HER MENTAL PRAYER

New Zealand Tablet, 19 December 1918, Page 7

HER MENTAL PRAYER

During the night the whole market place had been covered inches deep with snow. But before daybreak the white expanse was broken by stalls and booths; and in a couple of hours the beaten-down snow, especially where the boys had been pounding it into slides, was almost as slippery as a surface of ice would have been j Men and women pushing handcarts had to pick their steps warily, so as not to lose their footing altogether. And when Mere Rivalot came along, her barrow laden, in spite of the inclemency of the season, with carrots and turnips, onions, cabbages, and even cauliflowers, between keeping on her feet and proclaiming aloud the variety and excellence of her goods, she had little attention to spare for her surroundings. For some time she pushed forward, her head bowed in lino with her shoulders that were strapped down by the weight of her barrow. But all at once her eyes fell on the hem of an uplifted soutane, a pair of black woollen stockings, and buckled shoes that seemed familiar. Stopping her cart, she put up her hand, to shade from her eyes the rays of the sun, which was gpowing redly on the horizon and a look of satisfac-

tion came over her face as a result of her investigation. •"I was right," she murmured to herself. "I thought I knew those shoes. It is Pere Tarderieu. Well, this is a surprise!" And turning her cart with deftness and celerity she found herself face to face with an astonished priest, who suddenly saw his way blocked by a heap of potatoes and carrots. "Good morning, Father!" said the owner of the cart in quick, decisive tones. "Have you forgotten who I am V The priest paused and looked inquiringly at her before answering—- " Mere Rivalot, unless I am mistaken." "That's it, Father—Mere Rivalot and no one else. As soon as I saw your shoes coming along through the snow I said to myself, 'Here comes Pere Tarderieu.' Then I remembered that you had gone away from St. Ignatius' here for good, and I looked at your face to make sure. You haven't changed a bit," "Nor have you, Mere Rivalot." "Oh, I! Old women don't change much. A few wrinkles more or less on an old face make very little difference." "Well, that's all right, so far as it goes. But, now, how about yourself? How are you getting on? You know what 1 mean." You mean how long is it since I went to my duties, Father?" and the old woman shook her head knowingly. "Well, not too long. I promised you that, you know. And if you are staying over Christmas "Yes, yes but my confessional is on the right of the church now." "That's a comfort. M. le Cure is a very good man, butwell, Father, 1 want, you to explain some things to me." "For example?" questioned the priest. "For one thing," began the old woman, "he says we must—we must practise mental prayer." "Well, so we ought," replied Pere Tarderieu, a smile lurking in the depths of his eyes; "and I am sure we do, only we call it by another name." "So you do, I dare say," replied Mere Rivalot. "But how can you expect an old woman who can't do more than read and write to manage that kind of fancy thing "Fancy thing! Whoever spoke of mental prayer as a fancy thing?" exclaimed the priest, smiling broadly now. "Come, Mere Rivalot! It's hardly a day for loitering about ; but if you will walk along this way with me we'll have a little talk. Christmas is coming—is it not?—in a week or ten days." "Ten days, Father," replied the old woman, pushing her handcart along in front of her. "And you know what this feast is that we shall celebrate in ten days?" "To be sure I do. And why not? Didn't I myself give the curate the flour for making snow on the crib last year?" "Well, then, you can imagine the Infant Jesus coming into a cold, snowy world like this. Remember His parents were very poor, and they did not have many clothes for Him, and no bed at all, but the manger where the ox and ass had been eating. The Blessed Virgin laid Him in the straw, and St. Joseph you may be sure, put his cloak around the two of them to protect them as best he could : whilst the beasts drew near to do their part by breathing warm breath in the cold, dark cave. For it was only a cave, you know —just a hole in the rocks by the roadside. And can you picture Mere Rivalot going into that cave hardly daring to ask if she could do anything for the tender little newborn Baby, lying on His rough straw bed? There, now what do you think of that for mental prayer?" "Father, you are making fun of me! That mental prayer! Well, I never!" "Yes, that is mental prayer, if, when you have brought all these things before your mind, you make an act of love of God, who has loved us so much that He

was willing to come down into the cold and poverty and discomfort of the cave for our sakes. Do you understand what I mean?" "To be sure I understand that." "And then, you know, if we want to keep clear of all the evil we meet with every day in the world, we must think of* this kind of thing, every morning for a few minutes, just to remind ourselves of the love of God, and to help us to be strong against His enemies." "Yes, yes! That's only common-sense." They had come to the corner of the market-place, where Mere Rivalot had to turn her cart; and with a word of farewell the priest went on his way, leaving the old woman to continue the sale of her vegetables, though her mind was not, as usual, concentrated on her work. The ten days that went by before Christmas brought a great change in the weather and a fortnight after their first meeting the priest and the old apple woman met again, but this time in the depths of an almost impenetrable fog. Even with care it was not easy to prevent the hand-barrow being a danger to the passers-by ; and this time the priest became aware of the old woman's presence as he felt the ends of the carrots and onions sweep his sleeve. "Mere Rivalot, 1 suppose?" "Why, its Pere Tarderieu!" Their exclamations came together and both paused where they could see each other's outlines in the fog. Again there were greetings, and then he began to question her on the result of their last talk. "And the mental prayer?" he asked. "How is it getting on ?" "Couldn't be better, Father," was the reassuring answer. And then she went on to tell how she had first tried it in the little chapel where she usually went to 6 o'clock Mass, and how from the first it had been a success. She thought about Christmas—the first Christmas of long ago —as if something intimately her own ; something that brought to her personally a feeling of joy, yet mingled with regret ; and in so thinking she felt that the daily worries of her life were being shared by someone infinitely tender, yet infinitely great and powerful. "The straw was hard and rough," she said, as though telling of what had happened under her own eyes : "but I pulled it out and made it soft and smooth for Him, poor little Darling ! Then there were draughts in the cave—ugh, but it was cold ! So with what was over of the straw I stuffed up as many holes as I could. That made it more comfortable for them all. But you would only laugh if I told you all the things this old head of mine thought of to do for Him." "Laugh?" repeated the priest, "why should I laugh at what you have done to help Our Lord in His sufferings ?" The old woman gave her cart a push that set it in motion again. "The snow is gone," she remarked; "but it is too cold for standing about, all the same." They moved away together. But before leaving her the priest put yet another question. "Shall I give you another subject for your mental prayer?" he asked. "Another!" Gracious no, Father! I haven't nearly done with that one yet, and I like it too much to think of another. It will last me for at least a fortnight yet. Why, only this morning 1 was saying to myself: 'My poor Mere Rivalot, I am afraid you are a discontented, tiresome old woman. Your life is a bit hard, to be sure; but, after all, when you come in at night you have a good*roof over you, a comfortable bed, and something to light a fire with. You have enough to eat, and a warm home for your hard old body, whilst He —a soft, tender, tiny baby, what had He? He comes, of His own will into the world, and to what sort of homo does He come ? A hole by the roadside. What sort of bed ? A bundle of straw.' Why, Father, you don't know how all that helps. And all day long, whilst I am pulling this old barrow about

the streets, I think of Him dragging His Cross. And if the strap hurts my shoulders— it does" sometimes when the cart is full—l think of His shoulder under twenty times the weight I carry. No, no, I don't want another subject just yet, thank you, Father!" And the priest, going his way, felt something wet upon his eyelashes. It might have been the fog collecting there, but I think those drops were salt and warm..