Poetry for the Catholic Writer

Alas, it is so. George Herbert wasn't Catholic. I still like his poetry, especially "The Flower" - and I'm thinking of it this weekend in particular. I'm another year older - and I think 45 is a great age to renew my desire to serve God through writing. Catholic first. Writer second. And so, we write of faith, moving always onward and upward. . .

lines from "The Flower"

How Fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recover’d greennesse?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my onely light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide:
Which when we once can finde and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.

(1633) George Herbert

Poetry for the Catholic Writer

Going Home, to write

I like Christina Capecchi, the Twenty-Something writer. Her column has spunk. She writes about ipods and buying a too-small dress for a friend's wedding with the hope of getting into it before the big day. She writes about young life and weaves God into it.

Then there's George Weigel. His column is deep. He has a grip on the nexus between public policy and the Catholic faith that I can only begin to fathom.

And Fr. Frank Pavone and Deacon Keith Fournier. I know that God cares for the unborn very much - because He has put these men at the front of the fight. Their writing is strong and motivates us even though the day of battle seems to go on and on.

I sometimes wish I could be like these writers. I wish I had the vibrancy of Christina Capecchi. The brilliance of George Weigel. The rallying success of Fr. Pavone and Deacon Fournier.

And the list goes on.

But I am just me. A woman who loves Jesus Christ and His Church. A woman who has lived as many lives as a cat. Preacher's kid. Pastor's wife. Divorcee. Single mother of three. Poor. Not poor anymore. Protestant - of almost every flavor at one time or another. And then. . . I am carried along by grace to a new place.

One scene changes and another takes its place.

There's the soft bubbling of the holy font at the entrance to the sanctuary, where I dip my fingers and remember my baptism at the age of 13. I walk to the front and kneel, eyes on the altar, where Jesus waits. I bow my head, hardly able to grasp the privilege I have been given. Not only to begin again, but to encounter this One I love in such a concrete and tangible way. And I cross myself. I am yours, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And it is good to be here, safe, in Mother Church.

In this place, my heart discovers my deepest love. And I go home, to write, as one who is neither young nor old, neither brilliant nor witty, not powerful or winsome. But as one who loves very much, and that is enough.

Going Home, to write