After a brief stop at Avila, our bus crossed the vast, lonely plains of Spain. We drove into a sunset landscape that occasionally showed lines of olive trees and patches of purple vineyards. Night had fallen when we reached Fatima, a parish in the municipality of Ourem in the Portuguese Centro region. After a quick dinner, we joined the candlelight procession. It helped that our hotel was just a few minutes’ walk from the shrine.
I was aghast when I saw the hole. Just before entering the courtroom, when I stood before a wall mirror to fix my tie, it gaped at me from the left shoulder of my shirt. A closer look revealed a tear, something that was bound to show up with prolonged wearing. Happily, the black robe covered it, and the lawyers and litigants would never know.
I associate “Western Wind” with Advent, the season that sets Christmastime and the new liturgical year in motion. This four-line poem by an unknown author comes down to us from the Middle Ages: Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow, The small raine down can raine. Cryst, if my love were in my armes And I [...]
