I was already at the hospital so I thought I may as well drop in unannounced on my friend Mary Ann Beil, pilgrim in Celtic Christianity, lover of books, and manager of Ethics. Her office looks and feels like a tiny Chapel in the corner of a great Cathedral. The light is muted and the walls are adorned with prayers, relics and photographs of Saints.
“Hey,” I said appearing in her doorway, wearing a tee shirt, faded jeans and flip flops.
She was just about to take a sip of coffee from a very ornate tea cup when I did this and she jumped in her seat, sloshing coffee on the round talking table that she has in place of a desk.
“HEY!” she bellowed, “this is perfect timing,” and she hugged me tight.
It is hard not to love Mary Ann and I have now for many years.
“Sit and talk,” she commanded. “This is just perfect! Last night while I was reading John O’Donohue and felt that something would be revealed to me today! Here you are! Tell me everything!
So I did. I spoke of green marshes, sad little holy docks, choirs of mussels that sing at low tides, and Fran’s thousand shades of green. Emotion crept into my voice and it shook. Moisture filled my eyes. I talked about lost serendipity, new found friends, and people who love me who magically appear out of nowhere to bring comfort and happiness. I told her stories of lost love, aching in the night, and a lone shrimp boat that refuses to give up. I talked about healing and how long it can take. I reviewed future travel and new partners that are coming to me rather than me seeking them out.
Mary Ann does not listen quietly. She punctuates everything that I say with a “Yep!”, “Ah-hah!” and “Um-hum” all delivered very enthusiastically. Sometimes she slaps the top of the talking table and flashes me the devilish of grins. When I finish talking it is her turn
“You are exactly in the right place! You do know that don’t you? Your whole life and everything that has happened in it was to prepare you for this soul search that you are in the middle of!”
I sit there and wonder how she consistently does this whenever we talk. Once she called me standing in the sunshine of St. Martin and when I told her that I was in a dark place, she screamed into the phone “Good! Roots take hold in dark places. Dead Saviors come back to life in dark tombs! Light explodes out of darkness!”
“You know Micheal,” she continues, “for all of those years your whole life was consumed with the poor, the widow, the orphan and the sojourner…the things that God holds most dear. None of us know how you did it that long. This is your time for you, those of us who love you, and God. You’ve spent decades doing the most holiest of things and now …” she pauses for effect, “after all of that love you’ve given away it is time for you to be loved.”
How does one respond to something like that?
She told me that she had a gift for me. Mary Ann is forever giving me gifts. A large iron cross is in the apartment downstairs. An ornate beaded one is in the Bible my Grandfather gave me. An eagle’s feather rests beside the computer that I write on.
She leaves and returns with a piece of paper. “This is my prayer,” she explains. “My prayer,” she repeats, “I wrote it just for me and God.”
“Give me strength to live another day; Let me not turn coward before its difficulties…let me not lose faith in other people; Keep me sweet and sound of heart in spite of ingratitude, meanness and assholes…open wide the eyes of my soul that I may see good in all things.”
She hugged me tight again. “You are on your soul search Mike. Get it back.”
Then call me.
