The Irish Catholic Hermit

  The Sacred Gift of a Moment with God. Oh, if only poor creatures knew the immeasurable grace contained in a single moment of true audience with God! How blind we are to the treasure that lies hidden in prayer, that simple, sacred act by which eternity bends down to listen to time. When the soul kneels in the secret chamber of the heart and speaks with her Creator, a veil is lifted between the seen and the unseen, between the fleeting and the eternal. Prayer is not merely the utterance of words; it is the mysterious exchange between the finite and the Infinite. In that sacred silence where the soul finds herself alone with God, the world begins to fade like mist before the morning sun. The noise of life grows distant, its anxieties lose their hold, and every earthly care is swallowed up in the great stillness of divine presence. Then creatures no longer weigh upon us with their judgments or attachments, for we perceive that our true home is not here. The burdens of mortality grow ...

T he Holy Fire of Madness and Mercy. A h, sure, they’ll be callin’ it madness, won’t they? The world’ll scratch its head and whisper about it behind closed doors, but the man in the habit, he’ll be callin’ it clear-mindedness. They’ve a name for it too, the Fathers, they say it’s “sober drunkenness,” the kind of drunkenness that don’t come from the bottle, but from the heart. When the soul tastes the sweetness of God’s love, it’s like being caught in a whirlwind of contradiction. What the world would call daft, grace turns on its head and calls wise. What folks see as a loss, the monk will find, is the very gain of his life. W hen he steps into his cell, don’t go thinkin’ it’s just some tiny, quiet room. Oh no, it’s a place where the heart is squeezed tighter than a grape in the press, till it bursts open, and out pours the sweet wine of repentance and love divine. The door closes, and that’s when the storm begins. He’ll cry, and sure, it’s not just a few tears. It’s like the sea itsel...