The Love Of A Saint

The flickering lanterns bumped and bobbed along the forest path like drunken fireflies. Toddlers gripped the handles tightly as their parents — nervous shepherds--herded them along. Finally, the children arrived at a chair, marking the end of the journey. In it sat a man with his own lantern. They gathered around him in a small pack, their lights illuminating his shoes.

The man began to tell a story but my focus was on Thomas. The back of his head. The messy tangle of blonde curls. And a profile that suggested rapt attention. Was he really listening? I wondered. Or did some woodland creature press a pause button hidden in the hollow of a tree? Regardless, there was magic in that moment.

Blinking myself back, I caught the gist of the story. It was the tale of St. Martin, the man whom we’d gathered to celebrate with this weekend of lantern walks and crackling campfires. Martin, a soldier, was riding his horse on a cold night and came across a broken and scantily clad beggar. Touched by the sight of the shivering man, Martin removed the heavy black cloak from his own back and tore it in two — saving one half for himself and giving the other half away.

Not long after this incident, Martin again encountered the needy man, only now, he was seated in a throne. The man was no beggar. He was Jesus. Still-he wore the cloak that had been shared with him, only now, it had transitioned from a dark black to a pure and blinding white.

This was our first camping trip with our son, and I, admittedly, approached it with trepidation. Visions of bug bites, restless tossing and turning, and rowdy nearby campers danced in my head. In reality, the experience was magical — just like camping was when I was a small girl. The smell of campfire smoke wafting from my big sister’s purple coat. The delicious crisp edges of hot-dogs and s’mores roasted just right — leaving fingers sticky and bellies full. And best of all — the excuse to lay that closely, that quietly beside my mom and dad.

Adolescence ushered in a less sacred camping experience, and by young adulthood, the s’mores had long since been replaced by pints of whiskey and tightly rolled joints. My Dad’s campfire songs had made way for clumsy guitar strums, slurred stories, and late night snacks carelessly left open for raccoons. No more rising with the sun. Just groggy moans and groans while battling dewy sleeping bags back into their sacks — dreading the nauseating ride home.

But this camping trip — this communion — ushered the magic back in. I awoke early and journaled while the sun rose. We enjoyed a feast of cinnamon buns, sausage, and fresh bacon — crispy at the edges. The soundtrack, a mix of tent zips and children laughing, looped quietly around us. And before we packed up, Thomas and I went for one last look at the lake.

We found ourselves nestled in the hug of a small, wooded amphitheater. With no one else in sight, we rested on a splintered bench. It was a bit chilly and his tiny body pressed into mine. Again, he was quiet, showing the reverence of an old man — not a three year old boy. And as I’m apt to do in these special moments, I began to reflect on who I’d been and who I’d become. The struggle. The descent into numbness. The resurrection. And the things I’d left behind.

I found myself fingering the sleeve of the sweater I was wearing and was suddenly overwhelmed by a vision of taking it off and tearing it in two. In that moment, I felt certain that one half would be plenty for Thomas and me, and equally certain that the other half belonged to the me I used to be. To the disheveled, broken beggar that needed the warmth of a stranger and the love of a saint.

*More on the Martinmas Festival

Jen Anderson is currently taking a break from her therapist gig to focus on writing, coaching, motherhood, and her self-proclaimed Jendependence Movement.

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