The arrival of summer brought an end to Teach Bhríde I, and the approaching end of the summer is bringing the beginning of Teach Bhríde II. With that in mind, I would like to share an excerpted letter from a good friend to the community, Steve Warner, Director of the University of Notre Dame Folk Choir. Steve’s advocacy and insight have been invaluable this past year, and I post this as a token of gratitude to my housemates of this past year, as a sign of things to come to my housemates of this coming year, and in deepest appreciation of all friends, mentors, collaborators, and supporters of Teach Bhríde.
And, of course, many thanks to Steve for these words of encouragement and wisdom:
Dear Carolyn, Chris, and Martha,
…In these nine months, you have seen more of Ireland than I could ever hope to
see. Not just the churches and the holy wells and the sights… these are just the
surface things, the things the tourists see. More than these, you’ve been able to
enter into the vision of the Irish: share their days, walk with them in lamentation,
be caught up in the infectious laughter of Fr. Denis, let your hearts be soaked
in Irish music (and, perhaps, libations as well), and most especially, watch their
children grow. You’ve found a pathway, magically almost, to begin to unlock
their song and their prayer. You’ve listened to their banter and lamented with
them over the plight of the church. And, no doubt, in the middle of the craziness
of the parish ladies and the gossip – which I will wager is a sitcom better than
anything seen on television – you’ve learned to love so many, many people who
once were strangers to you.
Now you are strangers no more, I think. That little town in the sunny southeast
of Ireland will no longer be just a dot on the map. It will now be a chapter in
your hearts. And your heart will be changed because of them, forever, I believe.
Partly because Clonard helped you stretch your hearts, opening you up to one
another in spite of your differences. And partly because, whether you could help
it or not, all those little kids found a way into your hearts (the way they do in mine,
over and over again).
So what has happened over the course of these months?
… The three of you have laid a foundation, based on the love of God, that will be
hard to erode. You were, totally and completely, open to the will of God last
summer. Maybe you didn’t think so at the time, but I expect all three of you, at
some point, had to finally make the leap of faith into this venture. That leap,
that extraordinary gesture of trust, was the cornerstone upon which all future
communities will grow. I pray to God that Brigid will continue to intercede and
that the houses will continue to flourish.
At the end of the book of Genesis, there is a detail about God that I have always
found fascinating and edifying. We find something out about God – that he worked hard, and that in the end, he rested and looked back on what he had done. We, in America, are not good at this. Our “what’s next” mentality moves us, hungry yet over stimulated, to the next thing. There is no time in our culture to savor.
I pray that you do as God did: sit back, look back on
your work, laugh and reminisce and tell stories and be soaked in wonder. It is
all admiration, a way to look back on the labors and call them Good. God would
want that, I think.
Right now, perhaps, take some time to do this. Think of the faces of your parish
colleagues… the students that made you laugh… the ones that made you want
to scream, too. Think of the little miracle conversions that sprouted up, almost
imperceptibly, from day to day. Think of the impossible moments the three of
you had to sort out. Think of the cab drivers. Think of all the faces of the clergy
you met, and what hope they are trying to shoulder in the midst of this crisis.
Think of all the parents you met – who no doubt are now eternally grateful,
whether they expressed it or not, for helping faith come alive for their children.
Think of all the ways you prayed together. Think of the ways you had to endure
one another, when it was better to keep your words to yourself. Think of how you
forgave.
Think of all the people, around the world, that prayed for you daily, advocated
your labors, helped, in the quietest yet most powerful ways, to breathe life into
this evangelical dream. Think of Bishop Brennan. And Dennis and Martin and
Jimmy and Ruairi and Terese, and the countless others I did not meet. Think of
all the people whom you hosted, offering hospitality and a share in the mission of
your house. Think of the ND Ireland folks – Kevin and John-Paul and all the ND
Ireland students. Let their faces pass before you. And let them fill your hearts
with joy, so much joy that they overflow with gladness.
Think of the songs you brought that now live over there. Think of the looks in the
eyes of musicians when, like water in a desert landscape, they began to bloom
again. Think back on all these things. Call them good. Because they are – very,
very good.
Pride is always a slippery thing. We always say “I’m proud of you” when
something great is accomplished. And yet pride is one of the great sins. So
I will not say I am proud of you, for your work goes far beyond this slippery
word. I will say, as would befit the work of the Holy Spirit, that I live in wonder
and awe at the things you accomplished this year in the name of the Lord.
May God and Brigid be with ye,
May they bless each corner of your home,
May there be peace at your table and comfort by your hearth,
May you know of the deep, still prayer that connects all of us
in this holy mission.
God bless you all, you three pilgrims.
