wound reveals its perpetual presence, though mostly hidden. There is still a root remaining deep in the clay soil, although the bulk of the root system has been removed over time, by God's grace and a will to forgive.

A couple of days ago, however, it made itself known to nothing. Again, this morning, upon waking, there it was, showing itself above ground. Thoughts of forgiveness offered some relief, and then to begin the day, to boil the beans that had been soaking overnight, to set the sprinklers in the Mary Gardens, to ponder the words of Jeremiah once again, and also the Lord's reply to him.

There was some going back, not much, but enough to see two lives and choices made, years ago. Two days ago there was a reminder, and again last evening, of some past cruelty and rejection. Perhaps that root will always be there while nothing is one earth? Is it as Jeremiah thought, also, that the sorrow is perpetual and the wound refuses to be healed? There is some truth in the rejection perpetuating.

Yet one must look at the two lives, and how they are lived today. They are very different lives. One is of material prosperity (and at the other's expense, to be sure), of human companionship, of temporal honor and admirable career, and of respect by and from others, even those too young to realize the inhumanity to man, perpetuated by one to another.

Yet, also, one must look at the scene from the spiritual perspective, and see that one is of spiritual prosperity (and outwardly seeming at a price), of spiritual companionship, of hidden career in the work for souls, and in that, of little respect or interest by and from others, even those too young to realize that Bible verses are meant to be lived out in our daily experiences, and that picking up one's cross, daily, and following Jesus means temporal wounds.

But must those wounds, and for nothing, once again, a particular wound--must it refuse to be healed, must it be perpetual sorrow?

No. But how can it be healed, once and for all? Could the Lord come as He did to St. Hugh, and literally cut out the tumor (in his case, it was perpetual carnal temptation), never for it to be an issue again? Yes, He can, if He wills.

But as the Lord told Jeremiah, in reply, "If thou wilt be converted, I will convert thee, and thou shalt stand before my face; and if thou wilt separate the precious from the vile, thou shalt be as my mouth; they shall be turned to thee, and thou shalt not be turned to them. And I will make thee to this people as a strong wall of brass..."

In tears, now, nothing begs the Lord to convert it, and nothing promises to be converted. But how can it be converted? In what specific way? It has tried to forgive, over and over for many years, and has forgiven. It has agreed to a life of suffering for souls. It has agreed to the hermit life, as well, and the repercussions of such a life of stricter separation of the world, in assiduous prayer and penance. It logically can see that it must only wish for what has happened, for it sees that this is the Lord's choosing and is magnificent, truly! And even in this state of physical suffering which is ordained to be perpetual while nothing is on this earth, nothing knows it could not live any other life.

Is it the sensation of rejection from the ones it loves, the perception, that they turn to one who lives in the world, who chose the other path? And to the rejection, in a way, of nothing? Or is it that nothing, suffering an unable to do much in the world, and not desiring to, for that matter--recognizes it is not all that appealing?

Now we are finding that remaining root. And it has grown into clay, and all the more difficult to extricate. How to get it out? Dig more, dig all around it, remove clay, expose the root even if it means taking out a chunk of the clay. Work in compost and peat and mulch. Work it with the bare hands, crumbling it into fine bits. Plant a lovely Chamasyparis, slow growing, such as Blue Feathers or the dwarf Golden Sprinkles.

The hermit must accept that even those closest, those who mean the absolute most to the hermit's life--must not be roots that link to any painful past, reflective of the path enforced, the path chosen, by God and agreed to willingly by the hermit.

This is the conversion: to turn totally to the Lord, which means a turning away from all on earth, in essence, which seems as harsh as Him asking, "Who are my mother, my brothers, my sisters?" It seems as harsh as His accepting to be crucified, not giving answers when asked, not speaking when He could have saved Himself from death--from seemingly turning from His own aging, widowed mother, His followers, and His own earthly existence.

He was rejected by others, just about all others. And He then seemed to reject them, in a way, by agreeing to His mission, His death. Who could understand why He did this? Perhaps His mother was the only one with such faith and comprehension. Perhaps a hermit's confessor or spiritual director are the only ones who might comprehend what nothing is dealing with, this one remaining wound, rooted deep down in. And what nothing is facing, in digging it out, in turning from it and all that it represents in the last three human, particular loves, and the pain of knowing they do not comprehend their nothing hermit's mission, and of the deeper conversion necessary in order for God to convert nothing all the more, so it shall stand before God's face and be as His mouth.

The nothing Catholic hermit will expose this root in confession this afternoon. It must. needs to be made as a strong wall of brass. To be saved and delivered. Desperate for that release from the one remaining strand in that particular root, for that desperate wound to be healed, once and for all. Nothing must convert, to turn around, to altogether turn--to God, in God.

Then the others, humans or perhaps more so, nothing's vices, shall be turned to it, and it shall not be turned to them. And they might fight against nothing, but they shall not prevail.

[The rose, photographed in Our Lady of Fatima Memorial Rose Garden at Agnus Dei Hermitage, reminds nothing of the wound, lying beneath in petaled blood-red coloration, with sun-yellow light above. In time, the red fades, the yellow pales but predominates, and all fall to earth. The fragrance, the scent alone, ascends. It is a sacrifice of praise, an oblation proffered to the Lord.]