The Queen of Flowers

Years ago, I bought a beautiful rose bush with delicate pink buds, like those on fine china. The flowers opened like the sky at dawn, and everyone who passed by praised their beauty. But I was not a faithful gardener. When the sun beat down in the summer, I often forgot to provide water. When pests came to eat the leaves, my eyes were elsewhere. I didn't provide the food that my plant needed in order to grow, yet when I noticed that my rose bush was dying, I blamed its own delicate constitution and the inordinate amount of care that it seemed to demand. Soon, the branches were dry and brittle, the flowers gone, and sharp thorns pointed empty and accusing fingers toward the sky. I gave up on growing roses.

The next spring, I noticed new growth slowly creeping forth from the gnarled stem and rising toward the sun. The leaves on these low branches looked different than the original leaves, however--smaller and less elegant. When the new blossoms came, bright and full, they too were different--they were not curled mysteriously into themselves but were flat and open to the sky. The specialists told me that this new growth was the real plant coming to life; the old one that had died had been grafted onto this wild stem in order to create a delicate work of man-made perfection to fit our ideals of the perfect rose. To me, the new growth seemed miraculous, a sign of God's invisible grace, turning failure into flowers, bringing truth to light.

The hybrid rose--Queen of the Flowers, magnificent in beauty, delicate in perfection, dangerously regal with thorns--reminds me of our metaphor of Christ the King.We need an image for the power and splendor of God, an image that we work hard to maintain in an often dry and barren world. But God is at work underneath that glorious image, creating new life when and where we least expect it, "making peace through the blood of [Christ's] cross." Abundant life is not found in the hybrid flower but surges deep within the neglected stem. Like the criminal hanging next to Jesus on the Cross, we just need to recognize and claim it.

When I neglect my soul and my world, O Christ, you continue to abide somewhere deep within them. I give thanks for the wild, new growth that you secretly nourish, the invisible love that turns my barren failures into strong and hearty fruit. Amen.

Amazing Grace

I know well the cold flush of fear that sends its paralyzing ache into my fingertips. And feeling perplexed is a familiar challenge that nudges my mind and puts a sparkle in my eye. But why am I so rarely amazed, O God? My pale appreciation of the world comes and goes without internal fanfare. Your wondrous presence washes over me in waves, yet my heart lies buried beneath the hard-packed sand, a tiny sea creature sending only a few fragile, airy bubbles toward the surface. Am I so sophisticated, O Lord, that ordinary wonders do not phase me? Am I so spoiled by your loving care that I've grown as cold and numb as a long-time addict, requiring ever larger doses of grace just to plod dully through the day? Startle my soul, Lord. Pull open the arms that I hold wearily and warily over my heart, and let a warm profusion of amazement pour forth.

An All Saints' Day Meditation

I had never thought about how our well-meaning adoration might have frozen the hearts of the Saints until I saw the statue of the Virgin Mary out on the lake at Loretto. That hot summer day, I sat on a bench surrounded by the glory of God in nature. God's Spirit flowed through the water, sparkling on the top of every wave; it sang in the birds' joyful chorus, and danced in the ballet of the turtles. There, in the midst of light and shadow, surrounded by an abundance of life, I saw chalk-white Mary, trapped on a concrete block in the middle of the lake, dwarfed by the majestic pine trees at her back. She looked resigned but unhappy under the hot sun, knowing that she was too heavy to float, that she would sink if she were to step off of her small, island perch. All of a sudden, I could picture her shedding the heavy stone with relief and padding softly through the fields, her robes bending back the tall grasses, her scarf blowing in the cool breeze, her kind eyes smiling in greeting at the world around her.
Inside the thick walls of the Church, our plaques and statues seem to pull us into God's presence. Yet when we take our holy story outside, we need to give it the freedom to live.
Holy Mary, come and walk with me around the lake, and smile.