The gray bird flew to the top of the cross and
started to sing.
"Is that a swallow?" a woman next to me
in the courtyard asked her husband.
"I don't know," he said. "What does
a swallow look like?"
"I don't know."
"That's a mocking bird," I said.
"Where are the swallows?"
"Beats me. I haven't seen any."
Our family was enjoying a summer vacation in
southern California. We'd spent a glorious day at Disneyland, played
on the beach, and watched our Seattle Mariners beat the Angels. I
decided it was only right to expose the kids to a little history by
taking them to the Mission at San Juan Capistrano, home of the
legendary swallows that return each spring on the Feast of St.
Joseph.
We were no sooner in the gates than the boys
started whining.
"I'm bored," said Gabe. "Why did we
have to come here?"
"Just pay attention. You might learn
something. This mission was founded in 1776, so it’s more than 200
years old." I opened the self-guided tour booklet. "OK.
Stop one is a replica of Father Serra's supply list."
"Fascinating." Lucas had a 14-year-old’s
sarcasm down perfectly.
"Stop 2," I continued, "is over
here. This is the millstone they used to grind olive oil. It says
here that the mission was a center of agriculture, industry,
education, and religion. Olive oil was used for cooking or traded
for other goods."
"You don't have to read every word,"
said my husband, Steve.
We moved past the Native American baskets and into
the soldier’s barracks, where muskets and leather armor filled the
display case.
"How many stops are there? asked Gabe.
"19. This is stop 4."
"It's taken us 16 minutes so far. So four
minutes per stop means 76 minutes."
Lucas looked at his watch. "At that rate, we
won't be done until 11:50!"
I sighed. At least they had good math skills.
Some of the rooms had been reconstructed to show
what life was like in the early 1800s. We walked through the dining
room, a priest’s sparsely furnished bedroom, and a small herb
garden. A museum displayed vestments, Native American artifacts, and
foods of
the region. Out in the
sun-drenched courtyard, carp swam in the fountain, a folk singer
entertained tourists, and butterflies and humming birds flitted
among the flowers.
The chapel, with its massive gold altar and
18th-century paintings of the Stations of the Cross, was impressive
enough that the boys stopped whining. I stopped to say a prayer and
light a candle for our family.
The gift shop was full of crosses and swallows.
Gabe found a rainbow colored slinky. I bought a swallow ornament for
our Christmas tree.
"Where are the swallows?" I asked the
clerk as she wrapped up our things. "I was hoping to see
them."
"Oh, they're not here anymore" she said.
"They come in the spring, then they spread out all over the
area. They’re not here--they're around everywhere."
I thought of the swallows I'd seen at the beach
and the ones circling over the motel. So I had seen the swallows of
San Juan Capistrano after all.
It made sense. Miracles, after all, can’t be
confined to holy shrines. God’s greatest gifts are the ones that
surround us every day: old friends and glowing sunsets, music and
chocolate ice cream, bright flowers and family vacations. If we have
the eyes of faith, we’ll see God’s hand in everything.
