Happy Feast of St. Francis of Assisi

Today is the feast of St. Francis of Assisi, one of the most well-known and loved Catholic saints. Born Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone, St. Francis came from a wealthy Italian family (his father was a silk merchant) and lived the typical life of a rich young man of his time. He was, by most accounts, wild and worldly. He spent his money freely, caroused with his friends, but there may have been a streak of the mystical in him. There’s a story that once, while selling fabric for his father, a beggar came along and asked him for alms. Apparently, Francis finished the sale he was making, abandoned is stall, and ran after the beggar. Once he found him, he emptied his pockets, giving all he had to the beggar. Sometime around 1205, he had a strange vision that made him lose interest in his worldly, carefree life. He went on pilgrimage to Rome, had more visions, one of Christ in the decrepit chapel at San Damiano. Christ exhorted Francis to “go, and repair My house.” Francis took this literally, thinking that Christ meant for him to repair the church of San Damiano. Francis sold some of his father’s merchandise and took the money to the priest at San Damiano, but the priest refused since the money was essentially stolen (no idea how the priest knew this).

Francis hid for a month in a cave at San Damiano, avoiding his father. When he emerged, his father had him beaten and imprisoned in a storeroom. His mother eventually freed him, but he and his father continued to fight. Eventually, Francis gave up his inheritance and lived the life of a beggar and penitent. He repaired churches, founded a monastic order, received the stigmata, and, essentially, changed the course of history.

One of my favorite patients wanted to be a Franciscan, but he was not accepted due to mental illness. He was a veteran in World War II. He was a lovely, lovely man. Here’s a poem that I write for him:

The Robin

You were my favorite patient that first year

and robins were your favorite bird.

You loved them for the way they greeted

the day with song. Every morning

at sunrise, undaunted by the hour, you sat

at the window and listened to them sing.

One of your nieces told me that during the war

you’d thrown your body over a barbed wire fence

so the medics could slide a half dead soldier

over your back. I think she wanted me to know

that war was what was wrong with you,

the booted foot that trampled your life.

You asked for so little. Cigarettes, the rosary,

birdsong. At the end of my shift, I’d wheel you

outside so you could smoke one cigarette

after another while we prayed and listened

to the birds singing. I remember the sun

and the wind felt good after those cooped up hours.

It was a robin, you said, who went to Christ’s ear

on Good Friday while he hung on the cross

and sang to him to ease his suffering. It’s the blood

of Christ that reddens the robin’s breast. Your dream

was to be a friar like your beloved Francis, to wear

the plain, brown habit, to give all of yourself for God.

But some unspeakable thing broke you

and you were turned away, left alone with only

cigarettes, the rosary, birdsong. Sometimes, as you lit

your Marlboro from the one before, a bit of ash

fluttered and landed on your shirt, it was then

I saw a flash of red glowing upon your chest.