From my first afternoon glimpse of the gently-sloping green blanket on the grounds of Mount St. Francis, that hillside had whispered to me, "Come back; come and sit." In the hours following, as I enjoyed other places and people, still it beckoned. I was inwardly a little restless until the next morning when I made the trek down one and then up another hill to the cemetery of the Sisters of St. Francis.
The grassy cedar-lined and silent knoll was of itself inviting, but the real lure was what it held. The still yet moving treasure that called to me was row after row of nondescript rectangular markers designating the final resting places of the earthly remains of deceased Sisters. Engraved simply upon each granite tablet was a name, with dates to note the span of a lifetime. That is all.
As I walked among the stones, pausing and reading, I imagined the person represented by each one. And I envisioned with much gratitude the service each woman must have offered to the Divine Maker and to humankind and the world, through hearing and answering a call and then committing to ministry. I saw in each Sister a life connected not to the common trappings of human existence but a life of graced connection to Spirit.
In stark contrast, just through the border of trees, I saw raised and vertical headstones, many adorned with colorful artificial flowers: the public cemetery. While I reached out with intense desire for the spirit of the sacred space where I stood, my impulse was to shield myself from the view beyond. I cannot say what was written on those upright stones, but I have walked in similar places and read notations about the roles of those buried and seen there the reflections of their possessions. I myself own a spot in such a place.
Oblivious to the heat of that July morning, I slipped to the ground and sat on the grass, consciously inhaling for close to an hour the sweet fresh air of the gentle breeze flowing through the cedars. It had been something of holy longing that led me there. It was holy connection that kept me there. The beauty and simplicity and purity of that burial ground lives in me still.
As I continue to reflect on that time of communion with God and the deceased Sisters of St. Francis, I am struck with the image of that grassy slope as a metaphor for life in the heart of God, simple and devoid of trappings, marked by longing that is at once nourishing and insatiable. It is life that holds a sweet and fresh realness that resists the false securities and satisfactions of power and possession and achievement.
God invites us to come and sit, and we are restless until we make that trek down and up to the lap of God, where life is simple and real and desirous of more.
