Go in Haste

May 27

“Take no pains to construct your letters carefully… I am not looking for the language of angels, but for the language of love.” — St. Francis de Sales

Each year on the Feast of the Visitation, I find myself returning to one small phrase in Luke’s Gospel: Mary “went in haste” to Elizabeth.

For most of my life, I understood that instinctively. I have always moved quickly—a fast walker, eager to get where I am needed. But over the last few years, injuries have slowed me in ways I never expected. There are places I cannot easily go, people I cannot readily reach in person, ways of helping that are no longer simple. And yet, I have discovered that I can still “go in haste”—with a pen in hand, rather than in footsteps.

In his 1618 sermon for the Feast of the Visitation, St. Francis de Sales reflected: “The Evangelist says that the Virgin proceeded in haste and went up into the hill country of Judea, to show the promptitude with which we should respond to divine inspirations; for when the Holy Spirit touches a heart, He puts to flight all tepidity: He loves diligence and promptitude, and is the enemy of procrastination and delays in the performance of the divine will.”

What our patron lingers on is not Mary’s movement, but its interior source—the way divine prompting does not hesitate, but asks for a ready heart. Before Mary “lifted a finger” to help Elizabeth, she first brought her the presence of Christ simply by arriving. That insight stays with me because I so often think I must arrive with answers, when sometimes the holiest thing is simply to arrive at all. Mary’s first gift was presence.

The Visitation Sisters have long carried forward this ministry of presence—the quiet, faithful work of accompanying another with prayer, humility, and unconditional love. As a member of the Salesian family, I am blessed to have inherited that spirit, carrying others in prayer, memory, and correspondence.

Sometimes, though, I hesitate to reach out. I delay because I fear saying the wrong thing, because grief feels awkward, because encouragement seems too small, or because I assume someone else will know what to say better than I can. I wait to craft the perfect response. Meanwhile, the moment passes.

I have thought about that often while looking through the letters and notes I have saved across a lifetime: notes pinned to the Visitation bulletin board in the 1980s, Junior Retreat letters, sympathy cards when my parents died, my husband’s love letters, and irreverent birthday cards exchanged among old friends. Together, they form a kind of archive of presence: small “visitations” carried heart to heart, pen to paper—little records of how we carried Christ to one another across the years.

Long before the recent epistolary novel The Correspondent reminded readers of the intimacy and power of letters, our Salesian tradition already understood this deeply. Jane and Francis sustained spiritual guidance, holy friendship, and love through correspondence. Their letters were not polished performances, but extensions of care.

Perhaps that is one invitation of this feast: not to wait for grand opportunities to serve, but simply to respond promptly and lovingly when someone comes to my mind. A handwritten note. A quick text. An email sent before hesitation wins.

I do not need the language of angels. I simply need the willingness to arrive.