‘Upon This Hill’ – Poem by Cecily Jones SL

From “Mostly for Promise: Poems by Cecily Jones SL,” published 2013

Reflections of Isabella Clarke on the Sisters’ Transfer from Little Loretto to St. Stephen’s Farm, November 1824

After the death of Rev. Father Nerinckx, the Right Rev. Bishop Flaget of this diocese came to Loretto accompanied by Rev. Guy Chabrat, whom he installed in Fr. Nerinckx’s place as our ecclesiastical superior. Being thus placed in full possession of his house and its contents, he, for some reason, burnt all of Rev. Nerinckx’s writings… (from memoirs of Sister Isabella Clarke, quoted in Camillus P. Maes, “The Life of Rev. Charles Nerinckx”)

At this time, Father Chabrat directed the Sisters to move out of Little Loretto into the place of St. Stephen that Bishop Flaget had given them. Once this was done, they burned the little motherhouse, lest it be put to worldly purposes. (from Joseph E. Mudd, “Humble Beginnings”)

No eager journey this autumn of our grief
but, new, the priest had ordered we should move,
our place a trade for this. I looked to Ann
and Mary (Christina had passed on). Obey,
a cloud of sorrow in their eyes, a shoulder’s
stoic shrug. I knew the flames that had consumed
our Father’s scripts still burned their hearts (and mine
as well), but Be obedient and faithful,
his words from Belgium four years ago, now seared
again our shattered souls. And we said yes
to Loretto’s dark uprooting to this hill.

What else? Perhaps too young at twenty-four,
yet leadership I wore like shawl of strength
unfolded only when alone and I
could weep resentment at commanded move.
But I was orderly with all the plans,
asking Holy Mary’s and Gethsemani
to help the packing up before December
might ice the roads to match our frozen hearts.
Alone, I wept, yet publicly I prayed
that beauty soon would blossom on this hill.

Eleven miles we came, our wagonloads
of bedding, books, the classroom slates, the pots
and kettles, sturdy chairs he made, the dishes—
everything of home for those twelve years.
The chapel cloths and chalice, Sacrament
of Love on solemn cart, with pupils near
as faithful guards. I could not bear to see
the sisters’ tears as we turned out the gate
so walked ahead and prayed that soon a gentle
Christ would transform pain upon this hill.

Though high and coveted, St. Stephen’s Farm
was bleak, unfit for school and livelihood
(with Badin back to France five years ago)
till we could dig and fence, clean out and patch
dilapidated wall to race the chill
December winds. The priest engaged a crew
to build in early spring. As we began
to settle in, dear Clare brought saplings from
the woods to green the barren drive, a way
to plant our broken hearts upon this hill.

A duty still remained, so bittersweet
I held my shawl of leadership as shield
protecting almost everyone but Ann
and Clare and Mary, stalwarts from the start,
who traced with me processional of tears
returning to the cabins they had built.
We torched the chapel, convent, school, and watched
till ashes turned blue-white. No plunder there.
Oh! Could the way a wildfire leaps for miles
be sudden grace aflame within our hearts
from embers there to life upon this hill?

Cecily Jones SL
March-April 2012