December 1842 came to St Vincent’s with a cold that could be felt in every gesture, from the early hours of the morning, when the light was slow to enter through the windows and, in the hospital corridors, work began with a more measured pace, as though winter itself were imposing its rhythm even on hands long accustomed to toil.
Mary Aikenhead had been awake for some time, lying in bed. The ailments that had tried her in the preceding months, especially those affecting her eyes and throat, had not entirely disappeared and at times made themselves felt again, without however preventing her from attentively following all that continued to move around her. The sisters came in one after another, set the room in order, reported on the wards, left letters on the small table, waited for a sign before leaving; and Mary listened to everything, holding in her memory news, requests, and urgencies, as she had always done.
The hospital knew no pause. The recently refurbished wards had filled once more, a new one had been opened, and the work multiplied while some sisters were confined to bed and others took turns without complaint, bearing ever heavier shifts. The poor arrived chilled, one after another, carrying with them the weight of winter, and each day seemed to demand more than could be given. From that room Mary held everything together, following the movement of the house as though she were beside each of them.
Among the letters that had accumulated on the small table, one immediately restored a sense of familiarity. Waterford. She took it between her fingers, laid it on the bed, and remained silent for a moment. That name carried with it a discreet yet profound affection: it was the land of her grandmother’s origin, and perhaps for this very reason that foundation lay especially close to her heart. She thought of the young community, of the superior called to shoulder a task greater than her strength, of those first months when everything is fragile and every gesture weighs heavily.
She then asked for paper and pen. When a sister drew near to assist her, Mary made a slight gesture with her hand, as if to say that she would do it herself. She had the cushions adjusted, rested the sheet on her knees, and began to write slowly, pausing from time to time, then taking it up again, while from the corridor came footsteps, low voices, the sound of a crate being dragged along.
Shortly afterwards, a sister entered to ask her confirmation regarding some shipments: the boxes destined for Preston were ready. Mary nodded. Inside were small wax models, carefully prepared for a simple crib, intended for the sisters, so that there too, in the coldest days, there might be a silent sign of the waiting that was growing.
The pen returned to the page. Mary wrote a few lines, then stopped, went back, crossed out a sentence. She did not wish to begin with difficulties, nor to allow urgency to guide the letter. First of all, she decided what had to stand at the centre. With a slow but steady hand she traced the words she had no intention of softening, explaining, or postponing:
“Thanks to our good God for all his blessings and truly they are not of trifling account, so we ought to be very holy and grateful with our whole hearts – are you so? Pray that I may be.”
(20th of December 1842)
She reread the lines slowly, her tired gaze following the words, while familiar sounds came from the room: a step stopping at the door, a light knock, the rustle of a habit moving away. Mary remained with the pen between her fingers, returned to one word, then another, and left everything as it was. She added a few more lines, carefully folded the sheet, closed it, and handed it over so that it might be sent without delay.
A little later, a sister entered carrying a newly arrived packet. Mary immediately recognised the handwriting: it was the meditations sent by Mother de Chantal. She opened it calmly and remained silent for a moment, reading; then she returned again to a line, as though fixing it within herself. When she closed the packet, she said that those meditations should be valued and shared: read by the sisters, made available to those who could benefit from them, or even offered so as to support the hospital or some other work in need. In those days, nothing was to be kept for oneself.
That December, as St Vincent’s quietly disposed itself for the days preceding the Birth of the Saviour, waiting took shape in the simplest and most necessary gestures: in work that continued, in the poor who were welcomed, in small things prepared with care. Nothing was lost, even when everything appeared fragile, because God was coming to share fully in the human story. And in that house crossed by cold and need, before every word and every work, thanksgiving had opened the way.
And as waiting took shape in silence, from the window the snow fell gently, like a promise of hope resting upon the toil that awaited the Saviour.
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Points for Reflection
For Mary Aikenhead, thanksgiving is not a concluding act, but a generative principle. It is what orients the gaze and opens the way, especially when fatigue and need make the journey more demanding.
In this choice, virtues lived with deep intensity are revealed: a faith that does not withdraw before trial, a hope that does not yield to the fragility of circumstances, a charity that does not retain but becomes a concrete and continuous gift. Not extraordinary gestures, but a daily fidelity which, precisely in its perseverance, assumes a luminous character.
It is that holiness lived in the everyday of which Pope Francis speaks in Gaudete et exsultate: a holiness that takes flesh in ordinary life and is measured by the concreteness of love, where the Gospel becomes incarnate in the folds of history. And as Pope Leo XIV recalls in the Apostolic Exhortation Dilexi te, holiness can neither be understood nor lived apart from the real demands of the Gospel, especially in the encounter with the least and the poor.
On the eve of the Birth of the Saviour, Mary Aikenhead thus offers us a simple and radical path: to give thanks, to share, not to hold back. For nothing is lost when God comes to share fully in the human story, and the heart, freed from possession, opens itself to hope.
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Prayer
Lord God,
Father of every gift,
we give You thanks not only for what we understand,
but also for what precedes us and surpasses us.
We give You thanks because it is You who take the first step,
who enter our history
and share fully in the life of humankind.
Teach us, like Mary Aikenhead,
to place thanksgiving at the beginning and not at the end,
to recognise the good even when fatigue weighs heavily
and the path appears fragile.
Grant us a gaze capable of welcoming
and a heart free from holding back.
Make us faithful in small things,
persevering in daily life,
attentive to the poor, to wounds,
to needs that knock without clamour.
May gratitude become in us a concrete choice,
a gesture that opens outward, a gift that is shared,
a life that allows itself to be broken for love.
In this time of waiting,
as we prepare for the Birth of the Saviour,
guard within us a humble and steadfast hope.
Let nothing appear lost to us
when You come to meet us in history
and to dwell in the folds of our humanity.
To You, Lord,
who transform toil into a space of grace
and waiting into welcome,
we entrust our journey.
With grateful hearts, today and always.
Amen.
