Something is Always Green: Reflections From the Chapel Window

Anyone who's been to Mass at Southern Catholic knows that there is a lot of glass, especially behind the altar. At first, this was something that I thought I would not like. I thought it would be distracting. And I know that I have seen people fixing their hair when they catch a glimpse of themselves in one of the windows. But I have found that I do, indeed, like it. As I said to a friend, it's got lots of windows, so when you go visit Jesus on a beautiful day, it's an amazing place to be and it kind of makes you just think about how wonderful He is and when you go visit Him on gross days, it's a kind of refuge and you think about how safe and warm and dry and comforted you feel.


All throughout last semester, I watched things turn brown and die out of the far side altar windows. Except one thing. It was a very small thing and it was almost gone when we left- just a long shoot off of one the bushes. It would constanltly blow around in the wind, bobbing up and down. I was kind of amazed that the leaves were still there after they had turned mostly brown. I wouldn't have thought that they were that strong or that hardy; I would have expected them to become brittle and frail and blow away. But they didn't. Long after everything else had lost its leaves, this single, little shoot had its. I watched until we left. It lost most of its leaves, but a few at the very end were still clinging to it. They gradually lost their color and every now and then one leaf would go missing, but when we left, some were still there.

They were gone when we got back. I will admit, I was slightly sad. I don't know why. It made me feel almost lonely. And then I looked further out the window. There was a little tree thing (I'm not quite sure what it was exactly) that was green. Completely green, a shiny, vibrant green; not a dull worn out but still hanging on green. I don't remember seeing this before we left. I remember not seeing any green but the worn out hanging on green of the little shoot. My brain is telling me, though, that its January and it can't possibly be new. My eyes say they look new. Perhaps, they've just perked up. I'm not sure and I don't think that I want to know.


I think this was what I call a "God hug." I've been quite a miserable creature to be near lately. A severe bout of discouragement and disappointment, I think. Knowing that everything will be ok and thinking that are two different things for me. It's something I am trying to work on, but when things don't seem ok to me, I tend to just stop hoping. It's not a good thing. I know that problems are not the end of the world. I know that dwelling on things makes them no better. I know that life can suck every now and then. And I should know that hope is the only way through it. I should know that it's only humans who will disappoint me, never God. Pope Benedict, in his encyclical written especially for me (ha!) writes that "we have been given hope, trustworthy hope, by virtue of which we can face our present: the present, even if it is arduous, can be lived and accepted if it leads towards a goal, if we can be sure of this goal, and if this goal is great enough to justify the effort of the journey."

Well, of course it is! Perhaps I could change the context a little and say "we have been given hope, trustworthy hope, by virtue of which we can face our present: the present, even though/ when it is arduous, can be lived and accepted because it leads towards a goal, and we can be sure of this goal, and this goal is great enough to justify the effort of the journey."

Those little green leaves sparked something in me that reassured me of this. (I had not read the encyclical yet, I had just been thinking). Those little green leaves were my symbol of hope. The little shoot's leaves had an arduous winter, constantly being blown about by the non-feeling and unsympathetic wind. And yet, they had persisted; they had not become frail and blown away. Not until their time to blow away had come, anyway. There is always something green when I look out the far side of the altar windows.

There is always a reason to hope, and there is always God Who will not disappoint and Who will justify the effort of the journey.