The Franciscan way encourages us to be present to love—right here, right now.
This past year, I entered more deeply into the loving embrace of God through two quotes that overlapped in my life at the same time. The first, from Pope Francis: “Whenever we take a step toward Jesus, we realize he is already there, waiting for us with open arms” (Evangelii Gaudium, 3). The clarity of the pope’s simple message moved me. Then, I read these corresponding words from Franciscan writer Ilia Delio: “The gaze on the crucified Christ is an embrace, a desire to allow the otherness of God’s love into our lives. . . . It is a daily encounter with a God of humble love who is hidden in fragile humanity. . . . [This] gazing is of the heart by which the heart ‘opens its arms,’ so to speak, to allow the Spirit of God’s love to enter” (Franciscan Prayer: Awakening to Oneness with God, 80).
The power of the Franciscan way encourages us to be present to love right here, right now. And so, after months of pondering these quotes, I had a newfound flowering at the arrival gate of Connecticut’s Bradley International Airport.
I eagerly scanned the flow of people coming through the checkpoint, waiting to spot one of my dearest of friends, Lola, among them. I watched for her familiar shape—she is 5-foot-10 and rock-star thin with a halo of curls—but the corridor of windows flared with noon sun and the parade of people, until they neared, were similar silhouettes moving together. My heart began to widen within the human whirlpool of loved ones uniting. I was flooded with gratitude to be within the shifting kaleidoscope. Passengers, strangers to me, were greeted in a spellbinding array of open arms, handshakes, smiles, and kisses. The grandmothers were distinguished by oversized straw hats, new sneakers, and grinning children, close in size, fiercely wrapping their arms around them and squeezing tight. The embraces—including mine with Lola when I finally spied her—ended with all our footsteps in the same direction, down the escalator toward our ordinary lives.
In watching all the reuniting, I began to think of a whole truth: In almost all of our loving connections, though we may have waited for perfection, it has never come. There have been disappointments, misunderstandings, jealousy, hurt, anger. Maybe even betrayal. But the desire to connect, and the longing to express and receive love, overrides all of this.
Embracing the ‘Lepers’ in Our Lives
The way of fully greeting, arms wide open, is the way of St. Francis. There’s no greater example than St. Francis with the leper. This familiar story has such power and magnitude, lasting because it is a perennial with contemporary applications. It pulls us in, initially, imagining the dramatic setting of medieval times in Umbria, but it has endured because history does not change love; love changes history.
So in 2025, whom do we consider the leper to be? Most likely, our first thought is someone on the periphery of our personal beliefs, outside our immediate lives. But it might also include those within our inner circles, someone whom we think could hurt us, scar us, even within our family. But Francis, no longer frightened and repulsed, did not wait for the leper to be smooth, clean, and healed, when at last he was able to open his arms, and his heart, to embrace him.
The people we love most are flawed. We are flawed. Yet, when we are separated from them and later reunited, all that flies out the window. We see their worth, their true inner beauty, and feel the love, outweighing the wounds or imperfections as we come face-to-face again. The story of the leper doesn’t end; it begins. For when Francis turned later, the leper was gone, and Francis knew it was Christ he had held close and kissed.
The image of a leper, though severe, can be used as a daily lens through which we view our own lives. As Franciscan author Murray Bodo, OFM, once said: “The stories passed down about the lepers are full of emotion. We sense God’s power at work through Francis. How is Jesus calling us to reconnect? Jesus cleared that path for us. St. Francis encourages us forward.” In a wheel of strangers, lovers, mothers, aunties, kids, and best friends, within a cross section of ages, races, abilities, and beliefs, I witnessed love opening its arms and swirling in the welcoming hugs for all those arriving within Terminal A.
Those of us who follow Francis repeatedly meditate upon plot points of his life, such as the encounter with the leper, to pinpoint what actions we can take to uncover the Christ within us today. For many people, though, St. Francis is merely a happy statue in a garden, birds fluttering around his shoulders. I’ve heard Franciscans be a bit indignant about how he is reduced to this oversimplified image of the “Birdbath Francis,” and I certainly understand, but I don’t share their irritation.
Lessons from the ‘Birdbath Francis’
Several years ago, I began seeing these statues in places like Walmart, Home Goods, and Dollar Tree. It disoriented me. There was Francis, the only religious item on miles of shelves, in the middle of a soulless setting, strangely, comically, tucked alongside tiki torches, and, as Delio wrote, “hidden in fragile humanity.” I loved it and even placed one of these birdbath statues under the white lilacs by my front door. If this statue is some shopper’s introduction to Francis, perhaps it will lead to a deeper relationship with him. I now believe that the doves in his hands, those entry points of love, have something to teach us all.
On a recent afternoon, I met a young friend in an outdoor cafe to be introduced to her new puppy, an energetic husky reminiscent of the infamous wolf in another treasured Francis story. The love Sarah feels for her dog is palpable; she hugs him, holds him, almost sings of her adoration. I wondered out loud: “It’s so hard for us to love people—why are we able to love animals so easily?” I expected my question to hang unanswered in the air as we watched her dog happily lick at his bowl of fresh water.
