The Big Bird, that’s what I call the Holy Ghost, the one who comes with wings and tongue of fire. The One, the Mercy Sisters taught me long ago, whose Pentecost arrival brings the gifts of light and sacred speech. As I age, I am ever more hungry for the gifts of the Big Bird. I hunger for light. I want to hear God speak.  

A few days before the feast of Pentecost, reading about the solstice bonfires of my Celtic ancestors, I thrill to learn about the ritual of hoop jumping. To celebrate the solstice, ancient Celts jumped through hoops of fire. The higher the jump, the better. The ritual, as I understand it, signified the turning of the seasons, the earth rounding the hoops of the sun. 

Serendipitously, or so it seems, as I put down the book about Celtic ritual, I stumble on a notice of a solstice retreat offered at the Well of Mercy. The Well is a rural meditation center founded by the Sisters of Mercy in the rolling hills of Yadkin County, North Carolina, two hours’ drive from my home. The solstice retreat will be a day of seeking the sacred in nature, a guided walk outside on the day of longest light. 

Even the name “Mercy” calls me. 

The Sisters of Mercy taught me in Catholic grade school, in Catholic girls’ high school and they teach me even now in the seventh decade of my life. The Sisters’ earth advocacy, their anti-racism and anti-gender discrimination missions, their radical and inclusive charity — all model active prayer for me. 

And I still have a personal relationship with one very special Sister of Mercy. 

This woman, let’s call her Sister Rose Lynn, is the woman whom I consider to be my spiritual advisor, though I’m not sure she would recognize the title. Every time I speak with her I ask her to teach me how to pray. Sister Rose, in her nineties, always teaches me, teaches me in her own language, shaped by dementia and wisdom. I long, however, for the gift of understanding all she teaches. 

Now I am eager to tell her about my plans for the Well of Mercy retreat.

On Pentecost Sunday I phone the Marian Center, the Sisters of Mercy Motherhouse nursing home in Belmont, North Carolina. 

“Sister, it’s me, Mary Alice.” As with every conversation, I remind her who I am. “You know me. You’re my teacher. You taught me. Still do. Taught all the girls at Our Lady of Mercy. In the 1960s. You ran that place. Literally, Sister. You’d gallop down the halls, black veil flying, rosary rattling. You’d whip up chalk dust and songs.”

She clears her throat. “Hear her sing, the Lady… God… startles. Yesly, yesly.”  

Silence settles on my phone.

Sister Rose has advanced Alzheimer’s. It is hard for her to talk. But I believe her words comes from a place of deep truth. 

I reminisce about songs we sang at high school folk Masses, about anti-war songs, about protest marches. 

Then comes my perennial request. “Sister Rose, teach me how to pray.”

“Thank you for your order.” She laughs. “I have the packing slip. Your order will come, swept by two birds… in the season of kindness. Yesly.” 

“Sister, I, ah,…”

“I am wed to being. It will branch. Swept by two birds…  Will provide. Being will. Being in love.”

“Sister, I signed up for a nature retreat. At the Well of Mercy. On the summer solstice. A prayer walk in the long daylight.”

“Being… will… fall to light.” 

“Fall?”

“Fall to light. Your order will come. Swept by two birds.”

“I don’t understand. But, you know, I do call the Holy Ghost the Big Bird.” I giggle at myself, suddenly feel like I’m back in Sister Rose’s high school classroom.

She laughs, too. “Thank you for your order.” 

“What order?”

“Shake it, shape it, such order, inner order, ordering, beauty of mercy. I do have the packing slip for your order.” She pauses. “Your order will come. In the season of kindness. Swept by two birds.”

“The retreat is three weeks from now, on the solstice, June 21st.”

Sister Rose is silent. 

Finally she speaks. “Necessary flood. God in a flood.”

Three weeks later heavy rains and flooding cause the cancellation of the retreat. 

Deeply disappointed at the loss of the retreat, though thankful the flooding was not worse, I seek permission to visit Sister Rose. I want to see her face, hug her, bring her sunflowers. When permission is granted, I happily make the hour’s drive to the Sisters of Mercy in Belmont.

An aide wheels Sister to a sunlit visiting parlor with a large glass wall. I carry a bouquet of yellow sunflowers and an old book of verse. 

Sister Rose holds my hand as I read Robert Louis Stevenson’s 1885 poem “The Swing” from A Child’s Garden of Verse. It’s one of my perennial favorites, with its image of a child flying on an old-fashioned rope swing. Sister’s face glows as I read. When I finish we look at the illustrations in the book.

Finally, I say, “Sister, my solstice retreat was canceled.”

“Your order will come.”

“What order?”

“The praying…”

“Praying?”

“Your order will come. Yesly.” She puts her fingers in her mouth. She lifts shapes from her tongue, shapes only she can see. “Mouth words,” she says.

“’Mouth words’?”

Sister Rose nods her head. “The underside is captive.”

I wait for her to continue. 

“The praying is the going. God, she live. God, she gives food. She loves. She he. God, he startles, yesly, she does. The Gift. She is…  swept by two birds. And that’s to pray. Yesly. Yesly.” 

“Teach me?”

“It is. And it… is not canonical. She is swept by two birds.” Sister grins and I see her again running down the halls of Our Lady of Mercy high school, her veils like wings. “God startles.”

“God startles,” I repeat, hearing God speak in Sister Rose, even if I can’t understand all the words.  

“Yesly. God startles.” Sister points to a sunflower bright in the afternoon sunlight.

Too soon an aide takes Sister, her wheelchair, and her sunflowers to a back bedroom. Our visit is over. 

I leave to wander the adjoining grounds of the Belmont Abby Benedictine Monastery, the Abbey Basilica, and the College of Belmont Abby. The basilica has been locked every time I’ve visited in recent weekdays. 

Today it is open. 

I slip in, take a seat in the last pew. A group of teenage boys sit far in the front facing a monk.

A young woman approaches me, whispering, “I hope you don’t mind but we’re having a retreat. You’re welcome to stay.”

I am startled by this surprise gift. “Yesly,” I say, Sister Rose’s word spilling out of my mouth. “Thank you.”

I realize I’ve been invited to the retreat I need. Maybe I haven’t jumped through hoops of solstice fire like my Celtic ancestors, but it feels like I have. I kneel, listening, grateful.

“The cardinal gifts of the Holy Ghost,” the monk is saying, “are faith, hope, and love. These are gifts. Ask for those gifts. Ask. Ask for more faith. Ask for more hope. Ask for more love.”

I hear Sister Rose’s voice in my head, “Place your order with God.”

“Okay,” I murmur, “I’ll take all the light you can give me. And teach me how to pray.”

At these words I feel joy-swept by the Big Bird’s wings. Sister was right, God does startle, repeatedly. Maybe feeling God-startled is a form of prayer.  

When I leave the basilica, I see a sparrow perched on what appears to be a rose bush. Sunlight gleams on the sparrow’s head. I feel like I fall into light. I am swept now by the presence of two birds — the Holy Ghost and a small brown sparrow. But those are only “mouth words” for the song of the sparrow as it leaves and the sun that illuminates the rose.