The ordinary beauty of a striving life

I have reached the middle of my book on Gerard Manley Hopkins. I am finding myself caught up in this story simply because his life in some ways, is the life we all need to navigate. He has to fight his demons, his temptations, he has to make decisions, he mourns the death of a beloved friend, he feels the stress of converting to the Catholic Church and having to tell his family. He feels the "high" of conversion and reception into the Church and then falls into a well of despondency when he must inevitably come "down to earth". After his conversion he feels the somewhat lonely "outsider" feel of the convert among the cradle Catholics. He has to teach at John Henry Newman's school for boys with teachers who are not Oxford Dons, but probably characters who are not Aesthetically pleasing in the least. His Oxford days are over. He mourns them. He struggles with the decision to pursue a vocation as a priest, a Jesuit. He then feels the high once again of spending time in prayer with the Jesuits and the joy of being accepted among them. These are all patterns we can see in our own lives. But to see them laid out in relief, is a kind of comfort. There are no miracles, no over the top penances...none of those things we expect from the lives of saints. No, Gerard had to deal with the cross of his up and down temperament, his soul filled with the distractions of poems tumbling over and over in his mind that were crying to be released, his great need for walks among nature by himself, his struggles with sadness and guilt for past transgressions. It is such a help to me to see all of these things. To see a man moving forward in grace with his life.

But tonight I read that when he entered the Jesuits, he decided to destroy all his poetry up to that point, and he did so, calling it the "slaughter of the innocents" the children of his creative genius. He had already decided not to paint anymore because it came too close to the passions and that was dangerous for him. And he also decided to stop writing poetry. It was 1868. He thought poetry would be too much of a distraction to his duties as a priest and he wanted to be a good priest. He wasn't to write another poem until December of 1875. This was the great sacrifice. This was a bit of a miracle. All that beauty that probably stirred within him was pushed down and pushed down. How he did not explode with all the feelings unexpressed is a miracle. 

We all have that Isaac. That one thing that we give to God in faith like Abraham did. I think Gerard's was his poetry. He was to get it back later, but he did not know it then. He gave the one gift given to Him by God - the ability to fly to Parnassus with the ease of his genius. I stand in awe of this simple sacrifice given by this ardent nature. And I do love this man like a brother in Christ. I thank God that I have crossed the path of his story.