“Don’t expect faith to clear things up for you. It is trust—not certainty.”
These past three weeks in New Mexico, my daily walk has been the mile or so the bottom of the hill and down a narrow winding country road to the Valdez capilla (chapel) where I went for six o’clock Mass last night.
On the way, bordering the road, is a pasture of soft woolly lambs and sheep, some of whom have little bells around their necks that make a soft, tinkling chime.
When you really look at sheep they are just not all that smart. They walk in circles and bump into each other and go this way and that way, and follow wherever they’re led, and bleat. And that is us, that is humans, every human, underneath.
I have stood there a couple of times and wept at these lambs.
“I know my sheep and my sheep know me.”
I’m off at the crack of dawn Monday morning. A 1000-mile drive. There’ll be a moment at some wind-swept gas station, surrounded by strangers milling around and eating candy, when I feel utterly utterly alone in a way that is both thrilling and lonely-unto-death.