“Springtime in Giverny,” Claude Monet, 1890, WikiArt.

Part 2: Second Calling (Last)

Next morning I awakened, Holy Mother was
Woods wandering, not in bleak winter day
But glorious sun-filled spring days, trees
Budding, growing seasons, earth resurrected
From dark-clouded months. “My sanctuary
From madding world,” she stated, face, eyes
Radiant, hair dark as Galilee night. “When,
How? Is this heaven?” in naiveté I asked,
Broad lake cloud-reflecting, watery sky
Cerulean blue. “Heaven on earth,” Holy
Mother responded, “My hesychasm, place
Of prayerful contemplation, rest, quietude
Of body and soul, three days of in holy
Solitude, this I share with you.”

And so we walked and talked, timeless Irish
Hills unfolded before us, reaching to sea
Cliffs, extending hammered shores. Yet in
Faith, I accepted pristine version of Ireland,
For all I knew, surveyed wondrous dream
Whilst sleeping in my cottage. “Sister, if
You could have one wish, what would it be?”
Holy Mother Mary asked, her eyes looking
Deep into my soul, my answer known before
Uttering words. “To heal sick and injured
In Christ’s name.”  “Small miracles,” Mary
Responded, “helping those in deepest need.”
With her hands clasping my face, I shuddered
As blesséd gifts of healing permeated my soul.

Then unexpected occurred. “Muriel, you are
Needed outside of Ireland,” Mary so stated,
“Beyond belovéd glens and glades of Ireland,
Second calling, ministry of Christ to distant
Faroe Isles.” “What I am to do?” I asked, yet
Within me, answers knew, give away all I
Owned, enter into poverty, renewed vows
Of obedience, chastity, minister in name
Christ, counsel non-believers and religious,
Including monks other sisters. In time,
Healer I would become, island shepherdess,
Flocks of wooly sheep and wayward souls.
“Would you accept this calling?” Mary
Asked, “in name of my son, Jesus Christ?”

“Ruth and Naomi,” Ary Scheffer, 1856, WikiArt.

We both knew my response, “Yes,” though
One request I made. All things I would do,
Without question, to Faroe Islands I had
Ventured before; however, spiritual guide,
Father Blàthan, I requested, accompany me
On pilgrimage, winter sea-sailing voyage.
How long would I be separated from Ireland,
My Druid sister, Betrys? My fate-faith was
With the Lord, hard fist of freezing sea spray,
Tempests howling in sail rigging, landing
On desolate shores, little else than bundled,
Clothes on my back, my cross and rosary,
All this dreamt in my cottage, Christmas
Visitation of Holy Mother Mary.

New poetic series beginning for Sister Muriel, leaving Ireland
and her Druid sister, Betrys for desolate Faroe or Sheep Islands.
For more on 4th century term “hesychasm” see this link:
Thanks for reading.

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