In the rippling wind, the water had a troubled, leathery look to it, almost like a bat’s wings. Nervous waves splashed impatiently against the shore.

An old ladder, rickety and slick with moss, had been rigged up against the hill’s abutment to help hikers climb up to where the trail continued twelve feet or so above her.

The rain began as she was ascending the ladder. Large, random drops of water that splattered dime-sized onto her arms and her back as she climbed. She had to pay careful attention to her feet to keep them from sliding off the rungs.

The mud at the ladder’s top was worn smooth from pilgrims who’d ventured to see the statues of the Virgin Mary, the disciples, and Jesus, but with the help of a nearby branch, Christie managed to get past the slick spot without sliding back down the hillside.

As the rain picked up, she tucked her hands into her pockets and felt the note she’d written just a few weeks ago, the poem that she’d jotted down at church when the pastor’s sermon wandered, as it was apt to do, into the subject of abstaining from alcohol.

The fact that Jesus had turned dozens of gallons of water into wine just to keep the party going—and good wine, to keep the people drinking—seemed to be lost on him. And by her minister’s ample size, it was clear that gluttony didn’t figure into his list of deadly sins, although drinking a beer or sipping a glass of wine—which Christie tended to enjoy with dinner—topped his list.

And so, as his sermon detoured, so did her attention, and she’d written a short poem, one that she hadn’t shared with anyone yet. But it’d meant something to her, and she’d intended to pass it along to a friend who had pneumonia. In the end, though, her healing had come before Christie could send the poem and she’d never gotten around to typing it up or mailing it.

She saw several statues ahead of her in the forest, and it didn’t take long for her to traverse the trail and come to Mary.

Previous retreatants had left flowers at Mary’s feet, some had even slipped notes into the envelopes the monastery provided at the front desk and had placed them under rocks near the base of the statue.

Though she was momentarily tempted to read what others had left here, Christie held back, reminding herself that those notes were for the Lord or his mother, and not for her.

The now-constant tapping of rain across the forest accompanied her, but here beside the statues, enough branches spread above her that she was protected somewhat from the coming storm.

She removed the poem and read it silently.

God can handle all your needs,

mend the heart that hurts and bleeds,

give the lonely something true