” Sing for God’s saints who have tracked faith’s journey before us,
Who, in our weariness, give us their hope to restore us;
In them we see the new creation to be,
Spirit of love made flesh for us.”

We began our morning on Holy Island, Lindisfarne, by singing these words. Holy and powerful words for an equally holy and powerful experience. As we had our morning prayer, standing in the mist of a Scottish rain, we could all feel the presence of the countless faithful who had prayed in this place for centuries. How does one even process such an experience? I looked around at the faces and could see the myriad of longings, hopes, and anticipations my fellow pilgrims carried into the ruins in which we stood. As we lifted our voices in song, we knew we were joining other voices that had echoed in this place when the walls were intact. As we offered our prayers, we were keenly aware that our voices were joined by the whispers of words lifted by the ancients.

Holy Island sits at the northeast coast of England just south of the Scottish border. The island’s life is governed by the tides. There was a window of time in the morning when the causeway was open and the tides were out. We rose early to make our way onto the island before the tides came in creating an impassible road to Lindisfarne Priory and Lindisfarne Castle and the few houses and shops that make up the small village. While we were busy trekking the land, the moon had done its work to create the tides from the North Sea that engulfed the shore. The Priory was founded in AD 635 and is the home and original burial ground of St. Cuthbert, an important figure in the establishment of Celtic Christianity. The story goes that after his death in AD 687, Cuthbert was buried and his remains were exhumed 11 years later to find that his body was in perfect condition,a sure sign of sanctity. He was the spiritual leader of those who lived their faith on this peaceful, isolated place for years, a place of solitude until it was invaded by Viking raiders in AD 793, a day the locals call ‘the day that changed everything’. The Vikings raided to capture the gold and riches brought by pilgrims as gifts to those at the abbey who had healed the sick and nurtured their spiritual lives. In addition to the valuable material objects, the Vikings also captured many of the people on the island to sell as slaves. One of our pilgrims remarked that while much as changed over the years, much may have sadly stayed the same.

Today’s weather created a movie-like Scottish set: gentle rains, misty roads, sheep standing like statues in the fields, boats bobbing on the water, shore birds flying overhead. There was no magical entrance of bagpipes today, though! Instead we found ourselves more rested, more prepared to be present to the Spirit’s movement in our steps, our path, our journey. Each pilgrim found this in their own way. Some in twos and threes. Others in solitary rain-soaked walking.

In the book, The Art of Pilgrimage, which we read as preparation for this journey, the author offers these words: Imagine your departure as a metamorphosis. Through simple acts of intention and attention, you can transform even a sleepwalking trip into a soulful journey. The first step is to slow down. The next one is to treat everything that comes your way as part of the sacred time that envelops your pilgrimage.

Today the rain provided the slowing down even the most driven among us needed. That slowing down allowed us to see and hear and experience the sacred time that is enveloping our journey. I know this is true. As one of our travelers told me: “Did you notice that when we sang,the birds that sat at the tops of the priory, stopped singing? And then when we prayed, the birds accompanied us in song?”

Yes, I had noticed. And I felt blessed to have shared this sacred noticing with her and the winged ones.

After a long night flight and a lay over in Amsterdam, we arrived in Glasgow, Scotland in the late morning. Those of us who had been planning this pilgrimage for more than a year, looked at one another in awed triumph. “We are really here!” Thirty-one people who did not know one another several months ago are now traveling, eating, laughing, praying and becoming community. It is a joyous thing, a holy thing.

After meeting our Scottish guide, Bill, at the airport we headed into the rolling country side to have lunch at Peebles……a sweet little town on the river Tweed. The walk along the river helped liven us up after the long plane journey. The group is beginning to gel and the small groups of travelers who knew one another from other circles are now spending time getting to know new people. A good trait for any pilgrimage, I think. At our first stop we headed out in twos and threes to discover places for lunch and shopping. A pilgrim must ask the locals for advice on where to find food. I received good advice on the cheeses of the local area. I relied on the kindness of strangers as we all did.

