A Clare is a Clare, Even Without the Saint Thing
When St. Clare and St. Francis and I Talked to Trees
My husband teetered on the brink of death. I was rummy from long hours at the hospital, making a jillion phone calls and not eating or sleeping or even hydrating enough (my idea of hydration is Diet Dr. Pepper, please). Hubby’s hospital room overlooked what at one time was a beautiful, forested woodland in the Pacific Northwest. And although I could also see the corrugated steam vents on the roof, old redwoods, tall firs and deciduous trees still beckoned on the hospital grounds. I gazed at the soothing canopy, thankful for its calming effect.
The pastoral scene suddenly came alive. Birds, swooping and diving through the air, had plenty to say. Starlings and jays and song sparrows joined a chorus of crows. A gentle breeze swished the leaves as if to say, “hush now, hush now.” And the sequoias, majestic and deep rooted, thrummed a wisdom so low I had to hold my breath to hear it.
I dare you to say God wasn’t there, conducting. My knees grew weak as I began to see, to hear, to know. The Presence had always been there, but even with the beautiful terror of life and death playing out amongst the tubes, the alarms, the quiet whoosh of the oxygen tube, I somehow still found it.
In those few holy moments, I was transported to the place where love never dies.
Of course, my thin-places experience lasted a precious few seconds. And like the disciples on the transfiguration mountain, I wanted to build a dwelling and stay there for always. But as painful as it was to let go of the moment, I saw how I’d ever managed to get to the veil in the first place. Like nearly everyone else, I had to be driven to the edge of the abyss before the scales could fall from my aging eyes.
Like nearly everyone else, I had to be driven to the edge of the abyss before the scales could fall from my aging eyes.
Looking back, I admit I was frazzled around the edges. Like most people, during my husband’s health crisis, I’ve looked forward to when life calms down again. Gets back to normal. But “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives,” as Annie Dillard wrote. “What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.”
Even as I long for safety, comfort, and answered prayer, I ask myself. Where is God most present? The answer it seems, is that God is most present where I am most present.
For some, being present and open to the divine means formal prayer or meditation. I admit I’m not so good at disciplines that involve forced silence or twenty hours of prayer each day. But I believe I can find that Presence lots of ways, lots of places.
There’s a catch, though. Before I enter that sacred space, I must get to the end of myself. I’m a really efficient pragmatic person, so woo-woo stuff can’t have any space while I deal with disaster. I’ll bet that God waits for me, maybe checking the time once too often, hoping I’ll quickly run to the end of my leash so God can do other important stuff.
And isn’t life a lot like that? As the tether of my ego jerks me back to my weak humanity, the vision changes. For a bit, I’m a little St. Clare (with a perfect last name!) a little St. Francis, a little Dr. Doolittle. I can see past all the depressing crud and communicate with a tree. If I could whistle, I’d be birdsong. And the creator of creation shines through every leaf, every flying pest, every dull-as- dirt rock on my path.
My husband moaned. Medical staff rushed in and tended to him, while I prayed alongside all of nature. I was back to being the haggard spouse of a critically ill man, only this time, I embraced the name Not Saint Clare in a way that left me speechless with joy.
I doubt I’m really cut out to be a saint or even a contemplative—too busy, too many racing thoughts. But anyone who isn’t sure about God or the holy should first of all be present. Then, if you go looking for the sacred in your life, start with a tree.
Good stuff, Linda. I pray for your strength and stamina during this exhausting time.
Beautifully said. Prayers continue.