The New Madonna of Spring Creek

“The purpose of life is to discover your gift.
The meaning of life is to give your gift away.”
- David Viscott

A meditation on the nature of grace and the value of friendship.

I first discovered them there in early December. I was walking along the banks of Spring Creek on a chilly morning, looking for wildlife, reflections, mist rising, the usual. And I almost stumbled over them: a pair of small statues left beneath a tree along the stream. They were both statues of the Virgin and Child, maybe four or five inches tall.

The one, made of Italian marble, was such a pretty thing, and I photographed it and told the story in my Blip for that day: delightful really, and such a bit of grace to find it by a rural woodland stream, this unexpected but lovely gift. I thought of the Lady as The Madonna of Spring Creek. I admit that I fought the urge to take the statues home, but I am trying to learn the lesson that it is not necessary to own a thing to fully appreciate and enjoy it. I am working on that.

On a personal note, I was raised Methodist, but I haven't been a regular church-goer in quite a few years. My churches and cathedrals tend to be out of doors these days. So the statue, situated among my beloved Pennsylvania woods and waters, seemed perfectly placed to me.

What followed was one of the worst winters on record. We had lots of snow, frequent several-day periods of bone-chilling cold, and occasional ice. Over the winter, I visited the Virgin and Child regularly. I wondered who had left them there, and why. And how long they would stay.

And as the winter got worse and worse, I worried about them. Should I bring them home, keep them inside, protect them from the elements? But I didn't. They weren't mine. I had not put them there; I would not take them. The space was made richer by their presence: I (and possibly others, I thought) looked forward to visiting them there. I did make note of the fact that no matter how icy, no matter how cold, I never saw snow or ice on the statue itself.

And then it started to warm up a bit. The snow melted. People who had been stuck inside all winter long finally made their way outdoors. And then, one day in late March, the thing that I had feared occurred: I visited the place one morning to find the statues gone. I did not know who took them. Was it the original person who left them there? Did the statues finally make their way back home? I'll never know.

Just before the original statue disappeared, a friend contacted me. She had also stumbled upon the statues and been delighted by them, especially the one made of Italian marble that I had also liked best. She had seen my photos online, so she knew how much I enjoyed it as well. She had tried to explain to a mutual friend how to get to this place, and failed; would I explain it to her myself? And so I did. And within a few days, I was writing back to them both, sadly, to explain that the statues were gone.

My friend was very upset. But she resolved to do something about it. She told me that she had been looking at little statues online; she ordered the best one she could afford, with the intention of placing it in the spot where we had enjoyed the other one. At the time, I remember thinking what a lovely gesture it would be, but also, silently to myself, I thought: Don't. I was afraid that whatever my friend put there, someone might take away. The sense of loss we had felt over the statue that had been there before had been mitigated a bit by the fact that it had never belonged to us. We did not own it; never had.

And then there was no more conversation about it. But when I returned to the spot on April 9th, I discovered that a new statue had been placed there. This time, I knew who had placed it. And I admit that I got a great big smile on my face: such a pretty thing. And I suspected that my friend had made this sweet gesture not just for herself and for the unnamed others who may enjoy it, but for me, out of friendship, knowing how delighted I would be. And so I was. And my heart was touched. It was like a gift. I took many pictures of it on that day. In the monochrome shots, the little lamb in the Virgin's arms almost seemed to . . . shine. And the look on the Lady's face was so lovely: The New Madonna of Spring Creek, I thought to myself.

I saw them there again just once more - a few days after that - and I took some pictures. But I noticed only later that there had been mud on the statue that interfered with the photos that I had hoped to get. I resolved that the next time, I would take some clean paper towels along, wipe them off, photograph them again. But it was not to be.

I returned to the tree by the creek on Thursday morning, hoping to clean up the statue and ready it for the next day. I wanted the Virgin and Child to be my photo for Good Friday. But my heart dropped when I discovered the spot beneath the tree . . . was empty. I was initially angry. How could someone take something that was not theirs? And then sad: to think that my friend's precious gift to the Universe, to us, to me . . . was gone.

When I got to my office that morning, I wrote my friend a note, asked her gently: had she removed the statue? I had looked all around, I explained; I hadn't seen it. I was worried that it was gone. I was sorry. We chatted online for a few minutes, expressed our sorrow together. I commented to her, and she came up with the thought herself simultaneously, that perhaps someone who needed them more had taken them. The Virgin and Child might have work to do that may not involve her, or me; their story might take a new and unexpected turn.

We talked about how it is to learn how to let go, to throw your gifts into the Universe, expecting nothing back. It is not the having that is important. It is the enjoying, and the giving, that matters. That is the true nature of grace: the bestowing of blessings that have not been earned, may not even be deserved.

And then after chatting with her, I went back into my photo library and - knowing I would not have an opportunity to make the Good Friday blip that I had hoped for - I decided to photograph my favorite picture from the first photo shoot and see how it might turn out. So this, friends, is a picture of a picture. It is the story that I wanted - needed - to tell on this day.

The story of The New Madonna of Spring Creek. A gift that was given to us, which begat another gift that my friend then gave to the world. I was humbled at her simple act of generosity and goodwill.

But, do you know what? Deep down inside in my heart of hearts - where I treasure all these beautiful things, all these mysteries - I have this strange feeling that the statue is not gone for good; that we may, in fact, meet again. A wistful thought, a benediction of sorts: May the Lord watch over you until we meet again. Take care. Go in love.

The song to accompany this photo of the Virgin and Child, appropriately enough for this coming Easter weekend, is Amazing Grace. There are many good versions of this song that I like. And if you prefer another version, you may find it on YouTube if you search. But my personal opinion is that once you've heard the song played on bagpipes, there is really no other version that will do. And so the song link is the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, with Amazing Grace.  

Go in peace.

Amen.