Long ago I moved from busy Santa Monica, California, so filled with all the things associated with Hollywood and fame—money; divorce; drugs; fashion; arrogance... to Europe. I was only nineteen and just a few years from having quit my full-time job of being a young gymnast. I landed in a small Italian village, where the family I lived with had their own small hillside vineyard, ate lunches together in their tiny orange kitchen, made a supply of rye bread to last the year, and hunted, kept cows, sang, roasted chestnuts, and really knew how be at home in the mountains. It was like I breathed fresh air for the first time in my life. Doing things slowly, savoring friends and family. Staring at the stars. Spending a whole day making pasta.
When I returned to the States after that trip I suffered major culture shock. I refused to let my mom buy me anything (for a whole year!). The supermarkets were so stuffed with stuff. There was waste everywhere, and people raced around town too fast in their fancy cars. I fled to the beach, where I would stare at the waves and pray, and pretend that all of the busyness behind me didn’t exist.
So, when Saint Brigid found me many years later, she wrapped her sweet, simple arms around my shoulders and let me mourn and cry, and yearn once again for the small things that matter most. My husband and I had already been on a long path of saying no to things. But the evil one has so many ways of threading little barbed hooks and sticky thorns into our sides. We were constantly making decisions whether to buy this or that, or do this or that while raising our young children. It’s still that way—identifying, then picking out those thorns and trying to heal from the sores.
Many years ago I was reading Saint Patrick’s “Confessions” to prepare for a children’s book I was editing about him. It just so happened that we were traveling to Europe that year on a sort of pilgrimage with our two middle school-aged kids. We stopped in Ireland—just for three days—to see a friend. While visiting one day our friend said, “Hey, let’s march up to the top of that hill behind my house. I have something to show you.” And that’s how we ended up walking in the same place Saint Patrick walked, on the same hill where he lit the paschal fire that changed everything.
Saint Patrick led to Saint Brigid, who led me to so many other saints. This was almost fifteen years ago now. I researched Brigid’s story for months in preparation for the children’s book I was to write. I searched out old texts from UK libraries. I read every story available that mentioned her. And in the meantime I was already spending a lot of time with the nuns who live in our area. The patterns of their lives, and the life I read about in Saint Brigid’s stories were so similar. Acts of kindness, prayer, feeding people, schooling children, being community leaders, even being cultural rebels of a sort. The nuns sought to live a similar life as the Italian mountain people I knew. The same kind of life Saint Brigid pursued. A life of purpose, a life of helping people one at a time, a life of faith.
I started seeing myself as an apprentice to Brigid. Her joy in the simple things inspired me. Our stories crossed in many ways—baking bread, welcoming strangers, adventuring, saying no to things I didn’t believe in. But she was strong in those areas where I was weak. In being a good friend and leader, in avoiding the worldly barbs—unlike me, she didn’t straddle the line of this world and the heavenly one. She barreled ahead with only Christ as her destination.
She lived a long life. I’m already in my 50’s and time is whipping by. What will be my legacy? Days spent twiddling my fingers at my desk? A list of movies I enjoyed? A heap of weeds pulled? I pray it’s more than that. I pray it’s people changed by friendly words, good food offered, and the scent of Christ’s love scattered in circles around me. I don’t care how big that circle gets, I just want a good, true, holy love to flood out of me. Let’s cheer one another along on that path. Yes? Let’s open our pantries and feed our friends. Let’s share bread, be vocal about what we believe, pray a lot, be friends with sheep.
Here's an offering of a prayer that is often attributed to her:
I should like a great lake of finest ale
For the King of kings.
I should like a table of the choicest food
For the family of heaven.
Let the ale be made from the fruits of faith,
And the food be forgiving love.
I should welcome the poor to my feast,
For they are God’s children.
I should welcome the sick to my feast,
For they are God’s joy.
Let the poor sit with Jesus at the highest place,
And the sick dance with the angels.
God bless the poor,
God bless the sick,
And bless our human race.
God bless our food,
God bless our drink,
All homes, O God, embrace.
Love to you all. Holy Brigid, pray for us.
jane
Jane G. Meyer is children's book editor at Ancient Faith Publishing.
