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| Saint Bride - John Duncan (1913) |
I, Brigid, daughter of Dubhthach and Broicsech, am plunging into the depths of an ocean of heady mercies, with no floor in sight: I was born a Druid’s slave but am now free; I was a servant whose soul has been cleaved unto Jesu, in the fullness of friendship.
Thus, shouldering my white flag of surrender, I was giggling with my love – and angels were stomping round us, singing new songs, heaven’s applause ricocheting against the walls. We tumbled into a moment of hush. And we traced the delicate texture of the borders of my life, behind, within, beyond which he was always there. The silent tenderness of his graze (very easily) opened a kindness in me, and I whispered across that I ached to care for him, when he had been born a helpless babe.
O, I gasped as his devastating “yes” sent me up to a height I have never reached, and I lay into the care of his messengers, who were clothed in robes which bustled with reels of colourful mysteries. They hemmed me in with seals and gulls and carried me away to the Nativity in the Holy Land, skimming twinkling foamy crests crowned by blushing clouds.
Mary and Joseph had taken shelter from the cold Bethlehem night. I walked inside to see her lurching silhouette, as she groaned and cried out with the weight of a promise, suckled on by centuries, at long last dawning. Something in the voice of her shadow inspired me to be bold and to walk to her, rather than fall prostrate, smothered by the nearness of glory.
Once Our Lady sat in the dirt, I propped up her small frame while Joseph cradled one of her hands in both of his. I tell you, not even the leaves which fall from the trees are as spirited as Mary, full of grace.
Her waves of agony escalated until, shrieking back and also gasping for air, the little babe arrived. We wordlessly shrouded him in cloths and nestled him in a manger. Sometime after the day when Mary was purified at the temple, I was taken back to the Isle of Iona. Amen.
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