In recognition of Pope Francis’ visit to America and his constant reminders to honor and protect all life, provide succor to the needy and actively seek the betterment of the lives of others, I reflect on a meeting I had with a very gracious nun. She went by Mother Lioba. We sat and spoke for an hour and it was a healing experience. This is a small poem I wrote about that meeting shortly after it happened and it is an extension of gratitude to her always.
Mother Lioba was cut from a different cloth
Not cut at all
But whole.
Every gesture she made was wholesome.
Her eyes welled
so constant
She did all the work of crying for you.
She shared all your weight of living and dying with you.
Mother Lioba reached her hands through the bars to touch mine
And in that moment I knew:
It was not her who was hiding; it was me
Knew that those bars were only making plain what was real about the world and ourselves:
That I’m about as free as a fish whose prison is the sea
A bird who cage is the atmosphere
I’m not free here.
I’m just comfortable.
The fish is not free there
The sea is just easy
Mother Lioba won’t you give me a way out?
Maybe if, like you, I were to see the cell I’m in I might know what this freedom thing is all about.
