The Message

St. Alban's Church, Shropshire, England

It was chilly in his little office, and Father Timothy rubbed his hands together for warmth and leaned closer to the page, studying the church accounts. Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching, and there was a hurried knock on his door. "Come in," he called, and the next moment the door flew open.

"Father Timothy! You've got to come see this!" It was Adam Vaughan, one of the church volunteers, and he was out of breath, his ruddy face flushed with excitement.

The elderly priest sighed. Now what? I'll bet the basement's flooded again. It never ends, he thought wearily. Every day it's something else - the old furnace gives out, the roof springs a new leak. We're getting too old - me, this church, my congregation...

Adam strode forward. "Father, we've found something in the basement! Please, come and see!" Now Father Timothy could hear excited voices wafting up from the basement, where a crew of workmen had been working for weeks, shoring up the crumbling foundation walls.

Reluctantly he rose and followed Adam, making his way cautiously down the narrow stairs into the vast, echoing basement.

The crew were all talking at once, gathered around something in the far corner. As he approached they moved aside for him, and he saw Ethan Foster, the foreman, lifting something carefully onto a table. He turned, eyes bright with excitement. "Father, we found this behind the south wall, when we pulled away the old stones. Who knows how long it's been there?"

It was covered with dust and cobwebs, but Ethan took up a rag and wiped it clean, revealing a plain wooden box. It was simply fashioned, with no lock, only a sturdy metal latch. Forgetting his weariness, Father Timothy reached out and carefully tried to open it, but the clasp was rusted shut. He lifted the box cautiously. It wasn't heavy, but as it tilted, in the sudden hush they all heard it - something inside shifted. They all began talking again, but he raised his hand for silence.

"I'd better take this upstairs and see if I can get the latch open without breaking it. It will have to be done carefully." Their faces fell in disappointment, and he smiled. "Don't worry, you'll all get to see whatever's inside, I promise!"

Carefully he hefted the box and hurried up the stairs. Back in his office, he set it down and brought the desk lamp near. His heart was pounding as he bent close, peering at it from every angle. What could it hold? He paused in his examination to sit back and gather his thoughts.

Let's see... this church was built on the ruins of an old convent. What was its name? Ah, yes - Bidwell Abbey. A good-sized community, about a hundred nuns or so, over the years, but it was closed down centuries ago. Nothing left of it now but a few stones from the old walls, half hidden in the grass. Could this possibly be from that long ago?

He rummaged in a storage closet and found a bottle of oil, spraying it carefully onto the latch and hinges. While it soaked in, he fetched soft rags and polished the old wood until it glowed. Then he turned again to the latch and gently worked at it until it began to yield. With infinite care, he raised the lid an inch or so. The hinges stuck, and then, with a long, protesting creak, surrendered, and he opened the box.

He stared down for a long moment, then began to lift out the contents one by one.

First was a leather pouch, brittle with age. He gently fingered it open, reached in and slid out a small prayer book. He hazarded a peek inside, gazing thoughtfully at the pages.

Next he lifted out a folded cloth, faded to grey, stiff and almost crumbling with age. A veil? Too fragile to unfold. He set it aside.

Now another small leather bag. He pulled it open and peered inside, then tilted it gently. A rosary of wooden beads and cross tumbled out onto the desk.

Next, a small bundle of dried stems, tied with a faded ribbon. These were flowers, he thinks. Why did she save these?

There was one more thing: a packet, wrapped in some kind of oiled paper, tied with a leather cord so stiff it broke at his touch. As he opened it, a few small grains of something like rice fell onto his desk. He bent to peer more closely. Seeds, they looked like, faded almost white.

Inside was a folded paper - a letter, possibly. It was labeled, in ink so faded he could barely read it: "Mother Eleanor, Bidwell Abbey, Shropshire".

He paused, biting his lip. Then, unable to resist, he unfolded it.

The ink was less faded here, easier to read, and he could make out lines of script, the handwriting flowing and graceful.

Someone - some woman, he was sure - had sat down, centuries ago, and written these words. He could picture her, writing with a sure, confident hand. He took a deep breath and began to read:

My dear Eleanor,

Greetings, and peace to you, my sister! I hope you and your flock are all well!

It was, as you know, a long winter, and we had much illness here and in town. Spring was late in arriving, but it is finally here, and the crops have been planted. Now if it would only rain!

We speak of you so often, and remember the pleasant days of your visit and our many talks together. It seems so long ago now, but we keep you in our prayers every day.

Eleanor, I have been thinking about our last talk before you left, when we picked lavender in the garden together, and how we opened our hearts to one another as we sat on the bench in the sunshine. I cannot stop thinking of how weary you seemed to be, and how discouraged.

It is never easy, I know, this life of faith, especially for us who have been given the task of leading a flock. How heavy this burden is, day after day, with all its tasks and nuisances and worries. It seems as if the moment I sit down, there is another knock on the door, another sister with a question or problem to address. It never seems to end!

And then, too, every day we shoulder the burden of caring for God's children who come to us in need; the women who come begging for bread with their hungry little ones at their sides, the old men needing a warm bed, the sick who have nowhere else to go. And our hearts are heavy, as well, with all the troubles of these times - with rumors of plague and talk of war, and so much suffering and unrest in the world.

How do we find the strength to go on, when our own small strength is at an end? How do we find hope, in a world that seems more dark and hopeless every day?

Sometimes God sends us help in such small ways. Today, as I was praying, I suddenly thought of my mother.

I had eight brothers and sisters, as you know, and our house always seemed to be full to bursting with children and their noise and needs. My mother had much to do, with all the baking and mending and cleaning. But I remember that no matter how busy she was, when we needed her, she would put aside her work and come to help us. When one of us fell in the road and scraped a knee, she would hurry to us, to bandage it and wipe our tears. When we needed a scolding, she was firm, but kind; when we were sad, her hug always comforted us.

It seems to me that God is like that. Oh, so many people talk about God being far away, in the heavens, looking down on us. But I believe that God is close, right by our side, like a watchful mother who is always ready to help us whenever we need Her.

So, my friend, remember this, when the burdens of leading your flock weigh heavy on your heart. God never asks you to carry a load beyond your strength. When you feel you cannot go on, turn and ask for help, like a child turns to her loving mother. She will come to you, and give you the help you need.

The bell for Vespers will be ringing soon, so I must stop here. Again, my dear friend, I send you our love, as do we all. You are always in our thoughts and prayers.

Mother Clare

Father Timothy sat very still for a long while, reading and rereading the lines of flowing script. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. As he set the parchment down, a few more small grains slid from the folds of the paper onto his desk. He leaned over, peering at them.

Suddenly he knew. They were lavender seeds - from flowers plucked on a summer day centuries ago, cherished, along with words of comfort from a friend.

He wiped his eyes again. "Thank You," he whispered. "This was just what I needed." And somewhere, he imagined, his Mother was smiling.