Beholding in a Foreign Land
Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?
How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe
also troubled –
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?
-Mary Oliver, “Heavy”
“It’s hard to put into words the beauty I’ve beheld, a beauty which has cradled me in her generous embrace. But I will try.”
I wrote those words two nights before leaving Ireland in an attempt to hold close what I sensed was already slipping away. Over the next six pages, I transcribed all of the enchanted, Spirit-soaked things I saw and touched and tasted and heard under the simple directive, “Do not forget.” Tonight, I write by candle light for atmosphere and with tea for warmth and also with anxiety because I long to show you what I saw and give you what I was given over nine days in Ireland. Sometimes words fail, and that is a grace too. Aren’t the best and sweetest things the most ineffable?
If I could, I would show you the feather-stroked paint marks and Celtic golden swirls adorning the ancient Book of Kells, an illuminated manuscript of the Gospels. The night before, I dreamed about the page they happened to display that day, the discovery of which left me in a state of amazement that lingered for the rest of our trip. I wish I could shine for you the deep ache of golden light on the the hills of Connemara, and tell you how the rain stopped long enough to illuminate every strand of grass like acres of diamonds, long enough for us to climb the stony mountain with our feet and fingertips and stand at the top to watch the ocean pulsing in the distance, long enough to see light shafts pierce the grey sky and stroke the hills around us like a child’s caress, long enough for my racing heart to be still and know—just know.
If you could have heard one hundred people spontaneously singing the words to “Wonderwall” in a Galway pub with live music and livelier spirits, you might have joined in and laughed at the wonder of it with shivers of joy, too.
Because maybe,
You're gonna be the one that saves me
And after all,
You're my wonderwall…
If you were with me, I would take you to the statue of Jesus outside Christchurch cathedral, homeless and sleeping on a bench—more compelling than any depiction of Christ I’ve seen—and tell you how it felt to encounter the One who meant it when he said he had no place to lay his head.
Because maybe,
You’re gonna be the One that saves me . . .
Those words hold new meaning for me.
Maybe you also would have cried before walking towards the warm light flowing from the church doorway for evening prayer where we recited ancient yet familiar words with five strangers and a white robed priest wearing converse shoes, all of it holy.
I wish I could take you with me on the Slea Head Loop, where I found places of resurrection in ancient paths and singing stones and the jagged edge where ocean meets land in stormy shades of green and grey and in a wind with arms so strong I surrendered to its embrace. I will not forget the kindness of the land or the people, nor the sound of the wind blowing through ancient ruins and tumbling hills, nor the startling color of rust streaming from the nails in the hands and feet of Christ on a statue near the ocean. I will not forget the sound of my own astonished voice, laughing and singing and whispering and praying.
To all who prayed for us and thought of us on our trip, thank you. I left feeling changed and made new, though not in ways I anticipated. On pilgrimage in Ireland, I knew the wonder of walking in the paths of my ancestors, of treading the stone streets their tired feet also walked, all the way to the sea. I saw fishing ships in the harbor where they worked and felt deep gratitude to glimpse what they saw every day of their humble lives.
In seeking, I found reflected back to me spiritual questions I had long kept silent along with the courage to ask them out loud. I experienced the fulfillment of beholding the nuanced shades of beauty that my heart most loves, though I did not know so until they were before me. I think maybe this is what heaven will be like—to recognize in its fulfillment what we most long for, even as the realization of what we most long for occurs the moment we see the One who sits on a throne surrounded by rainbows and the river whose streams make glad the city of God. Then we will know as we are Known.
More than anything, I felt seen by what I saw. I believe this is the kind of conversational reality God willingly extends to all of his children at every moment, though it is often hardest to see it where we are. With this conviction, I wake earlier to catch the sun—just to be sure of its rising. I stand longer at the window now, watching the birds and wondering what song they’re singing. I’m trying to hold close the memory of living in the really real, especially when I feel my feet getting entangled in familiar traps of worry, comparison, and insecurity. More than ever, I want to walk freely upon the earth in a way that is kind and right and true. I want living a small, unknown life to be well with me. I want to look at my life and say, “Maybe this is it" and to actually rejoice, to see it as a thing of beauty and enchantment in its own right because it is mine and most of all God’s.
In the words of Mary Oliver,
If you want to talk about this,
come to visit.
I live in the house near the corner,
which I have named
Gratitude.
Thank you, and Amen.