I lost my composure. During Thanksgiving Mass. This is what happened…
Earlier in the week, days before Thanksgiving, I met for coffee with a former mentor, the Reverend Brian Cox, who teaches a form of peacemaking called faith-based reconciliation. We spoke, as we often do, of the need to “soften hearts.” As he described his ongoing work in hostile regions of the globe, it was clear the Holy Spirit provided him with the inspiration and guidance needed to change lives.
Later, on Thursday at the Thanksgiving Mass, my thoughts returned to the conversation with Brian as my heart was being softened by a series of events…
When we celebrate the Eucharist the presence of the Holy Spirit invites us to become humble and vulnerable. We are invited to lower our defenses and welcome others into our hearts. At most other times, we tend to maintain “hardness of heart” as we are aware—at a conscious or unconscious level—that we would rather not experience the pain that thrives “out there.” On this special Thanksgiving morning I eagerly accepted the invitation.
In order to soften hearts we first must break down walls; softness becomes possible only after hardness has been shattered. That morning, deep in my chest, walls were shattered; it felt like a construction crew armed with a jackhammer was hard at work breaking up emotional concrete. But I am getting ahead of myself…
As is so often the case, it was the small gesture, the unexpected moment, that set events into motion. My attention came to rest on a woman and her three young daughters who I had not seen previously; they may have been visiting. As I prayed a silent “peace be with you” in their direction I became acutely aware of the woman’s suffering.
I do not know the exact nature of the troubles she faced, nonetheless it was clear her prayers were earnest, even desperate. The look on her face broadcast, “tears will soon be arriving.” But apparently all her tears had been cried in an earlier private moment—she was tapped out emotionally.
She had the bearing, the posture, of a strong woman who obviously had overcome many challenges in the past. It was clear she was “being strong” for her daughters. On this morning, however, she was praying with such heightened intensity that she seemed consumed in the Spirit; metaphorically, she was on her knees and in great need. Her private conversation with the Spirit was urgent and would not wait.
Witnessing this much was sufficient to touch my heart but this was just the beginning…
Her oldest daughter, who was perhaps nine, watched on with curious concern—her keen expression telegraphed she was witnessing something previously unseen. Her innocent eyes widened as she became more and more acutely aware of her mother’s intense emotional pain, and aware of the intensity of her mother’s silent pleas delivered in prayer.
I watched the young girl struggle for understanding; I observed her mind’s mad dash to catch up with unfolding reality. It seemed she aged twenty years in the space of minutes. She glanced back and forth between her mother and parishioners making their way to the altar to receive the host. She appeared to grasp this moment was pregnant with mystery, with the Holy Spirit at work—clearly a moment beyond any she had known previously.
I marveled at her lack of fear. She was unafraid and undaunted at events that would cause most children to recede into the recesses of the pew with quiet anxiety. But she was different and this moment was different. The Holy Spirit infused and transformed her—in a matter of minutes an unsuspecting young girl attending church with her mother was transformed into a saintly woman gifted with mystical insight.
It was difficult not to imagine I was watching a young Teresa of Avila. She had no fear, only love, as she discovered the crushing harshness of her mother’s life. Suddenly, her eyes softened and exuded the tenderness of a saint. The moment humbled me. I struggled to catch my breath and wiped away a tear; I trembled with the awareness that I was observing something remarkable.
The young saint slid down the pew and stopped directly in front of her mother, looking up, facing her. Suddenly, she wrapped her mother in a hug that shattered the hardness of this observer’s heart, leaving me wracked with silent sobs.
In the Eucharistic celebration heaven pervades earth. It surely did at that moment. For an instant, I was sure I saw a small angel fluttering her wings and lifting her mother to heaven with the power of the Holy Spirit. The mother’s heart was clearly transported to a place it had never before visited—the metaphor of a “softened heart” paled by comparison.
That sacred moment was the same as the moment when Francis faced the fierce wolf. In this instance a young saint embraced the love of the Holy Spirit and bestowed that love on another. Francis performed the same miracle for the wolf when he shattered his hardened heart.
With renewed certainty I knew the mission of Taming the Wolf; I became reacquainted with the pilgrim’s path I was on. As Brian and I had often discussed, the task of a peacemaker requires vulnerability and the humility needed to allow the Holy Spirit to perform miracles. This Thanksgiving, I once again witnessed that the Spirit is fully present and at work softening hearts.
In this Advent season, may we all seek to tame the wolf and soften hearts and allow miracles to brighten our days.
