I looked over my my shoulder at a photo my husband had snapped that morning somewhere on the grounds of the Center for Prayer where our silent retreat was taking place. I didn’t know where he had taken the picture, and I couldn’t ask him because we were committed to silence all weekend. But I was determined to find the broken statue of Saint Francis with his head placed gently at his feet. The image was compelling in a way I couldn’t explain and I had to see it for myself.
Donning a jacket, I left our dormitory with camera phone in hand and a bottle of water—just in case the quest took a bit longer than expected. I soon realized there was a lot of statuary on the campus as I met up with a startled, spray painted Mary almost immediately. Her pupil-less eyes, pale pink lips, and prim veil were dotted with small bugs gathered within her graces. A small mauve buck, covered in ivory and lime lichen, proudly stood among the trees on his rectangular cement stand. A modern, expressionistic Jesus with a mottled patina looked imploringly at me, head intact.
I came to a small wooden cross, its white paint peeling to reveal the wood grain underneath. I hiked through forest trails, undulating fields of grass, and then crossed a bridge from the sacred grounds to a public river path.
After an hour I was spit out into a subdivision. I was lost. Houses in subdivisions often look the same to me, and in my experience, the roads wind about every which way, confusing everyone except the residents who have memorized their way to and from home. As I was pondering which way to go, I saw a map on a stand. The map showed each plot of land assigned to a number—probably for construction workers, as there were still many empty lots—and also the street names. But try as I might, I could not figure out where I was on the map, or in which direction the map was pointing.
I suddenly looked up and saw the water tower on the Center for Prayer’s grounds. Even if I couldn’t figure out the map, I could use common sense and intuition to get back. As I wound my way through the maze of houses and finally touched campus ground once more, I encountered a paper wasp’s nest hanging like a lantern under a bright yellow maple leaf canopy, as if welcoming me home.
I saw a statue of Saint Francis, barefoot, with two saplings growing next to his toes. His head and neck were squarely on his shoulders. I bet the headless statue is right in front of the dormitory, where I started, I thought as my two-hour odyssey came to a close. But it wasn’t. I trudged up the stairs to our room, taking note of a sculpted sacred heart along the way. Where was the broken Saint Francis statue?
After dinner I took a short stroll. There he was. But his head wasn’t missing at all. It had been reattached prior to my walk. I was looking for something broken when what I was seeking was already whole. Perhaps I need to reexamine what I believe is broken in my life, for it may already be mended.
Sondra Sula's Blog: The Nature of Spirituality 