Weaving a Protective Cloak

I read this poem by John O’Donohue this week, and even though I don’t know what all of the words mean, I’ve been savoring it, especially the last verse.

Beannact

for Josie, my mother

 

On the day when

the weight deadens on your shoulders

and you stumble,

may the clay dance

to balance you.

 

And when your eyes

freeze behind

the grey window

and the ghost of loss

gets in to you,

may a flock of colours,

indigo, red, green

and azure blue

come to awake in you

a meadow of delight.

 

When the canvas frays

In the currach of thought

And a stain of ocean

blackens beneath you,

may there come across the waters

a path of yellow moonlight

to bring you safely home.

 

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,

may the clarity of light be yours,

may the fluency of the ocean be yours,

may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

 

And so may a slow

wind work these words

of love around you,

an invisible cloak

to mind your life.

 

 

I love that image of weaving around someone an invisible, protective cloak of loving words. I want to be able to do that . . . and I want to be enfolded in a such a cloak too.

 

As I was praying with this image, the words of Psalm 139 came to mind. “You hem me in behind and before, you have laid your hand upon me.” God stitching a protective garment around us, God’s loving hand with us always. It strikes me that the Spirit, who is with us always (and sometimes described as wind) is the one who reminds us of God’s words of love, who weaves God’s love into and around us.

 

And it got me thinking about the baptism blankets Marilou knits for the children of the congregation – visible signs of being wrapped in love, of being clothed in Christ.

 

In this strange summer of regathering, which seems so full of grief and delight, may you experience these words of blessing, may you know that you are wrapped and held in love.