Originally published at Ignatian Spirituality
I draw comfort from old things. An ancient tree, twisted and gnarled, reaching for the sky. A humble hillside chapel, its stones from a distant age, a spiritual shelter for pilgrims past. A simple pathway, well-trodden and well-kept, flattened by booted feet year after year.
I draw comfort from old things and from knowing that in their shadows, others have stood or passed, while others have wondered, wandered, and wept. I am not the first. If past is prelude, as they say, I won’t be the last.
I look for this comfort in these sturdy, well-worn places, because the storms of life are many, and already I feel weathered. But then I look to these old trees, these old stones, this old path, and I think, Things can hold. Things can weather. Things can remain.
It is not the things that give comfort—not entirely. It is what they have seen. Who has passed this way before? What wearying burdens and hidden joys did they carry as they went?
When these forebearers of mine—of ours—leaned upon the old bark of this tree, what did they think? When they rested upon these aged stones, what did they feel? When they passed through
