It would be safe to say that in my nearly three weeks in Ireland I have heard some mighty stories. Most of these stories have not been told by museum guides or tour leaders. They have instead been told by regular folk that have served me food or given directions. Hoping not to generalize about the Irish but it has been my experience that those I have met jump right into telling their story, their life story, in a fullness I have never been privy to before. They have done so with great detail and a genuine openness that has messed a bit with my Minnesota reserve. All in all, I have found it refreshing and a blessing.
I have also heard some amazing stories of faith, of people now called saints, who traveled to some of the most remote landscape I have ever seen in order to live a life closer to God. Following the model of the desert fathers and mothers, these women and men created communities that continued to shape and give new life to the faith stories of Jesus. I have loved imagining what their lives must have been like and have been humbled by their commitment to live lives of obedience and prayer.
But I have to admit that I have been most drawn to the story of St. Kevin, a saint I must admit to knowing nothing about until a few days ago. St. Kevin settled on a little outcropping overlooking a valley called Glendalough in the Wicklow Mountains in western Ireland. There he helped build a monastery and several dwellings that became one of the largest religious communities in Ireland. The story is told that St. Kevin always stood when he prayed, his arms held out from his sides and his palms lifted upward toward heaven. He often did this while standing in the freezing cold waters of the mountain lake.
One day while he was standing there praying, a bird began to build a nest in his outstretched hand. St. Kevin kept on praying. He did so until the nest was built. So as not to disturb the bird’s new home, St. Kevin stayed put, praying. The bird then laid eggs in the nest. It is said that St. Kevin continued to stand in the cold water, arms outstretched,praying, until the baby birds were born and took flight.
It’s a wonderful story, isn’t it? Of course, like all good stories about holy people, it can leave us scratching our heads and wondering at the fact of it. Also like all good stories about holy people, the facts of the tale are not as important as the truth of it. The truth of the story is that St. Kevin had the patience to stand still while something was being born in his presence. He had the good sense and faith to know that he was witness to the miracle of new life. Over time those who had known St. Kevin must have seen in him a prayer life that was gracious and never ending so to have continued to tell this story over and over again made all the sense in the world.
As I leave this country that has given me such riches, I think the story that I will most treasure is this one of St. Kevin. In these times in which we find ourselves, it is my hope that, like St. Kevin, I will not shy away from prayer that takes me to the places of discomfort. My deepest desire is that we all can be present to what might actually be coming to birth through those places that seem most desolate and remote in our daily life and in our world. And in all the places where nests might have the slightest opportunity to be built, that patience can prevail while the new life comes into being.
Outside the path that leads to what is believed to have been St. Kevin’s mountain cell, a sculpture stands watch over the lake, watching and waiting for what is yet to be.The trees stand all around, arms outstretched toward heaven. Praying.
