Margaret's candle
I picked up the long match and crossed to light it from a candle on the far side of the chapel. Then I walked back to the nearer side. Why?
Margaret's candle is second from the left. Since I think about her so much, does lighting a candle turn that thought into prayer? After I lit the candle I decided to enter into the spirit of the place and read the prayer printed on the sheet by the donation box. Did the candle burn long, or burn low? I'll never know.
I know that Pat B. has lighted candles for Margaret for years. Initiated prayers on her behalf from all over. When I see on Margaret's table a greeting card—with roses, or one of the saints—that looks as if it was mailed 40 years ago, I know that somewhere, more prayers are being said for her. It is a special world that I don't move in, but I'm always glad that Pat does. It's a secure feeling to know she's taking care of those things.
And since Pat has Polish roots, it makes me feel good to be here, fans blowing in the motorhome, reading the Franciscan Brothers' pamphlet about magical things in Poland, and how magic spreads. Or Mystery. Isn't it all the same? If I say "magic", I myself do not see the white sleeves of the trickster fluttering from his black cape, white-gloved hands faster than my eye. For me it is much bigger. Today, in the hot sun, I marvel at the intensity of What moved Brother Bronislaus to spend a life on the rolling Missouri hills creating poem after poem with millions of silent stones.
Margaret's candle is second from the left. Since I think about her so much, does lighting a candle turn that thought into prayer? After I lit the candle I decided to enter into the spirit of the place and read the prayer printed on the sheet by the donation box. Did the candle burn long, or burn low? I'll never know.
I know that Pat B. has lighted candles for Margaret for years. Initiated prayers on her behalf from all over. When I see on Margaret's table a greeting card—with roses, or one of the saints—that looks as if it was mailed 40 years ago, I know that somewhere, more prayers are being said for her. It is a special world that I don't move in, but I'm always glad that Pat does. It's a secure feeling to know she's taking care of those things.
And since Pat has Polish roots, it makes me feel good to be here, fans blowing in the motorhome, reading the Franciscan Brothers' pamphlet about magical things in Poland, and how magic spreads. Or Mystery. Isn't it all the same? If I say "magic", I myself do not see the white sleeves of the trickster fluttering from his black cape, white-gloved hands faster than my eye. For me it is much bigger. Today, in the hot sun, I marvel at the intensity of What moved Brother Bronislaus to spend a life on the rolling Missouri hills creating poem after poem with millions of silent stones.
posted by Susan at 11:22 AM
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