Reading Francis

Altissimu, omnipotente bon Signore,

Tue so le laude, la gloria e l’honore et onne benedictione.

One year I tried to give up impatient driving for Lent. That didn’t go so great. Count me among those who can’t wait for autonomous vehicles to replace all the other drivers on the road.

Ad Te solo, Altissimo, se konfano,

et nullu homo ène dignu te mentouare.

This year’s Lent, surrendering my fixation on the future, has had some interesting side effects. It hasn’t been easy – I continue to catch myself slipping into the thought patterns I want to set aside – but it seems to be getting easier to reset myself when I start slipping. 

There’s a wall in our room with a variety of art, most of which we have brought back from Assisi, Italy, over the years. The big cross in the center, like most of the ones around it, was painted by an artist friend there, though this one was more of a special commission, because it replicates in great detail a huge crucifix that hangs in the Basilica of St. Clare there. The cross itself isn’t famous – there’s a much more well-known cross in an adjacent chapel – but this is the one that I’ve always connected with.

When I stand in front of that wall, sometimes I find myself transported back to the places of prayer in Assisi where we’ve spent so much of our time there. It seems a bit much to say that these are mystical experiences, but I don’t have a better word for it. I feel myself back in those places, and more importantly, I feel more attuned to God’s presence, like I did when I was praying in those places.

As I’ve worked on clearing my head of worries and dreams and rehearsals of future scenarios, I’ve tried (without getting up to go back to that wall) to replace unwanted thoughts with that awareness and presence. That seems to help.

And I’ve begun to find myself experiencing that same presence in other settings, without necessarily visualizing the wall itself or Assisi. Standing outside at night with the dog (who, at her age and pace, does not go on anything one would call a “walk”), I look up at the sky, and the moon and stars transport me. In the morning, the dawning day, the palm fronds and leaves on the trees in our yard, the wisps of clouds, and especially the cool breeze, they all do the same thing. Likewise, I’ve gotten in the habit of trying to drive by the water on my way home from work, or look at the sliver of the bay that I can see out of my office window, and the water has the same transporting effect.

I mention this because, below the crosses on that wall in our room, there is a sort of shrine to St. Francis of Assisi’s famous poetic prayer, the Canticle of the Sun. We have copies of it in its original Italian and in English, a painting of St. Francis that our friend did, and a couple of pieces we bought at her shop that depict parts of the canticle in ways that remind us of being there.

In one stanza, Francis asks “Brother Sun” to join him in praising God.

Be praised, my Lord, through all your creatures,

especially Sir Brother Sun,

who brings the day; and you give light through him.

And he is beautiful and radiant in all his splendour!

Of you, Most High, he bears the likeness.

In another, he asks “Sister Moon” and the stars to join him.

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,

in heaven you formed them clear and precious and beautiful.

Another calls on “Brother Wind”

Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind,

and through the air, cloudy and serene,

and every kind of weather through which you give sustenance to Your creatures.

Another calls on “Sister Water”

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water,

which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.

And “Sister Mother Earth”

Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Mother Earth,

who sustains us and governs us and who produces

varied fruits with coloured flowers and herbs.

So it’s been striking to have this little mystical experience through the same natural elements that Francis calls siblings.

Laudato si, mi Signore, per quelli ke perdonano per lo Tuo amore

et sostengono infirmitate et tribulatione.

Beati quelli ke ‘l sosterranno in pace,

ka da Te, Altissimo, sirano incoronati.

Francis doesn’t call drivers to praise God, per se, because he was writing in the 13th century, when distracted driving was less common. But he did add this to his canticle (to resolve a local political dispute, incidentally):

Praised be You, my Lord, through those who give pardon for Your love,

and bear infirmity and tribulation.

Blessed are those who endure in peace

for by You, Most High, they shall be crowned.

At no time did I consciously connect my Lenten fast from obsessing about the future with my ongoing impatient driving. It’s funny, though; when I find myself stuck behind someone whose lack of attention to the road or unwillingness to drive exactly as fast as I want them to would normally make me nuts, I find myself remembering that, in every moment, I can choose not to get caught up in the nonsense and can, instead, remember the presence of God in the water or sky or wind or stars. And I have caught myself thinking, “If I can feel that presence, right here in this traffic-trapped car, what’s the rush?” Perhaps when you’re not so caught up in getting to the future as quickly as possible, the present can be a tad less exasperating.

I would not have picked this to be the Lent that I give up on impatient driving. Miracles never cease.

Laudate et benedicete mi Signore et rengratiate
e seruiteli cum grande humilitate.