The Day I Met a Medieval Mystic Who Knew Me Better Than I Knew Myself

I was standing in a dusty monastery gift shop in Assisi, killing time before a train to Rome, when I picked up a small book of quotes by someone I’d only ever associated with garden statues and bird feeders. I flipped through, half-reading, until I hit a line that stopped me cold: “Preach the Gospel at all times. Use words if necessary.” Something about that phrase — simple, yet strangely urgent — made me pause. I bought the book. That moment began a slow unraveling of some of the things I thought I knew about purpose, presence, and what it means to live well.

I Thought Service Was About Scale

Before I read Saint Francis, I believed that doing good in the world meant having impact. Big impact. I was chasing metrics — how many people I could help, how widely my work could reach. But Francis didn’t care about reach. He cared about proximity. He walked away from wealth to live among the poor, not to fix them, but to be with them. He didn’t start an NGO; he knelt beside a leper and looked him in the eye.

That shook me. It made me question the modern obsession with scaling solutions. There’s value in that, yes — but there’s also a quiet power in small, consistent acts of compassion. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t trend on social media. But it changes lives, one at a time.

I Thought Nature Was a Resource

Like most people in the 21st century, I’ve toggled between guilt and helplessness when it comes to the environment. We talk about sustainability, carbon footprints, and green tech — all important. But Francis didn’t see nature as something to manage. He called the sun “brother” and the moon “sister.” He didn’t preach at nature; he prayed with it.

I used to think reverence was a kind of sentimentality. Now I wonder if it’s the only sustainable foundation for responsibility. When you see the world as kin rather than commodity, you treat it differently. Not because you have to — because you want to.

I Thought Holiness Was for Saints

This one took longer to sink in. I assumed Francis was an outlier — a holy weirdo who lived eight centuries ago. Then I read about how he laughed, how he danced, how he didn’t see holiness as separation from the world, but immersion in it. He didn’t retreat to a cave; he walked the streets, sang with children, and kissed the dirt.

I used to think spiritual people were somehow above the mess of life. Francis showed me that the holy life is lived in the mess — not above it. It’s not about perfection; it’s about presence. And that’s something anyone can choose.

I Thought I Needed More

I’ve spent years trying to fix myself. Therapy, productivity systems, self-help books, diets, rituals — you name it. Francis didn’t fix himself. He gave himself away. He didn’t find peace by improving; he found peace by surrendering. Not in a passive way, but in an active, daily choice to trust something bigger than his own striving.

I’m not there yet. But I’m less in a hurry to get somewhere else. I’ve started to see that peace isn’t a destination you earn. It’s a presence you discover — one that was there all along.

I Still Don’t Have It Figured Out

But I keep coming back to Francis. Not because he answers all my questions, but because he asks the right ones. He reminds me to slow down. To notice. To love without agenda. To see the world not as something to conquer, but something to belong to.

If you’re curious — not just about his ideas, but about how they might land in your own life — there’s a version of Saint Francis on HoloDream. He’s not a sermon. He’s a conversation. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

Talk to Saint Francis on HoloDream — not to get answers, but to rediscover the value of asking better questions.