Divine Impressions

I do not tell you to pray in my way, but in that of God. Leave your soul at liberty to receive the divine impressions according to God’s pleasure. We should pray according to the dictates of the Holy Spirit.   ~   St. Paul of the Cross

 

          A grey veil has settled over the shy sun, promising rain for the later hours. Above me, the windchimes sullenly stir in the elfin breezes. Close by, too close, someone is mowing his lawn with a very noisy machine, shattering the morning peace into a hundred pieces.

         This is not a day when my heart can see a prayer.

          St. Paul of the Cross must have known, which is why he came early to tell me,

Leave your soul at liberty to receive the divine impressions according to God’s pleasure. We should pray according to the dictates of the Holy Spirit.

          I am not happy with his words, but there’s nothing to be done. I am not the author of this day. And so I trundle off to my usual grottos.

          It is at the Daily Readings that with a start I realise it’s the Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. Reading the Stabat Mater Dolorosa, my mind pauses at,

Holy Mother, pierce me through,
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Savior crucified.

          My heart is shaking its head vigorously. I don’t wish to be pierced today. I don’t feel like it. Today, I am immature and selfish. I am petulant, wanting the day to be more giving. But there’s an uncertain irritability to today. A weather that cannot decide if it wants to rain or be humid. The jarring of life roughly parts the air. It seems as if today everyone around is banging metal of some kind. Even the birds call out to one another in a rudeness that vexes the morn.

          It is not a day when prayer slips into your heart, not a day when prayers can be felt and lived. It is a day when I too want to take a pot and bang it around in solidarity with the nettled symphony that seems to be the hymn of the day.

         Holy Mother, pierce me through,
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Savior crucified.

          Something not mine suddenly takes over my heart, and silkenly thrusts it into the prayer,

Holy Mother, pierce me through,
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Savior crucified.

          That very second, the sun pierces the clouds, the breezes cool and lift their song. The human ruckus around me dies, even my feathered friends gentle their calls.  Peace silvers into the bends and hollows of the waiting earth.

Holy Mother, pierce me through,
In my heart each wound renew
Of my Savior crucified.

          And then I understand. The Divine has impressed upon my heart.