Medievalish 4.3

Delight in Dust

Dear friend,

One Saturday morning a few weeks ago, I had cooked bacon and the house was a bit smoky. My seven-year-old son sat on the couch in deep quiet. He then said, “Mama, come and sit, exactly where I am sitting.” He moved over, and I sat next to him on the couch.

He had been gazing fixedly upon a beam of morning light in from the window. There was the clearest line between light and dark. He was quietly delighting, enjoying this ray. The other kids clamored to see, and we all piled on the couch and just looked. “It’s like a rainbow,” said the four-year-old. We said: ray, path, force field (from the Star Wars-obsessed boy). We watched the bacon smoke swirl and dust motes wildly fly. Finally the nine-year-old said with joy, “No, it’s a parade!” And, she explained, not just any parade, but a divine parade. The dust motes were angels dancing and singing.

I was silent. The children were silent. We all looked and looked, filling up our eyes and hearts.

The next minute, the children were squabbling and I was cleaning bacon grease in the kitchen. But for a moment, eternity felt very close.

Vilhelm Hammershøi, Støvkornenes dans i solstrålerne (Dust Motes Dancing in Sunbeams), 1900.

This scene stirred something deep in my memory. My daughter is not the first to see angels in dust motes dancing in a shaft of sunlight. Who else?

It was not William Blake, though he did “see a world in a grain of sand / And a heaven in a wild flower”. That was sand, not dust. Similar vibes, though.

It was not Thomas Traherne, another grain of sand fan, who stated,

In all Things, all Things service do to all:
And thus a Sand is Endless, though most small.
	And every Thing is truly infinite,
	In its Relation deep and exquisite.

It turns out that many have seen sand and dust and dirt as radiant gates to heaven.

I finally remembered: it was the fifteenth-century lover of God, Margery Kempe. Mother of fourteen children, experienced traveler and pilgrim, dedicated weeper, and visionary, Margery dictated her book (one of the first texts that resembles an autobiography in English!) sometime in the 1430s.

In The Book of Margery Kempe, Margery writes of God’s signs of love to her throughout her life, including sweet sounds and melodies, and a fire in her heart. And she writes of a repeated vision (Middle English on top, my translation on bottom):

Sche sey wyth hir bodily eyne many white thyngys flying al abowte hir on every syde as thykke in a manner as motys in the sunne; it weryn ryth sotyl and comfortabyl, and the brygtare that the sunne schyned, the bettyr sche myth se hem. Sche sey hem many dyvers tymes and in many dyvers placys, bothe in chirche and in hir chawmbre, at hir mete and in hir praerys, in felde and in towne, bothyn goyng and syttyng. And many tymes sche was aferde what thei myth be, for sche sey hem as wel on nytys in dyrkenes as on dylygth. Than, whan sche was aferde of hem, owir Lord seyd onto hir, “Be this tokyn, dowtyr, beleve it is God that spekyth in the, for wherso God in hevyn is, and wher that God is ther be many awngelys, and God is in the and thu art in hym. And therfor be not aferde, dowtyr, for thes betokyn that thu hast many awngelys abowte the to kepyn the bothe day and nygth that no devyl schal han power ovyr the ne non evil man to der the.” Than fro that tyme forwarde sche usyd to seyn whan sche saw hem comyn, “Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini.”

She saw with her physical eyes many white things flying all about her on every side, as thick in manner as motes in the sun; it was quite subtle and pleasant, and the brighter that the sun shined, the better she could see them. She saw them many diverse times and in diverse places, both in church and in her chamber, at dinner and at prayers, in fields and town, both going and sitting. And many times she was afraid what they might be, because she saw them at night in darkness as well as daylight. Then, when she became frightened of them, our Lord said unto her, “By this token, daughter, believe it is God that speaks to thee, for wherever God is, heaven is, and where God is, there are many angels, and God is in thee and thou art in Him. And therefore be not afraid, daughter, for these betoken that thou hast many angels about thee to keep thee both day and night, that no devil shall have power over you nor evil man dare approach you.” Then from that time forward she used to say when she saw them coming, “Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord.”

