Sweet Anticipation
by Laura Birnie

The sun is much brighter than it has been these past few months, a promise of more warmth to come. The snow is slowly melting away, watering the soil. I run my fingers down the branch of a shrub and feel the new buds formed and ready to open in their time. I can’t wait to see them unfurl, I think to myself.

Sweet anticipation.

I hear the birds chirping in the quiet of the winter snow. I’d forgotten about the sweet songs that fill the spring, summer, and fall air with their melodies. Oh! What’s this? A late winter snowstorm hits and it’s quiet again, but I’m reminded of what’s coming soon.

Sweet anticipation.

I spot the crocus and daffodil shoots peeking through the ground. “No, not yet! It’s too early!” I tell them, but they don’t listen. They insist on poking their little heads through the dirt and snow. I can’t wait for their greens, purples, and yellows to spring forth.

Sweet anticipation.

The world around me is awakening from its sluggish, winter slumber. A resurrection of what was dead. Just as Jesus’ lifeless body in that tomb was filled with breath once more. I think of Mary on that early spring morning in the garden when she fell at the feet of Jesus’ newly risen form, unable to touch Him; His resurrection bringing new hope. Was her heart so full of excitement she felt it might burst with…

Sweet anticipation?

All of a sudden, it seems, it’s much warmer, the snow is gone, and the cherry blossoms and magnolias have burst out of their buds. I stand in awe and breathe in the sweet scents. Spring is in full swing. The earth is alive again! If this world of clay is this beautiful, how much more amazing will heaven be? One day, my Savior will take me home to spend eternity with Him, but in the meantime, I will wait with…

Sweet anticipation.

 
 
 

Laura Birnie is a wife and a stay-at-home mom who loves Jesus, her family and coffee, in that order. She lives in Ontario, Canada, and loves spending time soaking in the beauty of God’s creation. When she isn’t writing, homeschooling, or taking care of her family, she can often be found crafting or reading with a cup of coffee in her hand and her Boston Terrier in her lap.

A Garden of Words
by Ashlyn McKayla Ohm

Was the news scary, you ask? Well, of course it was, and how could it not be? I am a grower of ideas, after all. Long before I had heard of publishing models and three-act structure, long before I could know that books were written instead of gathered from some garden at the end of the world, I was already living those ideas, verdant vines tying themselves around the corners of my life. And that is what I have done, all my life, even now—nurtured the seeds of stories in my soul, waiting for each one to catch the light and sprout words like leaves.

So yes, when they came with their tongue-tangled tales of this magic machine—this technological alchemy they called ChatGPT—yes, the wind felt strange. Where my heart had been a garden of ideas—a garden requiring the purest kind of patience as I waited on the words—here was a factory, ready to mass-produce words and reap by wizardry all my staple crops: essays, poetry, stories. Fertilize it with a few fragmented notions, they told me, and the hurried harvest would burst forth.

So now, I walk these spring evenings, out on the country roads where the awakening hills arch their backs and the wind carries the deep delight of growing and the broken-down asphalt has made friends with the grass. And I wonder: Who will have time now for the organic words, the ones grown green with grace? Who will still value the work of the idea-farmer, the heart kept wide with wonder, the hands gently working the soil of the soul? If artificial words can be mixed in a minute, who will wait for the seeds in my spirit to sprout soft and slow?

But perhaps they will.

Because perhaps, in the end, the prefabricated products of any chatbot aren’t truly the gift that the world needs. Perhaps it’s time for you, and me, and all of us to discover the truth that just might save us from the mad welter of mass-produced words: The short-term gratification of getting the words doesn’t outweigh the long-term sanctification of growing the words.

Yes, I am a grower of ideas, and this I know: I am changed by my words. As each infant idea unfolds in the underground of my heart, I feel its roots stretching through soil that might otherwise grow hard with hurt. As the idea takes form and stretches shoots into day, I too look to the light that has drawn it out of the darkness. As the words burst from bud, each one bursts something in me. And so as my ideas—my words—my stories grow in me, I grow in them as well.

