Well, for Easter, something soothing at the top of the page. L. and I made our annual Lenten pilgrimage to Wernersville; I took this picture there. (I am rather enjoying my $25 cell phone. It's a phone-- but it takes pictures!) Out of my primal deference to the written word, and my unwillingness to fuss too much with technology, pictures will always be ancillary here. But they can be evocative.
So, here we have St. Francis. Not cloying or sentimental. Has an Craft Movement, look, no? Which would make sense, the place was built in 1929. It might be that old. If it is, it's in good shape, for being an outdoor shrine.
Two stories: Sister Rose Cecilia died last month. Once she was leading a group of us on a tour of an exhibition of prints by Bernard de Caussade, who painted a (very sentimental) series on the life of St. Francis. Sister was a Franciscan. When we came to the depiction of St. Francis' death, she asked that we forgive her, she couldn't continue and would have to cut the tour a little short. I looked up and saw she was weeping, anew, at St. Francis' end, 700 years after the fact! It was moving and utterly charming.
And, I hate to steal a preacher's story, but-- a teetotaling Baptist I know turned High Anglican priest told this story in his Easter Sunday sermon. One of his first experiences with the Anglican church was an Easter brunch. The pastor raised a glass of champagne and toasted: "To the Resurrection! And if you can't drink to the Resurrection-- to hell with you!"