For the last few months there has been something lurking beneath the surface. It’s an intrusive, no good, awful thing. I could compare it to a gnat, flittering about, or a hot, humid day (see: Gulf Coast in August) sticking to your skin like glue. But it’s not just bothersome, it’s invasive, like kudzu. It permeates within; it’s kin to formaldehyde. It stinks so badly, you cry, “Uncle,” and give in.
No, it’s not that. Nope, not that either. Wrong, again.
It’s memory. The type that draws you in and asks for you to remember. Remember well.
And then, once it happens – once you remember – you’re a gonner. There’s nothing you can do. You can’t run. You can’t hide. You just have to sit there, hoping and wishing that your memory will soon fade and you can return to House Hunters International: Italy. It becomes impossible to think about anything else. Just like the smells of freshly baked homemade chocolate chip cookies, you get lured in. And it’s hard…for many reasons…but mostly because it is so sweet and because it is so very different.
———
This is exactly what happens when I remember the grotto. It’s the exact experience I get when I think about Caroline, our sophomore year, waking up early in the morning for our over-the-phone, long-distance Bible study. It’s the memory of the red carpet of the Lois Perkins chapel, the soft grass and strong trees and glistening lakes and cool summer evenings at Notre Dame. It’s the nightly chapel services sitting next to dear friends. It’s the Lenten stations of the cross at St. John’s in Pascagoula. It’s the movement of prayer between people. It’s that smell I love so much but can’t seem to place – wisteria? lilac? It’s all the moments when I have experienced a tremendous sense of fulfillment. It’s the memory of connection, of heartfelt, real union with love. It’s the knowledge and memory of sacred space. This is what nags at me. This is what eats at my soul, saying, “Come here. Live here. Remain here.”
The Grotto, The University of Notre Dame
Maybe, like me, you understand this kind of memory. This annoying yet incredibly beautiful reminder. You get how it can creep into your life and shake things up a bit.
It’s not to be compared with a mountain-top experience. Some may be tempted to do so. But, I’d argue that it’s anything from mountain-top, for it happens in the mundane. That’s what makes it so beautiful; it’s the moment when all things extra fade away, and you come back to reality. You come back to see that you, this world, these people, these creations, this moment, this relationship, and this God are sacred. And all you want to do is stay kneeling, continue the conversation, or hold the sun right there – in that exact spot in the sky.
But soon enough, you stand, go your separate ways, and the sun sinks down toward the horizon. You begin to think that it’s over, and you move on about your business. However, I’m beginning to wonder, “Did the sacred space change, or did I walk away? fall asleep? run off?”
Simply thinking about sacred space fills me. I imagine candles strewn about a floor, or beautiful vistas before me. I think of places I’ve been, people I’ve met, food I’ve eaten, and I immediately feel closer to God.
I don’t know what this means, but I do know that I experience peace in the deepest part of my being as a result of it. I do know that just hearing the words “sacred space” undoes the creases in my brow and the tension in my shoulders. And I know that it will always be here, waiting for me to return – waiting for me to learn that I can come here, live here, and remain here.
Amen.
* Thanks to Kathleen for being a life-giving friend; for sharing in my journey; and for reminding me of who I am and who I want to become.
May you be blessed with such friends; may you be such a friend to others; may you discover your understanding of sacred space; and may you meet God there.
