Shavuoth - Pentecost Mary speaks The harvest feast of spring is here and yet my landscape lies bone dry. The Temple priests will read the Book of Ruth today; Famine comes before plenty, exile before return : yes, I believe. But when I gather with his friends inside the upper room, what gleanings will I pluck from memories of bread and wine? Unless the wind should penetrate the walls, unless a flame should sear my very soul, I’ll never understand what happened. O that love might arise like a pillar of fire scorching dead growth!
Then would I blossom like hyssop, then would my boughs become shade for the weary . . . never to thirst again. Perhaps the advocate he promised will appear today, bringing new words for a hymn of praise: “The one who was lost has been found; the one who was dead has arisen.” I will hold that hope deep within my heart and then I’ll wait until another angel interrupts my life. (I must be dreaming. Now to get dressed and find my veil.)