Bathed In Light

“Reflection on the Spiritual Tradition of St. Francis of Assisi”

Wring Out My Clothes

Such love does

the sky now pour,

that whenever I stand in a field,

I have to wring out the light

when I get

home.

–Saint Francis of Assisi[1]

The above poem, written by Saint Francis, struck me with such enthusiasm that I used it while teaching a class on prayer to a group of high school students. “How does God reveal himself to us through creation?” There was complete silence. Crickets even.  So instead I asked them, “What’s your favorite spot in nature?” Many easily came up with a reply. Some said, “the beach,” and others mentioned “hiking along their favorite trail” or “on a boat.”

I explained to the class that God’s creation is the original paradise, teeming with life that’s beautiful and strange. Why do we stop and pause at the sight of a rainbow? Saint Francis knew the answer. He knew that this world we lived in held the answers to many of life’s questions and reflected the love our Creator has for us. Saint Francis was thought to be as happy outside as he was in any church. The love he felt from God in creation was so overwhelming that it saturated his clothes.

While on retreat last September, I took advantage of some free time and went for a walk around the surrounding grounds. I wandered onto a well worn path that lead into the woods. There was spot up ahead with bright light streaming in through the thick tree canopy. As I approached, I realized the surrounding area was covered in ferns. They created a big beautiful feathery green blanket on the forest floor. But encircling the ferns were dead trees, branches and debris. The fallen trees had soft bark that was rotting and crumbling away.

I found it strange that there was such an abundance of beauty, surrounded by such a contrast of death and decay. It made me think of how one often hears about a person who has passed away, and then soon after a new baby is born into their family. It’s happened in my own family several times.

I looked up and took notice of a break in the tree cover. The light that drew me into the forest was right where I was standing. It streamed down and illuminated the blanket of ferns. It instantly occurred to me, like the flip of a switch, that the existence of those ferns and their abundance was due to the death of trees. The fallen trees created an opening, and allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the forest. Without their death, the ferns would not have existed.

I stood there a bit dumbfounded. “That’s pretty deep,” I joked to myself. And then of course, I realized that the sun was really like the SON, and when you let him into your life, especially into the dark areas, how beautiful things can become. And I was reminded of the verse, “I have come that they may have life, and may have it abundantly” [John 10:10]. It was right then, that I realized that I was in church–right out there in the middle of the trees and the ferns with the light pouring in.

“So what are the dark areas in your life?” I asked myself. “Why ruin a perfectly good moment thinking about that?” I replied right back. It wasn’t really something I usually liked exploring, but since I had come that far, I decided to keep going with it. As a stay-at-home mom for the past thirteen years, I admitted I was still a person that wanted a more “esteemed” title to feel important. When asked, “Lisa, what do you do?” I typically answered, “Well, I’m a stay-at-home mom…BUT, I used to be an engineer.” My answer was usually received with a blank stare and a transition to another topic.  After all these years, why did I still do this? I’m incredibly proud of the job I’ve done with my kids. No job that I’ve ever held was more important or challenging, for that matter.

When shining the light a little further on the dark areas, I also saw someone who said “yes” to entirely too many things because she was afraid of missing out. I wasn’t really quite sure what I was missing out on though. It occurred to me that too many yes’s (and tasks on the calendar) could actually make you miss out on some pretty good stuff in life—like the moment I was having just then.

A prayer started to rise in me. God, please show me which branches to prune, so I can make space. I need to create space for your light and to let the important things grow. I want to be decisive on which roles to keep and which to finally release. Let’s make something beautiful grow together. Amen.

With all of that illumination, I didn’t exactly wring out my clothes that day. But I did pour it into my journal. I’m hoping Saint Francis would be proud.

[1] Housden, Roger. For Lovers of God Everywhere: Poems of the Christian Mystics. Hayhouse, Inc. 2009. pp 74-75.