2

[]

I found my Cistercian today.
She was buried under the debris of my life—
smothered by papers and books, projects and concerns,
choked by busyness and wrong-headed decisions.
There she sat beside the dusty Bible and languished near a stale bag of potato chips.
How old she seemed!
A crowd of crumbs at her feet in this cell that was once so devoted to the work of God.
O God, come to my assistance. Lord, make haste to help me…

It is fall, of course, and the world outside is growing cold.
Advent draws near, that holy season when a single light dares to shine in the darkness.
Yet I have been neglectful again—
like a grown-up who neglects both family and friends,
and so easily forgets the One who waits.
I found my Cistercian today only by discovering how long she has been lost.
Or rather—how long I have been lost,
dead and buried in a foolish adherence to unlikeness.
O Saint Bernard, you could explain it better than I. In any case, here I am, Lord.
You have called me back down to earth—
down from the heap of dreams that were never Yours for me,
and from desires that led only to pitiful, desolate places.
Here now, next to Your hidden tabernacle within my heart,
I wait upon You.
This servant child, wearing only an ephod,
has come to do Your will.

A silence rises over the soul-scape—
deep and expectant—
like the swelling of the pregnant Mother
whose quiet presence interrupts the sterile surface
and overwhelms the doubting deep.
One candle is lit in Advent devotion,
and gradually the whole world becomes a vision of peace.

In the quiet, everything else shrinks.
The stage is cleared—ready for the spotlight of grace.
And what does it bring?
A sort of word-picture, touched and scented with Someone wonderful.
Whatever it is, it convicts me back to myself and to You, Love,
and to all who are mine and Yours.

Such a simple moment.
And lo!—here she is again.
She was here all along. I found my Cistercian.