It was almost completely silent, but for the sound of footsteps on stone. I carefully climbed up the uneven staircase and ducked my head through the tiny entrance. There it was, about the size of a bathtub—a hollow in the rock of Mount Subasio. I had no words. I knelt down and, suddenly, I felt his presence—Francis. I imagined him coming to this unknown cave, not so much to run away from the world as to run to his Beloved.
It was my first trip to Assisi, and my first visit to the Eremo delle Carceri, the hermitage on the wooded hill above the city. It was one of the first of many encounters with the saints in my travels in which I would end up following a pattern:
- Being awestruck at the saint’s holiness
- Mourning my own mediocrity
- Feeling encouraged to try again
As I knelt by the rough, rocky bowl in which Francis spent many a night’s vigil in prayer, I felt regret for so many wasted times of prayer, times when I let the flame of love burn low in my heart. I could never get back the past. I longed to pray with the same unwavering love and passionate zeal of St. Francis. And then either my wishful thinking or a timely grace intervened and brought to my mind Romans 8:26: “The Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” I was able to rise and leave the cave encouraged and ready to start over, with the help of grace.
I think discouragement could be a normal first reaction to hearing the story of St. Francis. How can I hope to attain anything close to his degree of love for God? How can I pray the way he prayed? But then I remember that he was only human, too, and he struggled with his own weakness. St. Francis himself needed encouragement. He had his own timely graces that kept him on the path to holiness, whether those came in the form of a dream, the audible voice of Jesus, or a smile from one of his brothers. The good news is, I am not reaching for the unreachable, I do not have to be someone I am not, and I am not alone. Others with similar human limitations have walked this journey before me and walk it with me.
My experience at the Carceri came full circle this past summer, the day before I made my final vows. St. Francis decided to make another friendly appearance, at least in my heart. Our community has a lovely tradition of singing the Veni Creator Spiritus as a prayer over the sisters preparing to make their profession. As my sisters chanted the Latin verses, I imagined myself and Jesus in a dark room with a little flame of fire between us. I watched him blow on the little flame, my little flame, to make it grow. He blew ever so gently, yet relentlessly. He himself would make my love for him and my life of holiness grow and burn more brightly.
Then, as the image continued, St. Francis stepped into the Lord’s place and took his turn blowing to coax the flame higher. He smiled encouragingly at me. Then others of my saint friends joined him, and I knew that all of heaven was with me, cheering me on. I knew that whatever of my love for Jesus was not “enough,” grace would expand and complete and overflow. I was filled with a deep joy and assurance. I am so thankful for the shining lights that the saints are and for how they reach down to give us a hand on our own journey to heaven.
Sr. Mary Gemma Harris, T.O.R.
(Photo Above: Eremo Le Celle in Cortona, Italy, about 50 miles away from Assisi's Eremo delle Carceri. It was another spot where St. Francis would withdraw for silence and solitude with God.)
