The Gates are Wide Open Today
Grace Oberholtzer
There are some places, I’ve found, that defy words. Their beauty is too great, or their power too mighty, or their scope too impressive to sum up with mere letters or a simple photograph. The whole of Scotland and Iona are like that, I’ve learned. There is always another mountain, another soaring peak or rocky, grassy knoll I want to capture, another picturesque vista formed by the pure, blameless sky and the sweeping land dotted with rust-colored cows and shaggy sheep. But I can never get it right, I can never quite capture the glory of the land, no matter what sophisticated SAT words I use or how varied my syntax is. I can get as poetic as I like and still be unsatisfied with the end result of what I’ve written, simply because this place…this magical, mystic place…it defies my feeble human mind. I don’t mean that I’m not bright enough to comprehend it, but that I feel so small held up next to these towering craggy highlands and massive, glittering seas. And I know that I could write for days, take hundreds of pictures, rhapsodize, ramble about the way this land looks and never get it right.
But that isn’t important. What’s important is how the land makes me feel. I feel like for the first time, I’m alive. I feel like I’ve taken my first real breaths here, taken my first steps, smiled my first true smiles. The sky feels new, the earth feels strange, the frigid ocean water seems not just colder than I’m used to, but also cleaner, purer. This island of Iona is far and away the prettiest place I’ve ever been. It is physically beautiful and spiritually beautiful. The austere abbey we share the land with and the many sweet, unassuming animals confirm this for me. Here is a place that you can wander and never be lost, a place that you can be at home on even though your friends and family reside thousands of miles away. Here I have seen God a thousand different ways each day, in the tea I start my day with and the laughter of my fellow pilgrims and the crunching sound of round rocks below my feet. I’ve done more than I ever thought I would.
I climbed a mountain yesterday—twice. The view was…breathtaking, beyond anything I ever imagined. Katie, my climbing partner on the first go-around, summed it up in two heart-felt words: Oh, God. Not said in fear, exasperation, or fright, but in sincere praise and thanks for what lay before us. The cool wind felt like the breath of God, YHWH, Ruach. I was unmistakably and completely alive. If ever I have felt entirely at peace and fully happy, it was right then, gazing out over Iona, the Atlantic, Mull, and the other surrounding islands. That was, far and away, the best church service I’ve ever attended, climbing Dun I with Katie and, later, Sally and a few other pilgrims.
Today, as well, was an exercise in the unexpected. First came yet another gorgeous and cloudless day, our 5th in a row—almost unheard of here. Next was Sally’s run with a herd of sheep. No, I’m not kidding (but feel free to laugh—we did). Somebody must have left gate open somewhere on the island, because the sheep were roaming freely up and down Iona’s main, one-lane paved road. Sally, who has long nursed a love of and connection with sheep, apparently saw a herd of sheep parading down the road and thought, “Well, why not run with them!” That was certainly the last thing any of us expected to see or hear about while on pilgrimage, I can tell you. Later on, we were to reconvene on the beach on the north side of the island for midday prayer. It’s not uncommon for our gaggle of pilgrims to string out during our walks, as the easy-going, more camera-happy ones fall toward the back and the more adventurous and energetic ones seize point. As we ambled along at our individual paces, Sally found—you guessed it—another small group of sheep, and then, shortly after, another single sheep laying by the road, so of course we all had to stop and attempt to pet them. After our bonding moment with the sheep, the boys and Martin were nowhere to be found, so we trucked ahead anyway, figuring they were at the beach already. To get there, we had to make our way through a field rife with sheep, so I’m sure you can guess how…distracted we were.
After 10 minutes and still no sign of the men, we decided to head over to another beach and have midday prayer on our own. While we were shimmying along a slender sandy path on the side of a hill, something amazing happened. A mother sheep led her two lambs on the path just behind us, and as we parted to let them past, they stopped beside us. A lamb was not two feet in front of me, and without thinking, I put my hand out to touch it. And it nuzzled my hand and licked my fingers, letting me rub its head and pat its back. Its brother did the same to each of us in turn, while the anxious mother made eye contact with Sally as if to say, “I trust you. Please be careful.”
I see clearly now why Jesus is called the Lamb of God, and why God refers to His people as sheep. The sweet and innocent yet deeply spiritual and moving power of that moment will never be forgotten by any of us who were present, and in the shocked quiet that followed, I felt my heart swell with pure compassion and love—an incredible feeling.
I miss the ones I left behind at home, but I can’t wait to come home and tell them of the miracles I’ve seen, the miracles of wind and sky and sheep, and I hope that, even though I know I won’t be able to capture the land properly through words or photos, I hope that the echoes this place has created within me will be heard and the thirst for life captured.
Until then, God bless.
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