Christmas, 1975. Mother Maria writes a letter to a friend, musing on her own particular situation and the difficulties of getting her Monastery repaired. (That Christmas was icily cold, and Mother Maria and two others, and a cat named Nimmy, moved into the Monastery although it lacked doors and some windows.) What she says of her situation though expands to include all our situations.
We are wondering why ever more difficulties pursue us to the limit of endurance, and any new ones brace us up to a feeling that they come to destroy, and if we do not give them reality, but march through them, they cannot harm us. It is not a fairy tale that the are evil forces. Only we refuse to ‘attend’ to them, but I am crying out for help for us all; or, at least, for that which is meant to be; and that it should be achieved. Next year Chapel will live–all ready for Easter. Till April it will not be easy, but possible–till we have the whole house. It will no more be an inhuman situation. It is dark so soon, and so very dark. Not a sound. I am wondering and wondering. Where are we going?