This all popped up in my dusty cluttered garret of a brain on Ash Wednesday last week, because we are all dust going to the dust, too.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Nothing in this world lasts. Sometimes these ends are natural, like the bare though still painful truth of mortality. Sometimes they feel brutal. I have been feeling very anxious lately, because I hate seeing so many big things—USAID, relationships with longstanding allies, even important full time teaching roles at my kids’ public school—cut without much thought. My instinct is to preserve, to protect, to understand. All these careless ends grieve me.

But back to the dust dancing in the sun. While my daughter does not see the angels in dust motes at night or at all times like Margery, I think they betoken much the same. Be not afraid. Beauty is here if you pay attention. Christ is here, in you, with you, before you, behind you.¹

This does not necessarily make me feel better about all the things that frighten me. But it contextualizes them. If Blake can see heaven in a flower, and Traherne the gracious service of each thing in the world to one another in a grain of sand, if Margery recognizes she is attended by clouds of angels in the presence of the living God by dust in a beam, then perhaps I need to keep looking at the endless gifts of the small things to speak truth to me about the bigger-feeling things.²

Especially in anxious times, we cannot afford to lose the anchoring reality of the tiny and passing gifts, which are hints and guesses of an infinite, all-creative, resurrecting Love. So I say to myself: Attend to the sunlight and the dust, Grace. Go to the school board meeting, and also, really look at the daffodils. Remember what they all freely proclaim: God is in thee, and thou art in Him. Blessed is He that comes in the name of the Lord.

What I’ve been up to this month:

• The Old Books with Grace podcast Lent series has begun! This year each episode studies one poem from T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. Last week,

  Paul J. Pastor
  joined me to think together on “Burnt Norton,” and next week,
  O. Alan Noble
  joins to chat about “East Coker.” It’s been a blast so far. Listen wherever you like to get your podcasts, including Apple and Spotify.

• I bought tickets to ENGLAND for a RESEARCH TRIP for my next book plan! With little kids and a limited budget, I certainly don’t take this opportunity for granted. So I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking through how to use my time well. I’m hoping to expand my imagination for the feel and textures of medieval life. If you’re in Norwich, London, Canterbury, or Oxford and have recommendations for me of delicious places to eat, stay, etc., do reach out!

• Copy editing for Ask of Old Paths: Medieval Virtues and Vices for a Whole and Holy Life. Getting closer to this book’s birth into the world…

What I’ve been reading this month:

• Nonfiction: Books on Thomas Traherne, my latest obsession.

• Fiction: Towers in the Mist by Elizabeth Goudge

• Medieval/Medieval-adjacent: Researching anchorholds for that upcoming research trip to England. Any extant anchorhold hot tips for me, folks?

• Article: An interview between Charles E. Moore and Stanley Hauerwas at Christianity Today on being Christians in a not-Christian America. I’m on a Hauerwas kick, clearly.

A Prayer from the Past

March’s prayer is from Johann Arndt (1555-1621), Lutheran theologian & mystical writer. It strikes me as sufficiently Lenten and confessional for this season. The text comes from my beloved small purple book of prayers compiled by Mary W. Tileston, Prayers Ancient & Modern.

O Thou gracious and gentle and condescending God, Thou God of peace, Father of mercy, God of all comfort;

See, I lament before Thee the evil of my heart; I acknowledge that I am too much disposed to anger, jealousy, and revenge, to ambition and pride, which often give rise to discord and bitter feelings between me and others. Too often have I thus offended and grieved both Thee, O long-suffering Father, and my fellow-men. Oh, forgive me this sin, and suffer me to partake of the blessing which Thou hast promised to the peacemakers, who shall be called the children of God.

Bestow upon me, O Lord, a genial spirit and unwearied forbearance; a mild, loving, patient heart; kindly looks, pleasant, cordial speech and manners in the intercourse of daily life; that I may give offense to none, but as much as in me lies live in charity with all men—

Amen.

Peace for your March,

Grace

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1. To paraphrase our guy St. Patrick, whose big day swiftly approaches!

2. I kept humming Blink-182’s “All the Small Things” after writing this sentence. I hope it’s in your head now too, you’re welcome.