#71.1, Tuesday, August 5, 2025

         Before I leave these hills and ride off on that journey to Tours, I take this day to follow the familiar creek and visit the hill that was once my family home.

         Mostly the stones that marked the fields are scattered now, and the house is in ruin. But the stone I named for Ana is in place, still incised with the lines that are the letters of her name, though the incised lines are worn by time. The chiseled scars of my grief are still deep in my heart.

Further on, the secular church is overgrown in forest and vines. I find hardly a trace of the building. But here, where the clearing was cut behind the church are more named stones of my family.

         I see that Brandell passed before Gaia, though the stones aren’t carved with dates. I know that because the engraving for Brandell’s stone is cut deep, and it is decorated with carvings of birds and flowers, hardly visible to the eye, but to touch it is an abundant garden of all things beautiful. And next to Brandell is Gaia, and next to Gaia is Mater Doe. The two women’s names are together on one stone. Other markers here are names I’ve never heard spoken, but they could well be grandchildren I’d never met.

         Having the blessing of life and life again might seem to be all about finding names on stones and grieving for loved ones.  But I know something else about my strange circumstance of ever renewing life.

         Jesus made me a sign.  Of all the seven signs, not miracles, I am the sign that was given to speak of death though really of life.  A sign is a physical image, visible and tangible, that speaks of a spiritual reality, invisible but true. The sign I am is the physical life and life again, announcing always the spiritual life and life again. So here is spirit.

         This place where we once danced at the wedding is now completely overgrown with thickets of vines far beyond any earthly vintner’s imagination. Called weeds now, it is really just a garden we have yet to understand.

         Dear Jesus, my friend, I’m the sign of earthly life, finding little shoots of vine we once nurtured, are now this wild thicket filling all the empty space with huge greenery, twisting, wandering vines rich with leaves and ragged bark and little clinging curls reaching, clasping, like a baby’s fingers around her parent’s touch. Thank you.

(Continues tomorrow)