She surprised me by answering immediately. “Because animals don’t betray us.” I was floored by the wisdom of this. The truth is, no matter the depth of any faith or trust in God, we betray one another and are betrayed. It adds up, and we shut down, crossing our arms tightly in self-protection. Betrayal is one of the hardest things to experience. Gazing upon the cross of San Damiano, Francis saw the risen Christ who transcended it. Holding doves, Francis offers a gentle possibility: “Praised be you, my Lord God, with all your creatures.” Hurt hearts can heal. We can strengthen the wings of hope, no matter where we are on our journey. It was all one for Francis. He barreled ahead with an unfailing love, like a wind that still lifts those of us who are broken.
For me, the way that St. Francis kept his arms open to all life, and accepted death within this embrace, is the most extraordinary aspect of his continual gift to us. This “holy fool” took it head-on, with the same wholehearted exuberance: “Praised be you, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death, from whom no one living can escape.” To praise God through death! Not protesting it, or arguing with it, as if outrage or denial could change the course of its coming.
Embracing Death as Well as Life
In this year’s meditations, I have had to rethink cherished lines of one of my favorite poems. Li-Young Lee, in From Blossoms, writes with incredible passion about the joy that a perfect, ripe peach can bring: “There are days we live / as if death were nowhere / in the background.” I once chased this idea, but now I wonder, is this even possible or desirable? I have believed that by keeping death in the background I might be able to create more joy. But in embracing all, Francis has shown me otherwise.
There is a section of the bike path along the Farmington River I had not visited in three years, though it’s mere footsteps from a church where I often attend Mass. That last time, on a sparkly snow-covered walk, I received an anguished phone call from a colleague that my former high school student Nicole had died. My heart broke because Nicole had emailed me earlier in the month, sharing excitedly that she was newly clean and sober.
Later that year, after a week of nonstop rain, the river was the most turbulent it had ever been. The waterfall from which teenagers jump on hot days was running insanely fast. Two boys went missing, their cellphones and keys left behind on the nearby path. My nephew told me: “I’ve jumped and swam there. With the river that high, there’s no way those kids survived.” The boys were found three days later. Having this river that I love so much become part of this tragedy changed me. I still sought out its beauty, but farther east on a path that held no memory of death.
Something drew me back, and I returned on a summer morning that was absolutely intoxicating. I meandered behind an enormous oak, discovering two perfect lawn chairs along the river’s edge. With nowhere I needed to go, I could be in the moment. As Francis wrote, “Praise be you, my Lord, through Sister Water.” I sat, took a deep breath, and looked up. An eagle soared, reflecting in the river.
When I ambled farther down the paved bike path, I heard the rush of the waterfall and could sense the subtle change of its mist rising in the air. As I neared the overlook, markers for the boys came into view. A new park bench read “Beloved son, brother, and friend. The love and happiness you gave will never be forgotten.” Across from this stood a red metal cross with the name of the other boy; Luke and Anthony were cousins. I prayed for them. I prayed for their mothers.
This sacred spot of remembrance is now a resting spot for biking families to stop, to sip from their water bottles, or have snacks. There is no keeping death in the background, and this is how it should be. This does not minimize or erase grief; instead, it folds it into life. To fully love as Francis did, there is no compartmentalizing. Can I follow this example? Can I widen my arms to include the reality of death and still love with exuberance, as Francis did? Embrace everything on the path, meet whatever comes my way?
Francis lays out a blueprint to jubilation in the Rule of 1221, Chapter XXIII: “Let us love the Lord God with all our heart and all our soul, with all our mind and all our strength and with fortitude and with total understanding, with all of our power, with every effort, every affection, every emotion, every desire, and every wish.” It’s all-encompassing, perhaps overwhelming, but more manageable when we trust there are many possible entry points as we simply move through our lives. Murray Bodo, OFM, offers this insight: “The journey forward into God is a journey backward to an original innocence we never fully recover but where a sort of semi-paradise happens when love turns into charity” (Surrounded by Love: Seven Teachings from Saint Francis, 106).
Lessons from a 5-Year-Old
This innocence is all around us. Near my home, a quintessential New England ice cream store sits across the street from the cows grazing in the fields. The red barns slope on the hillside, and children and adults order ice cream so creamy the cold scoops drip immediately down the crisp edges of the waffle cones. One afternoon, the sky suddenly blackened. We rarely get any sort of tornado here in Connecticut, and no warning buzzed my phone. The winds were frightening, and the deluge was stunning. We all ran into the farm stand store and anxiously waited out the storm.
Later, I learned of the destruction. Old trees were torn out, uprooted, and propeller planes on the ground at the nearby rural airport were flipped upside down. We’d been trapped in a microburst, which can be even more dangerous than a tornado. The fierceness left within minutes, as fast as it came.
The raindrops had been heavy, huge—everything now reflected with a layer of silver in the sun. I finished my cone and sat on a scratchy bale of hay near a family. The oldest brother, a boy around 5 years old, stepped out from under the dripping awning and spread his arms, instinctively expressing the joy of slanted sunrays after the storm had passed. I burst out laughing at his spontaneous gesture. In response he stretched his arms farther and dramatically lifted his face to the sky.
His innocence showed me everything I need as a follower of Francis. From centuries ago, this mystic pervades our present lives with the power to show us the depth of love that exists right here. It’s in the open arms of the skinny kid making you laugh out loud at the farm stand.