You see, at the end of the long process, I bring a gift to the world: The pretty paperback that I harvest from my heart, my words finally ripe and ready to offer themselves to every pair of hands that hold my stories close. But as for me, I find the healing of my heart in the wrestling with the words. The nurturing of the idea all through the winters when my faith has turned to frost. The surrender to the sun in which my stories stand. The wrangling with every word, the call of the grower to grapple with grit and grace, to reach into the darkest underground and hold forth hope. It is there where my words change me, not in the polished product, but in the unwritten corners of my own story—where my words bow in worship to The Word, and all can be rewritten.

I am still walking this evening. The frogs are singing in the marshes, shrill and strong—serenading the green grass, unafraid that any computerized contraption will steal their singular song. And I smile, and I feel it—the mystery that cannot be mechanized—the faith-flicker of the words within.

 
 

 

A passionate follower of Jesus Christ, Ashlyn McKayla Ohm finds her writing calling where her heart for God and her love for His creation intersect. Born and raised in rural Arkansas on the shoulders of the Ouachita Mountains, she’s most at home where the streetlights die and the pavement ends. She finds joy in weaving words into messages of hope and healing and is forever grateful that God has given her the gift of not only exploring His beautiful world but also using her words to prayerfully draw others to Him. Follow her adventures on her blog, Words from the Wilderness, or on Instagram and Facebook.

Love Breaks Through
by Shemaiah Gonzalez

The dark earth cracked with small specks of ice even though it had not rained in days. In ravines and ruts, where the last rain had pooled, sheets of ice were left shard, like broken mirrors strewn across the Surrey landscape. It was upon these paths I spent my afternoons wandering and praying.

This past January, I traveled to England to mediate on joy. To spend an entire month, without my family, without comforts of home, to turn the concept of delight and wonder and happiness over and over in my mind.

Most of this adventure was spent wandering the countryside of Surrey and Devon in Southern England. I stayed with religious communities, Jesuits and Benedictines who opened their doors and their guest rooms for me, and attended services at least once a day.  And I took long, long walks.

How I came up with this formula I do not know. But it seemed to work for me.

The climate in England is quite similar to my hometown of Seattle, Washington. Januarys are cold and wet. I had not accounted for the fact that when I am home, I am not out of doors, actually in the wet and the cold. I am cozy and dry inside. Similarly, I had not accounted for the bitter chill of Victorian era monasteries which cost a fortune to heat. The result was that I was always cold. I was cold but happy.

Something happens when you deprive yourself of comforts voluntarily, whether in fasting, abstaining, or finding yourself in an old monastery in the middle of the English countryside. With only two meals a day, a chill I couldn’t shake, lack of internet and cell service, something happened in that space which is usually cloaked by comfort. Call it magic or mystery but the words of the liturgy I heard several times a day became part of my cadence, placing me in some sort of liminal space; a space between this world and the one we cannot usually see.

The prayers prayed with the monks became part of my sleep.

Lord, come to my aid.

I heard Brother Thomas, whose voice started our prayers in this way, sing this refrain over in my mind as I brushed my teeth.

And make haste to help me.

I whispered as I tied my shoes.

I dreamt of the words from compline.

Watch over us as we sleep, that awake, we may keep watch with Christ, and asleep, rest in His peace.

But too, the Word became part of my waking thoughts—especially as I walked the stark countryside lined with barren branches.

Lord, let Your love come upon me.

I was discovering on those walks and through these prayers how much joy is entwined with love. How knowing I am loved, believing I am loved, opens me up to joy.

Dusk covered the landscape early. Without streetlights, it could prove difficult to find my way back to the monastery if I didn’t return by four o’clock. But there was another reason why I wanted to return before vespers—so I could chat with Brother Andrew.

