(Lk: 1:38)
The night’s a moonlit velvet; nothing stirs—
not even the young woman: she is still.
Long shadows lean from candle’s light: she prays,
and memory and meaning merge and part
Not even the young woman—still, so still—
can fully understand what night has wrought,
as memory and meaning merge and part
while mother, father sleep, dreams undisturbed.
She barely understands what night has wrought:
Her prayer comes from her body, given whole.
Her mother, father dream; sleep undisturbed.
Her mind’s a boat alone upon a sea.
Her prayer comes from her body, given whole,
not from her mind; no words can compass thought.
Her mind’s a boat alone upon a sea—
she’s left the boat and walks sea’s moonlit path.
She’s left her mind—no words can compass thought,
her Fiat leads where no one else has gone:
she’s left the boat and walks sea’s moonlit path,
a path that cannot bear the weight of doubt.
Her Fiat sounds where no one else has gone.
But God, she sees, will also leave his home,
become the one who bears the weight of doubt—
a God who does what God has never done.
So God will also journey far from home.
The night’s now moonless velvet. Nothing stirs.
Her God will do what no god’s ever done.
Long shadows move the candle’s light. She prays.
Johanna Caton, O.S.B., is a Benedictine nun from Minster Abbey in Kent, England. Born in Virginia, she lived in the United States until adulthood, when her monastic vocation took her to England. She writes poetry as a means of understanding the work of God in her life, whose purposes and presence can be elusive until viewed through the more accommodating lens of art and poetry. Her poetry has appeared or will appear in Green Hills Literary Lantern, Time of Singing Christian Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, The Christian Century, Amethyst Review and other venues. She is a 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee.