My God and My All

by Elizabeth Goudge

  Once more it was the season of Saint Michael and the holy angels. Two years had passed since he had kept their Lent upon Alvernia, two years of intense agony and intense joy, the agony and joy of the Redeemer that he had prayed that he might share. In the chapel he could hear the brothers chanting the praises of the angels, and he could hear the ringing of the bell. It was that moment of the autumn when the birds start singing again and the sun is so warm that it is like another spring. The dying often seem to feel themselves back again at their starting point, reliving the days of their youth and remembering the things that they thought they had forgotten. They are no longer the old man or woman only but the whole person, all that they have been and done gathered into a unity to face the end that is also the beginning. The boy who had been Francis was back again now, and had loved gay garments and bright lights upon a festival. The dying saint who was this boy thought that for this festival of death he would like to be well clothed upon his bier, and have lighted candles about him. He had put comfort from him long ago but his body being dead would not feel the pleasure of a clean new shroud, or of a soft cushion for his head in place of a stone, so there could be no sin in it. Was there anyone who would understand and sympathize? He remembered the Lady Giacoma di Settesoli, and as well as a desire for candles and a cushion there awoke in him a great longing for dear Brother Giacoma herself, with her humor and understanding and her restful competence. He called one of the brothers and told him to send a messenger quickly to Rome, to the Lady Giacoma, asking her to come to him and to bring with her certain things that he wanted. With his usual definiteness he knew exactly what these were: a gown of gray cloth, a napkin to cover his face, a cushion for his head, wax candles, and some of the almond sweet cake that she made. The brothers must have been dumfounded, especially Elias, but they chose their messenger and would have sent him off had there not come to their ears the sound of horses’ hoofs and jingling harness. The cavalcade of some great personage was approaching through the woods. Then the porter who watched at the gate in the quickset hedge came running to say that the Lady Giacoma herself was riding toward them with her two sons, now Roman senators, and a retinue of servants. Now what was to be done? No woman was allowed inside the quickset hedge. An anxious brother went to inquire of Francis, who replied serenely, “Blessed be God, who has sent our Brother Giacoma to us. Open the gates and lead her inside, for the rule concerning women is not for Brother Giacoma.”

  So she got off her horse and came quickly to Francis’s cell and knelt down beside his bed, laughing and crying together because she was so happy to be in time, yet so desolate because with one look at him she knew she was only just in time. She had brought with her everything he wanted, the new gray gown, the cushion, the napkin, the candles, and the almond sweet cake. The cushion was a very fine one embroidered with lions and eagles in gold thread upon red silk, just the sort of cushion to rejoice the heart of Francis the boy, and the gown she had woven herself from the wool of the lamb he had given her. She told the brothers later that at home in Rome she had been praying and the interior voice had told her that she must go quickly to Assisi if she wished to see Francis again, and that she must take with her the things she had brought. Francis was so happy at her coming that some strength returned to him. He was pleased that Brother Giacoma had brought the almond sweet cake and he sent for Brother Bernard his firstborn son to share it with him. A gust of desperate joy blew through the Portiuncula, and they almost began to hope that he was not going to die after all. But Francis himself knew better. He asked Brother Giacoma to stay until the next Sunday because he would die on the Saturday.

  Though he rejoiced in the comforting and comfortable presence of Brother Giacoma, Francis had not forgotten Sister Clare. Even had she been allowed to break enclosure she would not have been able to come to him, for she also was very ill. All this while his thoughts were with her and when a brother told him that she was weeping bitterly because she could not see him again he was deeply grieved for her. He dictated a letter to her and her nuns that like his testament was an affirmation of his faith and loyalty and an appeal to them to stand fast. He knew that they would. He could trust Clare to keep her integrity intact in exactly the same manner as he had kept his. There were few of his sons who were so utterly at one with him as she was. He said to her, “I, little Brother Francis, wish to follow the life and poverty of Jesus Christ our Most High Lord, and of his most holy mother, and to persevere therein until the end. And I beseech you, my ladies, and counsel you, to live always in this most holy life and poverty. And watch yourselves well that you in no wise depart from it through the teaching or advice of anyone.”

  When the writing was finished he said to the brother who was to take it to her, “Go and bid Sister Clare put aside all sorrow and sadness on account of not being able to see me. But let her know in truth that before her death, she and her sisters shall see me, and shall be much consoled concerning me.”

  He was quite right. Clare had her consolation and it came to her in this way. The night after Francis died he lay upon his bier clothed in the habit that Giacoma had woven for him, his head upon her cushion and candles burning about him, and the citizens of Assisi passed by all night long to look their last upon his face that had become young and beautiful in death, and to gaze in awe upon the wounds in his hands and feet. Early the next morning they carried him with songs of praise, with candles and trumpets and palm branches, from the Portiuncula to his grave in San Giorgio, the church where he had learned his lessons as a child and as a man preached his first sermon, but on their way they stopped at San Damiano. The brothers carried the bier into the chapel and brought it to the grille behind which Clare and her sisters were waiting. They moved the iron grating and held the body up in their arms and Clare looked upon the satisfied peace in the face of Francis and was happy. Nor did she ever again feel herself parted from him.

