Tuesday, April 23, 2013

give me hope in silence

But I'll still believe, though there's cracks you'll see, 
When I'm on my knees I'll still believe, 
And when I've hit the ground, neither lost nor found, 
If you'll believe in me I'll still believe

In recent years Our Lady has been depicted frequently as a lonely young girl. Our Lady of Lourdes and Our Lady of Fatima stand alone. Our Lady of Walsingham emphasises her Motherhood and her continual effort to present her Son to the world.
--On Our Lady of Walsingham

Each red English rose blooming behind the iron fence seems to rustle in the rustic spring wind: tomorrow i will be in Walsingham

The surprising song of sparrows in the hedgerows provides a sweet draft of relief from the metallic screeching and scratching of the brakes.

The plaintive song of the protesting enemy, seeking to rid himself of heartbreak plaguing his soul, rises above the oppressive din of the traffic:
So why did you choose to lean on 
A man you knew was falling?
Like all of us, the beggar asks for money, or the shiny big-kid bicycle in the store window, and instead receives bread to eat.

One Monday night, the poet finds himself beleaguered, stranded in suspense between the sun and the moon.
The next week, he finds he has settled into the arms of the bus seat, speeding him away from a hellish night of unsettled angst, and with a grateful hello to a Holland Road he hasn't met, he speeds towards the home he makes wherever he goes.

Like all of us, he is a nomad; blindly navigating a cracked and broken path in darkness.
Inconsistently, we find our hearts moved.

The braver of us ford the swollen stream;
Those feet fitted with the Holy Spirit take the footbridge.

The picayune pilgrim follows the posted signage, and turns the iron ring.
Getting lost is easy; having the courage to open the door is granted only to those who have hit their low.

Little did Peter know that would not be the end.
The stone passage leads from a bright and cheerful Good Friday into the sunny Slipper Chapel that smells like Easter at Holy Family.

From the Holland Road: well, I rose and I rose
An inadvertent hymn rises to the psalmist's lips, born of the wide fields of sheep and grass, and a sky bluer than the tears that Jesus wept.
He lift his arms up to the endless, blessed skies and sings a jubilee, the greatest his tongue will remember for the rest of his days.
Like the groom who received Mary's Dowry with humbled hands, he trills the hushed and holy melody of the hedgerow sparrows:
tomorrow I will be in Walsingham.

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