Here is what I am cautiously considering.
When I was fifteen, I came across the Fioretti (the Little Flowers of St Francis), and totally fell in love with everything that Francis stood for. I tried out preaching to the animals like he did. I used to go and stand at the bottom of the sheep field, and sing in tongues for the sheep. Normally unless you had a bucket of sheep nuts in your hand to rattle, they would completely ignore you – apart from looking up to say hello before they carried on chewing – but when I sang in tongues to them, it had an electrifying effect. They would skip and buck, and come tearing down the hill and jostle in tight around me.
One of the field boundaries was a river, and one summer it dried up. I came home from school to find the sheep had all walked off down the river bed. What to do? I thought I’d better go quick and get them back. The problem was, in that narrow space, getting the other side of them – because obviously as I got nearer they’d move on further. I had just dashed off to see where they’d gone and hadn’t thought to get some food to attract them back. Then I thought to sing to them in tongues – and they came at once and followed me home with no trouble at all. I had a similar experience with cows in random places (we didn’t have any of our own); but the birds and the fishes ignored me – even so my experiences with the sheep made me not dismiss the stories of Francis preaching to the birds and fish as mere fables. I bet he did, you know.
I loved his barefoot way and his humility. I’ve tried to do it. In those early teenage days, I did occasional things – I’ve never told anyone this, it feels a bit embarrassing to write it down – like once when one of the cats had shat on the lawn, I cleared up the cat shit (it had dried in the sun I hasten to add) and buried it in the flower bed just with my bare hands. I would really hope to be able to report that I washed my hands after, but I don’t remember that I did. I know humility is meant to be relational, but I was on my own most of the time, so self-abasement R us when that's you.
When I was 19 I wanted to be a Poor Clare, but I also fell in love with a wonderful musician, free spirit, into Zen. I prayed what to do. I put it before the Lord that if my musician asked me to marry him, then I would; if he didn’t, I would ask to be a Poor Clare. So here I am at 52, with 5 wonderful musician daughters! My musician husband proved a free spirit indeed, and flew the cage with another bird ten years ago, but we’re still good friends.
And all my life the simplicity of St Francis has tugged at me, tugged at me. I’m quite a lot like him. A bit daft. I love beautiful things and am appallingly extravagant. Money leaves my hands as quick as it comes in, and I would give away anything. I love groovy hippy clothes. I am a bit of a clown and a performer, and am prey to racking self-doubt and remorse about things. that goes spiralling down and down to black-red. I love Mother Earth, and I see everything that is as my sister and brother. I believe in humility and in the power of forgiveness. I love to live small and shabby, and try to choose the little way, and shun all self-advertisement. But I lack the absolute quality of his vision. Mine is the kind of vision that wears socks in winter and says ‘oh, sod it, let’s eat out’ and misses Compline because there’s something good on the telly. You see what I mean? That’s not like Francis, is it? I play fivestones with the pebbles in the foothills while he's on the mountain-top praying in the snow. There's no chance of me going blind from watching and weeping and praying or being given the stigmata, I assure you!
Even so, in my way, I have struggled along making what headway I could towards simplicity and sharing. I’ve brought up my children in that kind of way, and now 5 of us (Tony my husband now, and my three youngest daughters) live together in community, living very simply, supporting ourselves by the work of our hands in ways that do good and live out the Gospel.
I have reason to believe that some people think I’m a really really really crap Christian (reason? They tell me so). And I think I upset the Poor Clares in our town. I daren’t go and see them now. What happened is, when they moved in we went to see them and took them some bits to say hi and welcome, and I had a car then (a 2nd-hand Nissan Micra) so said if they ever needed a lift anywhere they could call me. What I had in mind was like if it was raining or they needed to get out into one of the villages where the bus doesn’t go.
At the time I was living in a tiny cottage on the edge of a wood, (with Bernard my second husband, who died; it was his cottage, he built it) where the mice and squirrels came in and the birds flew through the house. Loved it. Anyway I got a letter from the Poor Clares saying they had some dignitary from the Vatican coming and would I go and pick him up from Gatwick Airport. Mouth went dry. Heart began to thump. Gatwick Airport? On the big roads? Motorway, multi-lane traffic? I couldn’t do that. Bernard couldn’t do that. Nobody I knew could do that. I thought about it for a bit and then wrote back and explained that because I was poor and all the people I knew were poor, that meant we none of us ever went anywhere much really, so we were all terrified of driving on the big roads and none of us had ever been to the airport and you might as well ask us to drive to the moon. I explained that there’s a train from Gatwick Airport, and if he could catch that we could meet him at the station. And I (this was probably not well advised) said that they had come here with the idea of living among the poor, but this was what living among the poor meant – no-one ever goes to the airport; and that I thought their dignitary from the Vatican would do well to get his head round that if he wanted to visit the Poor Clares living in poverty among the poor. So I think that didn’t go down too well, because I never heard from them again, and I’m scared to go near them now. I wouldn’t be scared if it was Francis himself, because I know he’d understand, and forgive me my rudeness, but – well, the sheep aren’t the shepherd, are they? I want to go back. I want to go to their prayers sometimes. But I think I’d better not.
Now there is this thing tugging at my heart to maybe check out becoming a member of the Third Order of St Francis, but I am scared about that, too. The problem is, I have this way of putting authority figures in a real big rage. What do I mean by that? Well… the then secretary to the Methodist Conference got absolutely furious one time. The sort of thing that made him angry was (eg) once I said to him that as a teenager I had been taught to ask always ‘what would Jesus do?’ and I didn’t think Jesus would ever have spoken to me like he just had. So he blew his top and said how dare I and threatened to terminate the conversation. It got worse after that and he accused me of all kinds of things in the end. My Chairman of District made him apologise as none of it was true, but even after we were friends again he said I was 'born to rattle the cage of the Methodist Church'. Glory! I hope not! What a waste of time! And once the priest of the church I go to now (but not its present priest - a different one) wrote me a letter (I burned it at once in case anyone ever saw it and thought he was evil) saying I was a totally sick psychotic person who went round damaging everyone/everything. He might be right of course. And I think the church doesn’t love me a lot since I left the ordained ministry. Hey-ho. And of course a person can follow in the way of St Francis without joining anything.
If you join, you have to give them money, but I don’t know how much. I do have money, but not that much. Tony puts in my housekeeping money for me. And he gives me money for my extravagances (eg buying a book on Pirateology for my godson yesterday, and some farm animals and The Gruffalo’s Child for our grandson) too.
Also if you join, you have to have a spiritual director. I only had one once. She gave me tedious Ignatian exercises to do which I found immensely boring. They talk a bit religious, don’t they, usually – spiritual directors? And that’s not really me. And you have to pay them. My boring Ignatian one was £30 a throw – and a train fare up to London.
After my first husband left and we’d lost our home and I had no job and all the Trauma Years began, I asked my doctor if maybe I should have counseling – which my daughter No 2 thought maybe I should, to stop being practical and start getting in touch with my grief. But my doctor said wise women were hard for men to live with and thought I probably wouldn’t be counsellable. So I didn’t. Are they directable either?
As you can tell I am drawn to this Third Order thing a lot but very scared of it too. I love St Francis, and Jesus, and simplicity. But I also feel that ‘uh-oh, here we go’ feeling about attempting to join anything. I spend most of my time alone and writing except for spending time with the household here. I have gone a bit feral really, and was never that easy to fit in before.
What to do? What? What?
You don't suppose they have meetings where they wear polyester habits or something do you?