Come the Dawn

Another morning, another cup of tea. Sometimes it gets routine. I stand in the kitchen dazed. How many breakfasts? How many sandwhiches? Over and over the same thing. But in my kitchen the sink is at the window and the window makes a balcony to the outdoors, so while I work I can keep an eye on things.

Sandwhiches finished and packed, tea ready, I grab my mug and step outside into the Chapel of Creation. Immediately greeted by many birds in full chorus, a patchwork sky of grey and violet, blue and the palest unnamed tints--a thousand hues wheeling slowly, grandly, a procession for the King. I am small, I admit, and I admit I favor my smallness. But here I am for a moment witnessing the Miracle! Was I just complaining about chores? What does it mean when one finds no inspiration in one's daily work? Isn't this a crucial moment of commitment, a chance to follow the truth? Who is praised in the assembly of the Dawn? Is it God alone? Does he do it for himself?

Then why do the angels come to find me, take me by the hand, divorce me of my dishtowel attitude, my false humility, to bring me out like a Bride dressed in gold of Ophir and hand me over--skin to skin--into his embrace?

A few nights ago we saw something new: The Stations of the Resurrection, produced for the first time anywhere out at Our Lady's. As fate would have it, just as things got started, I became a little ill... long story. So for my own relief I slipped away and walked outdoors in the first warm night of Spring, making miles around the campus, through the shadowed night, alone but not alone, feeling the Kingdom, the Company of Saints, the counsel of my Mother, the hope of Jesus. Coming around the east side I found myself walking behind the kitchen. There had been a retreat dinner and the chef, after supervising the cleaning staff, was locking up. He stood in the kitchen doorway on the loading dock in his white coat, illuminated by a single light and turned one last time to scan the kitchen for anything out of place before leaving. That moment, that vignette, that image stuck with me and penetrated my prayers. For all the beauty, wonder, delight, glory of our worship there is always someone working, quietly, behind the scenes, participating with grace in the most proletariat way to make certain it all works out.

Among the Franciscans I have seen this many times to the point where I would call it a true charism. Brother Bob moving from room to room distributing clean linens. Brother Tito, crouching behind a counter in the gift shop unpacking boxes. Father Barry climbing a hill with a pipe wrench to fix a toilet. Sister Carmel setting out plates at a potluck. Everywhere I see them the Franciscan men and women, single or married, doing the most common chores... all for the sake of the Kingdom, all at the beck and call of the King. In this way, I witness the common labor of humanity transformed, filled with glory, and fullfilled in destiny. Franciscans do chores. They build up the Church with bare, human hands. No wonder people get excited. We want this, even when we're tired of it. And when it's too much, God takes us aside for a moment and shows us the big picture.

I smell the wildflowers. I feel the cool air. I see the gathering light. I am privledged to know God in the coming of the dawn. How often I need this renewal. How faithfully he provides. And then, longing for the full coming of the Kingdom, I return inside to embrace the day.