As we continued on toward Melrose Abbey, we saw the heather,now reddish brown on the hills, turned from its lavender blue of its August flowering. Fly fishermen lined the river searching for salmon and trout. Pheasants scattered themselves about in the harvested barley fields, their ringed-necks looking like a woman adorned in fine jewelry. The countless fluffy sheep lazed on the hillsides making polka dotted patterns in the rich, green grass. The scene gave new meaning to the word pastoral.

We arrived at Melrose Abbey, a medieval Cistercian stronghold situated in a town of cobblestoned winding streets. As we entered the abbey grounds, the sounds of bagpipes began to wash out of the stone ruins. Really? Really. We had come upon a wedding in this ancient place. I was struck with the power of a new beginning in a place that had known the prayer and work of so many of the faithful over hundreds of years. The wedding party marched out of what remains of the abbey walls. The men in kilts of different family tartans. The bride, resplendent in an ivory gown that shown against the deep green of the grass, the strength of the stone. The women guests wore extravagant hats as only the British can do.

We pilgrims spent time walking the abbey grounds, standing in the places where walls once stood, where both clergy and lay people worked side by side to tell of God’s movement in their lives, in their time. Slowly I observed our little group walk off singly, looking with interest and a sense of presence at the ancient, sacred place to which we had come. Just hours ago, we had been flying high over the Earth, something those who had made their mark in the stone and the soil of this place could never have imagined.

And yet somehow, if we allowed ourselves the presence of mind, the fullness of Spirit, we were connected to the breath, their breath that moves through this holy place. It had become a truly thin place.

For several weeks now I have been passing by a house not far ours on my daily walks and observing a small apple tree in the yard. Like a tomato plant we grew this summer, both plants yielded only one fruit. Our tomato plant grew tall and heavy with leaves but, in the end, had one medium sized tomato that remained green for weeks. Every morning I would check its progress. But it was taking its own good time in coming into its fullness. I referred to it as our Zen tomato plant. The same has been true of this apple tree. It is a small tree that is now heavy with one rather large apple. I have watched it grow larger and larger as the branch bends with the heaviness of its fruit. Each day I have been drawn to its growth, the weight it is exerting on the tiny tree.

As I have observed it, I have thought about all the energy and nutrients that have gone into creating this one apple. I have been fascinated with the singular thrust of this tree. Some might think that the tree is deficient in some way to only produce one offspring. But I have been reminded of the artists, the writers, the farmers, the activists, the parents who have poured all their energy into creating one single, perfect, beautiful thing. While they may go on to create something again at another time, for this day, for this season, there is only the single-minded passion to produce one gift to the world. Unlike the common patterns around them, scatter-shooting ideas and plans, these are the people who can have a vision, hold onto it gently but firmly, and move methodically toward its creation, its fulfillment.  When you are in the presence of such people, it is pure gift. Pure gift to watch the calmness that grips them at some deep place, some Spirit place. Some commitment that allows them to keep their eye on the prize.

This little apple tree has reminded me of the sacrifice of bringing forth something beautiful in the world. Its branches(there are only about three) are pulled and contorted by the heaviness of its progeny. Many parents know this same pull. As does anyone who has labored over a dream. But, oh, the joy that comes from seeing the child, the painting, the project, the apple, come into its fullness. I dare say someone felt the same for each of us at one time. And so I am thankful for the gift of this little tree. For its persistence. For its hard work. For its lessons.

There is a song I learned years ago in the spiritual renewal weekend called Cursillo. It goes something like this: ‘Because you’re the apple of my eye, I’ve set you in a high place. You are my inheritance. You are all I could desire. And I promise to stay with you forever.’

For all the apples of their Creator’s eye, I am filled with awe and gratitude this day. Look around you because they are everywhere. Perhaps an offering of thanks is in order.

****I will be leaving this afternoon for a long awaited pilgrimage to holy places in Scotland. With the cooperation of wireless internet sites I can find, I will be posting on this blog a daily diary of our travels. I hope you can join us in this way as we walk the paths the faithful have walked for hundreds of years.