�

March 22

The Beauce isn’t really flat. That’s what I’m thinking about on my way to see my friend Anna, who has just lost her husband, 54, to lung cancer. It was only last night that the three of us spent an hour and a half together at the hospi‑tal.

Anna asked me to pray for him. The only words that came to my lips were “Mary‑.‑.‑. Mary‑.‑.‑. Jesus‑.‑.‑. Jesus‑.‑.‑.‑,” and then all by myself I labored through the Our Father and the Hail Mary. Silently I begged, “Lord, take him soon. Come for him. He’s ready. Take him.” In my anguish I cried out, “Hurry up, Lord! What are you waiting for?”

Yes, I dared to ask him what he was waiting for! And now in the car driving back to see Anna again I dare to speak to him:

Lord, what am I going to say? How can I con‑sole her?

� Do not search for words, Nicole. Do not pre‑pare anything.

Lord, it’s hard for her. It’s just awful.

� Yes, I know, Nicole. I know.

�

The road runs on. Silence sets in. The sight of the snow on the fields is lovely and soothing. I start to cry.

� Nicole, why do you blame me? You are asking me to render an account. Nicole, Nicole‑.‑.‑.

Lord, it’s hard to follow you. I don’t know where I’m going.

I weep. My tears flow abundantly. There are only the two of us so I don’t care. I’m not ashamed of crying. This is my way of speaking to him, too.

� Nicole, look at the road off in the distance.

I’m looking, Lord.

� Can you make it out?

No.

� And now?

Yes, Lord, now I can see it.

(­Didn’t I say that the Beauce isn’t flat!)

� Nicole, just now you did not see it and yet it was there. Do not worry about your road.

But, Lord, I’m frightened when I don’t know where I’m going. I like to see the road ahead of me. I need to see it.

� Nicole, have I ever abandoned you? Give me one example.

�

I don’t have any examples for you. I’m thinking, but there aren’t any.

� Well then?

That’s where we stopped. I didn’t cry anymore. I felt his sorrow, not mine.

When I saw my friend and her five children, I didn’t bother trying to come up with anything. We talked and prepared the petitions for Mass. During lunch we listened to each other. It was simple, warm, moving. You were there, Lord.

Now and then I’m affected by a kind of vertigo. It will soon be four years that I have been involved with a com‑munity of twenty men. That’s where my energies are spent. Physically, morally, and psychologically the Companions are my second family. If you want to help the down‑and‑out, you have to go beyond words and pious sentiments. There can be no limits on your love. You have to let listen‑ing, patience, and sensitivity take over your life. It’s a road without end. You muddle through with what you’ve got at hand, with how things look today, and with what your own heart tells you. It’s all‑absorbing and emotionally draining, even if I’m not at it twenty‑four hours a day.

Yes, a kind of vertigo comes over me every so often. A little voice says, “What’s the use? Why go through so much trouble for a handful of men?” Or again, “Ten years of study to become a prof. You were good at teaching. Why put yourself out for a few good‑for‑nothings?”

�

This little voice full of reason and good sense leaves me confused. And then the other day on my way to the Community, the answer came, plain and simple. It was the image of a worn garment, threadbare, coming apart at the seams. This garment is the Companion who comes knock‑ing at our door. The Lord needs us to patch up this garment with what we’ve got at hand, not to make a new one. We are only responsible for the sewing, the mending we try to do. If the garment tears apart anyway, that doesn’t depend on us, or on me personally.

�

March 27

Often during the Eucharist and especially after the Consecration, I have an almost physical sense of the presence of Christ. Standing or seated, his hands often extended, he invades me with his presence. I’m over‑whelmed by a feeling of tenderness and simplicity.

I feel so protected at those moments that a strange numb‑ness comes over me. I lose all sense of space and time. The people next to me are at once far away, and yet very close. The experience is measureless, but at the same time very simple. I shed tears of joy as I speak to him.

Lord, I’m a little scared. Am I losing my mind? Why are you giving me all this? If it is you, you’re pampering me too much.

� I have chosen you because I love you.

Lord, why me? Look at me. I’m not worthy. You know very well that I don’t put you in first place all the time.

� Because I need you, Nicole, just as you are.

The tone of his response seems to betray a certain weari‑ness, as if he were repeating the same words for the nth time. To him it seems so obvious and simple. I discover at

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