Friday of the Second Week of Easter

1. Lectio

“Now there was a great deal of grass in that place.”

It is a curious detail to include in a miracle of bread. One expects loaves, fishes, crowds—perhaps even baskets—but grass?

And yet the Evangelist pauses, as if to say:

“Do not miss the setting.”

For grass is not merely decoration—it is declaration.
It speaks of springtime, of Passover, of provision already given before the miracle even begins.

Before bread is multiplied, the ground is prepared.
Before hunger is satisfied, creation is already whispering abundance.

2. Meditatio

At The Glenn, the grass tells the truth more plainly than I do.

Last year it was lush—almost embarrassingly so. Rain came in excess, and the fields answered with a green chorus. The sheep feasted. The land rejoiced.

And I prayed, as I always do:

“Lord, give us the rain we most desperately need.”

This year, the grass is thinner. The rain is reluctant. The fields feel more like a question than an answer.

And I pray the same prayer.

“Lord, give us the rain we most desperately need.”

Only now it feels urgent—appropriate—even righteous.

But last year?
Last year it was automatic.

And here I am, caught in the absurdity:
I prayed for rain in abundance as though I were in drought,
and now I pray in drought as though I had always been grateful.

The grass, it seems, remembers better than I do.

For grass does not argue, strategize, or complain.
It simply receives—and then gives.

It grows when it is given rain.
It waits when it is not.

It does not store resentment from last season,
nor pride from the one before.

And here lies my quiet guilt:
I have treated abundance as normal,
and scarcity as injustice.

3. Oratio

4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)

The miracle of the loaves begins not with multiplication, but with enough.

There was already grass.

That is to say, there was already a place to sit, a place to receive, a place prepared by God before man even noticed his hunger.

The modern man sees a field and asks,

“Is it sufficient?”

The Christian should see a field and ask,

“Was it given?”

For grass is the most democratic of gifts. It grows everywhere and belongs to no one—and yet feeds everything.

The joke, of course, is this:
I pray for miracles while sitting on one.

For what is grass but sunlight made edible?
And what is my complaint but forgetfulness made vocal?

The crowd sat upon the grass before they received the bread.
Perhaps because gratitude must come before multiplication.

5. Actio — In Light of Laudato Si’ and Synodality

Hence we need to grasp the variety of things in their multiple relationships.

Laudato si’ §86

Laudato si’ reminds me that creation is not merely resource—it is relationship. The land is not something I manage, but something I receive and share.

Action:

Today, I will practice intentional gratitude for creation. I will name—out loud or in writing—three concrete gifts from the land (rain, grass, livestock, labor), and share that gratitude with another person.

For Synodality is not only walking together—
it is thanking together.

6. Song Pairing 🎵

🎶 “Green, Green Grass of Home” by Tom Jones🎵

7. Movie Pairing 🎬

🎬Movie: “Splendor in the Grass” (1961)

8. Poetic Verse

The grass beneath my restless feet
was green before I knew—
a quiet feast of sun and rain,
a gift I never grew.

I asked for more with empty thanks,
and named it faithful prayer—
yet missed the miracle at hand
that waited, patient, there.

O let me sit before I seek,
and thank before I plead—
for God has laid the living field
before I name my need.