All I Aspire to This Lent I Learned from a Saint & a Twelve-Year Old
I. The Saint
It was a warm August day in 1958 and the water was just right. The community of young kayakers were just beginning their river journey – a journey to be filled with paddling, riverbank soccer and deep discussions about family and faith under starlit skies. They were so excited he could be there. Wujek, they affectionately called him: Uncle. And he was thrilled to be there with them. My Srodowisko, he called them. His environment or milieu.
But he wouldn’t be there long. Thanks to a thoughtfully (if not reluctantly) preserved link with the outside world, this young Polish priest would receive a message. He was being summoned forthwith to Warsaw by Cardinal Wyszynski. Change was coming. So, regretfully, he bid goodbye to his Srodowisko, kayaked to the closest road to civilization, hitched a ride in the back of a milk truck and caught the train to Warsaw. En route, the priest changed clothes. Wujek left the river, but Father Karol Wojtylaarrived in Warsaw.
Upon arrival, the Cardinal was brief and to the point. Fr. Wojtyla was being asked to assume the role of titular bishop of Ombi and apostolic administrator and auxiliary bishop to Archbishop Eugeniusz Baziak in the Archdiocese of Krakow. The young priest was humbled and, with great gravity, accepted. Not yet forty, he was now the youngest bishop in Poland. Knowing the heavy burden of responsibility he had just assumed in the deeply Catholic, but Communist-oppressed state of Poland, Fr. Wojtyla planned to take a train to Krakow. It was important for him to meet with Archbishop Baziak. But before he did, he made a very important stop. As George Weigel would describe it,
“[Wojtyla] went straight to the Ursuline convent in the capital, where he knocked on the door and asked if he could come in to pray. The sisters didn’t know him, but his cassock was a sufficient passport. They led him to their chapel and left him alone. After some time, the nuns began to worry and quietly opened the door of the chapel to see what was happening. Wojtyla was prostrate on the floor in front of the tabernacle. Awestruck, the sisters left, thinking that perhaps he was a penitent. Some hours later they came back. The unknown priest was still prostrate before the Blessed Sacrament. It was late, and one of the nuns said, ‘Perhaps Father would like to come to supper…?’ The stranger answered, ‘My train doesn’t leave for Krakow until after midnight. Please let me stay here. I have a lot to talk about with the Lord…'”
Twenty years later, the young Father Karol Wojtyla would become Pope John Paul II. Fifty-six years later, he would be named a Saint by the Roman Catholic Church.
II. The Boy
A dear friend, Mike, once told me of this experience. It was early autumn, several years ago, when Mike found himself at a local Jesuit Retreat House for a weekend silent retreat. Having found an obscure seat in a small, empty Carmelite Hermitage chapel, he settled into a deep, abiding and prayerful silence. But then the boy walked in. Not more than twelve years old and presumably the son of the hermitage caretaker, he walked in with that awkward energy and gait so characteristic of a pre-teen boy. And unaware that Mike was there, he solemnly approached the tabernacle, made a sign of the cross and knelt in prayer. For what seemed to be five or ten minutes, the boy silently prayed. Motionless and deeply engaged, he simply knelt. And prayed. And then he stood up, made the sign of the cross and left. He never noticed the presence of my friend. There was no self-consciousness or ostentation. It was simply a brief and necessary talk between a boy and his God.
III. Come, Lord Jesus
I need this. Dear God, especially this Lent, I need this. You see, I love the intellectual reasons for faith – I am convinced. And I am entranced by the beautiful art, music and architecture designed for the glory of God – I am dazzled. But what I need – what I supremely long for – is that simple, sweet conversation with Christ. I yearn to deepen that bond that reflexively makes me want to race to talk with God upon first hearing life-changing news, to catch the late train because he and I still have so much to discuss, to pass on dinner because a greater hunger is presently being sated, to leave my boyhood distractions mid-day and simply kneel in his presence knowing – truly knowing – that it will all be okay.
Because sometimes I am in the wilderness. And I hunger. And thirst. And worry. And mourn. And He who would satisfy all my needs seems a bit farther than I would like. All I aspire to this Lent I learned from a Saint and a twelve-year old.
Come, Lord Jesus.
Please. Come.
