Even the Stones Cry Out

When Gertrude Stein made her comment about Oakland, California, that "there is no there there" she may have been way off base. I haven't been to Oakland, have heard it's an interesting place to visit, and perhaps there is something she missed. Even the most desolate spots have a presence and some of the most heavily occupied feel empty.

Thinking again about Paris, Notre Dame Cathedral was lacking something for all it's beauty and ancient history. Maybe after it was desecrated during the revolution and used to store wine, the spirit left and didn't return even after it was reconsecrated. We walked all around the cathedral, up to the altar, sat and felt the spirit of the place. It felt empty.

Heysham, a little town near Lancaster in England, has one of the most desolate spots I've seen in my travels. When we walked through the town and past an ancient church down in a dell, we climbed to a cliff overlooking the Irish Sea. At the edge of the cliff, looking out at a couple hundred yards of beach, the waves rolled in and the wind was stiff and cold. On this desolate and isolated cliff stood a small stone hut with three walls still standing and an arched door. The hut was built over the stony floor of the outcropping. Dug into the stone were body-shaped hollows, two of them, and a square dug in the stone we were told once held a wooden cross.

My daughter Ruth had been to this spot on a school trip while at the University of Lancaster, and wanted to share it with me. The hut had been built in the 7th century and had been occupied by Christian hermits who guarded the shore and saved travellers who washed ashore from the rough Irish Sea.

There was a kind of tunnel going down from the cliff, built from the same stone as the hut, with ancient stairs that led down to the beach.

And that's all that was there.

We were both deeply moved, literally held there by a feeling of presence, a feeling that we were in touch with the spirit of the brave holy men who had inhabited this spot and been buried in those stone hollows, probably covered with rocks. I think then I first understood what Jesus meant when he said that even the stones would cry out.

Standing in the hut, hands on the stones, we both felt a sort of communion with the love and faith that had lived there. The stones themselves spoke to our spirit.

We walked around and around, looking at the graves, touching the stones, staring out to the rugged water, feeling the unending stiff, chilling breeze that blew continually in from the sea. It was one of the most difficult places to say goodbye to in all my travels.

Finally, we had to leave. I ran my hands lovingly over the stone wall one more time, and turned away.

Ruth and I talked later about the intense presence of the place. That was why she had wanted to bring me there. She knew I too would feel it.

And I think, looking back, that when you are in a place where God has truly dwelt, He never leaves.

The famous and much visited stones of Notre Dame spoke to me of beauty. The desolate and isolated stones of Heyshem spoke of God.