The feast day of Francis of Assisi is October 4. In
this harvest season, as I drive through the countryside past golden fields of corn,
I think of Francis and his great love for nature.
I see him running through the fields of his scenic
Umbrian countryside, robe flapping around him as he shouts his words of praise
— lyrics about glorious flowers, singing birds, and the glowing fields of
wheat. In what would come to be known as his Canticle of Creation, Francis
praises the beauty and presence of the natural world and all its creatures, and
gives thanks for his companions, brother Sun and sister Moon.
Except that Francis actually began this poem not when
he was out in the fields being inspired. The words came when he was seriously
ill and lying in bed. How was he able to sing praises of joy when he felt
so horrible that he couldn't get up? When I’m sick, praise is the last
thing on my mind. I am truly a horrible patient.
Already in exile from his home and family, after days
of being cold and shivering, perhaps the words slipped into his consciousness when
a single ray of warm sunshine touched his skin, like the comforting touch of a
friend.
Rather than moan about his suffering, he celebrated
this simple pleasure and gave thanks for this.
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