Misty Deliverance

a pilgrimage to wales called me to remember mercy

St. Govan’s Chapel

Through the impermeable fog, I walked to church.

Tim and I meandered past curious sheep, an abandoned military post, and puddles at every edge of the winding country road. The evening drizzle clung to our coats, eager to get close.

We arrived at the sea, rain-harrowed, and hopped down treacherous steps. A stone chapel tucked against solemn rocks greeted us.

In the 10th century, Saint Govan clung to these cliffs. One legend says he begged God for help and the earth opened to him. St. Govan built this chapel as a remembrance to the haven God provided.

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
    he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
    I will call on him as long as I live.

The cords of death entangled me,
    the anguish of the grave came over me;
    I was overcome by distress and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
    “Lord, save me!”

Navigating my own weakness and fear, I remember true rescue. His hand pulling me from the depths.

I grit my teeth against the whipping currents of wind. I press onward, praying for eyes to see goodness in the shrouded corners of my life.

Peace is my deliverance. I’ve glimpsed that peace––I hunt for it along craggy cliffsides.

The Lord is gracious and righteous;
    our God is full of compassion.
The Lord protects the unwary;
    when I was brought low, he saved me.

We continued our ambling to St. David’s Cathedral, a place of pilgrimage for the last 900 years. Ravens watched us plodding through yet another rainstorm, slipping on cobblestones and breathing our relief at the resolute cathedral in the distance.

St. David’s Cathedral

Inside I shivered, remembering the steely rain tumbling like pebbles on my skin.

I heard the howling gales outside. And in this echoey cathedral, vast and yet oddly familiar, I felt safe.

I was awestruck to find a monument to the martyrs of the Armenian genocide––the massacre my family survived. Another memorial honored Saint Non, the patron saint of abused women. I remembered my sisters, my counseling clients, my own story of shattered personhood.

Faced with my scars and my smallness, I lingered on the pews, grazed my fingers along stone walls, and quietly communed with Christ.

People describe “thin places” where the physical and spiritual realms ripple closer together. Spaces where heaven and earth seem to meet, and eternity and time collide.

In the majestic and mundane He speaks an invitation. To live into resurrection. To rest in the comfort of His mercy.

A tempest darkens the horizon.

Waves assail weary shores.

But in the cleft of the cliff, there lies a shelter. And beyond the skyline, an inheritance of hope.

Return to your rest, my soul,
    for the Lord has been good to you.

For you, Lord, have delivered me from death,
    my eyes from tears,
    my feet from stumbling,
that I may walk before the Lord
    in the land of the living.

Psalm 116

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