He was usually waiting for me when I pushed open the huge wooden door to the guest house. Brother Andrew was my host monk. He made sure I felt welcome and guided me through the prayer books for each of the daily offices. Also, we liked to tell stories in the afternoon. I peeled off my gloves and filled up the kettle for tea.

What are you doing out there on your afternoon walk?

Looking for a fox. I told him.

They are everywhere.

Well, I’ve never seen one and I’d like to. I’m such a city girl, a fox is an exotic creature to me.

I’m going to pray that you see your fox—before you leave our monastery.

 

After compline I lay in bed singing the lines from the Welsh melody we just sang,

Day is done, but love unfailing

Dwells ever here

Shadows fall but hope prevailing,

Calms every fear.

 

Starting this journey, I had been fearful. Would I be able to be away from my family for this long? Would I navigate the logistics of travel? Would I stay safe on the journey?

Each day, these fears subsided as I felt God’s love pouring over me. I had felt the need to accomplish something. Perhaps write a good portion of the book I had brewing in me during the trip. But it quickly became clear that God wanted me to experience the book, to soak in joy, to know He loved me.

The next day after Mass, I had planned on taking the bus into the closest town, pick up a few provisions and then walk back to the monastery. A parishioner heard my plan and offered a ride five miles into town.

After a hot lunch, a new book, a quart of milk, and a refill on drugstore toiletries, I headed back to the monastery with new ground and sights to cover. It was brisk but the sunshine was out. Bright enough for me to pull out my sunglasses. The air smelled clean and woodsy. The public path took me to the top of a hill with farmland spread out before me. Sheep dotted the landscape as did cottages made of sandstone. So this is what awe feels like, I thought to myself.

Down in the valley, the pathway became mucky. My shoes stuck in the mud as I stepped, my socked foot pulling out on its own. There was nothing I could do but laugh, stick the foot back into my shoe and move forward. I had four miles more to go. Villagers met me on the path with knee high wellies on.

I think you’ve ruined your trainers there. They teased.

I didn’t care. It was glorious.

Bramble bush on one side of me and farmland on the other. I felt as if I connected with some great grandmother who walked these fields centuries before. My legs moved strong beneath me even as I moved awkwardly through the mire.

Three miles to go and I walked through woods behind village houses until the path spit me out abruptly onto train tracks, perhaps miles from a crossing, unguarded and unfenced on either side. It was jarring to find myself upon the tracks I rode in a rapid train just a few days before. I stopped to listen as I looked each way before crossing over.

In the middle of the tracks, I stopped, realizing I may never be in this position again. I pulled out my iPhone to document the thrill of standing on the tracks and snapped. That’s when I saw it. A fox. He saw me first. He stopped in the middle of the tracks looking at me. He is there, in that photo. When I stopped, he stopped. When I moved, he moved, his body sleek and low to the ground. We looked at each other for a few seconds until I realized I wasn’t breathing. And I was in the middle of train tracks.

I dashed to the other side and looked back at him. I saw the white tip of his luxuriant tail as he sauntered away. And then, as if he felt me, he too, looked back, his eyes narrowing over his long-pointed nose. It was just a second. Then he was gone, down onto the path, out of sight. And without warning, without any notice, I sobbed. I sobbed because he was so beautiful. I sobbed because I had wanted so badly to see one. And I sobbed because I knew that just as I like to give my own children gifts that will fill them up with hope and wonder, God likes to do this too.

This is all to dazzle you. Just let Me love you.

 

 
 

Shemaiah Gonzalez is a storyteller and essayist whose work has appeared in America Magazine, U.S. Catholic and Loyola Press, among others. Her biography on beloved Catholic writer Brian Doyle will be published with Liturgical Press, Fall 2023. She is currently working on transforming her popular Substack Undaunted Joy into a collection of essays. A Los Angeles native, she now lives in Seattle with her husband and their two sons. Connect with her on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and her website.

 
 
*Photo courtesy of Jeremy Vessey and Unsplash