A Space for Me

The Sunday light through drifting rain
Falls soft on flag and chair;
The café hums like chapel‑breath
Where ruins scent the air.

The cup is filled to trembling brim,
A chalice near to spill;
One careful tilt, one held‑back breath
To keep the spirit still.

The silver jug with shallow lip
Demands a novice’s grace;
A single drop slides down its side—
A tremor in the space.

Outside, the Shannon moves in prayer,
A psalm in muted flow;
Its waters keep the ancient pace
The monks once learned to know.

The abbey arches, moss‑entwined,
Lean close as if to bless;
Their silence folds around the room
In gentle holiness.

But then the door swings wide and loud—
A burst of worldly cheer;
The cloistered calm I’d gathered in
Falls back in startled fear.

Their voices rise like clashing tides,
Too sharp, too bright, too free;
The rest fall still, a quiet ring
Of watchful company.

A drink that tastes not as it should,
A fork that jars the hand—
Small rituals undone at once
When noise breaks through the land.

Yet kindness lives in simple ways:
A cup not filled too high,
A table left with breathing room,
A softer, slower sky.

For welcome grows where senses rest,
Where sound and shape agree;
A Shannon‑side, near‑ruined peace
Still keeps a space for me.

A Space for Grace: A Reflection by the Shannon

There are some places that feel almost sacramental before a word is spoken.

A quiet café beside ancient ruins. Rain drifting softly across stone. The slow movement of a river carrying centuries in its current. Cups placed carefully on worn tables. The hush of people instinctively lowering their voices in a place shaped by silence.

Such places can feel like extensions of prayer.

For many neurodivergent people, however, peace is rarely accidental. It is often built—or broken—through small details others barely notice. A room can become overwhelming in seconds: a sudden burst of laughter, clattering cutlery, overlapping conversations, harsh movement through a once-quiet space. The nervous system shifts from rest into vigilance almost instantly.

And yet the world often treats this as oversensitivity rather than simple reality.

The poem “A Space for Me” reflects on this fragile balance. The overflowing cup becomes more than a cup; it becomes an image of the spirit itself—carefully held together, vulnerable to disruption. The sensory world is not merely background scenery. It is part of how we experience safety, welcome, and even holiness.

Scripture often presents God not in noise and spectacle, but in gentleness:

• the still small voice heard by Elijah;
• the quiet breaking of bread at Emmaus;
• the peace of Christ appearing in a locked room;
• the invitation to green pastures and still waters.

Even monastic traditions understood this deeply. Abbeys were not designed merely to impress the eye. They were structured around rhythm, silence, repetition, stone, water, prayer, and ordered space. Such environments calm the soul because they reduce unnecessary chaos and allow attention to settle upon God.

Hospitality, then, is not only friendliness. It is the creation of spaces where human beings can breathe.

A chair with room around it.
A quieter corner.
Gentler lighting.
A voice lowered instead of raised.
A cup not filled too high.
An awareness that some people encounter the world with heightened sensitivity rather than indifference.

These are not insignificant acts. They are forms of mercy.

In the Gospels, Christ repeatedly notices what others overlook: trembling hands, exhausted crowds, blind beggars by the roadside, those pushed to the edges of communal life. Divine compassion often appears not in grand miracles alone, but in attentiveness.

Perhaps that is part of the vocation of the Church in a noisy age: not merely to speak louder than the world, but to become again a place where souls may safely rest.

Along the Shannon, beside ruined arches and rain-washed stone, the poem ends with a simple hope:

That may be one of the most profoundly Christian forms of welcome there is.

Copyright 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell