Resting in Peace

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon. Lisa had been up very early to tend to our new puppy, Rocky. She then got a little work done, grabbed a quick breakfast, and headed into town to attend the memorial service of a friend who died from an aggressive form of brain cancer at 59 years old--it not being lost on either of us that this is my own age. By late afternoon, Lisa was worn out and I put her to bed for a nap.

Rocky was tired himself--after all, he had led the morning charge and that sort of responsibility can exhaust a man--so he and I stretched out on the sofa in the living room of our old farmhouse and relaxed. In short order he was sound asleep on my chest, my breathing and his aligned and synchronous. As he snored softly, I took from the end table a collection of the poems of Yeats and resumed reading.

I have spent countless hours with this book, and yet somehow always missed an early--and to some degree uncharacteristic--poem of his called "The Ballad of Father Gilligan." The poem begins by describing how tired the good father has become in the service of his flock, many of whom are ill, dying, or recently deceased:

"The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day;
For half his flock were in their beds,
Or under green sods lay."

Another member of his parish, also on the precipice of death, sends for him, but in the midst of prayer the exhausted priest falls asleep before he can head off to administer the last rites:

"Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

"'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die';
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spoke, not I!'

"He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.

"They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind;
And God covered the world with shade,
And whispered to mankind."

Father Gilligan awakes, horrified to discover his lapse. He rushes to the man's home in the hope that he will not come too late:

"Upon the time of sparrow-chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.

"'Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died
While I slept on the chair';
He roused his horse out of its sleep,
And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door:
'Father! you come again!'

The priest is surely puzzled by the word "again," but he presses on:

"'And is the poor man dead?' he cried.
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.

But Father Gilligan comes to understand what has happened as the woman continues to speak:

"'When you were gone, he turned and died
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.

Father Gilligan's voice closes the poem:

"He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of His great angels down
To help me in my need.

"He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care,
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'"

As I am fond of saying, I do not pretend to know much about God. But this obscure little poem by Yeats perfectly captures some things that I deeply and resolutely believe:

There is a force in the universe that "made the night of stars" and that has "planets in His care";

He knows each and every one of us by name, and knows our needs, and shows us His grace; and

He will often come to us when we least expect but most need it--and this includes when we are spent, as we drop into our dreams in a house of sleep, while we rest.

I believe these things because I have seen them at work ...

most recently on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

Praise Him that it is so.

Amen. And Amen.