  Now that Giacoma was here and Clare was comforted, Francis’s thoughts returned to his Lady Poverty. The Portiuncula was especially her home. She had always lived here with him. He pleaded with the brothers that they should never leave the Portiuncula. “If you are thrust out on one side, enter it again on the other,” he said to them, “for surely this place is holy and the dwelling of God.” His God was the poor man crucified. The last days and the last hours were passing and what could he do to bind his sons once again in their first loyalty to Him? He could no longer plead much with them in words but he could make of his whole body a tongue to preach the gospel. He asked them to remove his tunic and lay him naked on the ground. When they had done that, and he lay with his left hand covering the wound in his side, he said, “I have done what it was mine to do; may Christ teach you what is yours.”

  Then the father guardian of the Portiuncula showed an understanding born of his love. He brought Francis his tunic and breeches, and the sackcloth cap he wore to cover the scars left by the treatment for his eyes, and said, “This tunic and breeches and cap are lent thee by me in holy obedience; and that thou mightest know that thou hast no right of property in them, I deprive thee of all power of giving them to anyone else.” Francis’s face lit up with joy, for there was very much in those few words: an acknowledgment that Francis had been loyal until the end to the Lady Poverty, almost a promise that the order would be too, and then that tender half-humorous remembrance of old days, when to the despair of the brothers Francis had given away or cut in pieces one after another of the garments given to him.

  When they put him back on his bed he was very content but that night he was in pain and could not sleep. In the morning he was better and asked that the brothers should come to him. They stood by his bed, Elias, Bernard, Leo, Ruffino, Angelo, Masseo, and all the sons whom he loved the best, and Bernard begged him that he would forgive them their sins and bless them.

  Francis answered, “See, my son, I am called by God: I forgive my brethren, whether present or absent, all their offenses and faults and, as far as I can, I absolve them: do thou
proclaim this to them and bless them all for me.” To Bernard himself he gave a special blessing because he was his firstborn. Then he asked that a loaf should be brought and broken in pieces for him, because he was too weak to break it himself, and he gave a piece to each of the brothers and they all of them had their last meal together. The brothers realized that his thoughts were now centered on his Lord, and that he was thinking of Maundy Thursday, because he asked them, “Is it Thursday?” It was actually Friday, but they read him the gospel for Maundy Thursday.

  All that day and the next he was sinking. The brothers sang his Canticle of Brother Sun to him, and at the end he said, “Welcome, Sister Death.” Then turning to his doctor he said, “She is to me the gate of life.” He asked the brothers when the end came to lay him again on the bare ground as they had done three days ago, to sprinkle ashes over him and read to him the account of the passion of his Lord in Saint John’s Gospel. On the evening of Saturday, October the 4th, when they saw that he had not long to live, they did all that he had asked of them. They had just finished reading to him, and were waiting in awe and expectancy, when they realized that with the last flicker of life left in him he was singing the 142nd Psalm.

  I cried to the Lord with my voice: with my voice I made supplication to the Lord.

  In his sight I pour out my prayer, and before him I declare my trouble:

  When my spirit failed me, then thou knewest my paths.

  In this way wherein I walked they have hidden a snare for me.

  I looked on my right hand, and behold: and there was no one that would know me.

  Flight hath failed me: and there is no one that hath regard to my soul.

  I cried to thee, O Lord; I said: thou art my hope, my portion in the land of the living.

  Attend to my supplication: for I am brought very low.

  Deliver me from my persecutors; for they are stronger than I.

  Bring my soul out of prison, that I may praise thy name.

  Francis of Assisi went singing into eternity. But when his voice had failed there was still music, for in the golden afterglow the larks were singing.

  Certain birds which love the light, and have a great horror of darkness, at the hour of the holy man’s transit from earth, which was the time at which twilight is wont to set in, came in great multitudes over the roof of the house, and flew round and round it joyfully for a long time together, giving clear and joyous testimony to the glory of the saint who had been wont to invite them to sing the praises of God.

  Bibliography

  The Legend of Saint Francis by the Three Companions. The Temple Classics.

  The Mirror of Perfection. The Temple Classics.

  The Life of Saint Francis of Assisi. Saint Bonaventure.

  Two Lives of Saint Francis. Thomas of Celano.

  The Writings of Saint Francis of Assisi. Translated by Father Paschal Robinson.

  Selections from The Little Flowers of Saint Francis. Edited by Hugh Martin.

  Saint Francis of Assisi. Father Cuthbert, O.S.F.C.

  Life of Saint Francis. Paul Sabatier.

  Saint Francis of Assisi. G. K. Chesterton.

  Saint Francis of Assisi. R. H. Moorman.

  Saint Francis of Assisi. T. S. R. Boase.

  Saint Francis of Assisi. Essays in Commemoration.

  Franciscan Italy. Harold Elsdale Goad.

  In the Steps of Saint Francis. Ernest Raymond.

  Little Plays of Saint Francis. Laurence Housman.

  Jacopone da Todi. Evelyn Underhill.