Fairies

and the things they throw at us from above

My five-year-old daughter wonders if I believe in fairies. I have no evidence to disprove their existence. “Yes,” I say. “The world is full of surprises. Hidden wonders.” It’s good enough.

And so, we’re looking for fairies along the wooded path near our house. We walk amid the tall, tall trees and along the quietly trickling stream and through neighbors’ backyards until we come to a place covered in stone. Big ponderous boulders, sitting in a half circle.

Here, I’m assured, is where the fairies live.

On occasion, my daughter expresses her worry over the presence of dark fairies. She makes potions with her friends. “Can’t you make one to ward off dark magic?” I ask. It’s a good question. She consults her contemporaries.

Indeed, such a potion is possible.

And still, we walk that wooded path. No fairies have been sighted as yet, and so we make our way down toward the stream. Water bugs drift atop the water’s surface and leaves drift down to rest on roots and dirt. There’s a silence here, too, drifting, and we let it encircle us, enmesh us, the sound of birdsong and the chittering of squirrels and the soft noises of other things in this tiny alcove of forest.

Still, we hear no fairies, see no fairies. We say nothing.

And then a sudden snapping sound, the rendering of wooden branches held high above. There is no drifting now—the branch comes down abruptly, loudly, unceremoniously, a big old thing.

It lands just at my feet.

“That was close,” I say.

“Fairies?”

“Hmm.” I shrug. “It’s a nice walking stick, though.”

My daughter nods, reaches for it. Hefts it in her hand. “I’ll sand it down for you,” I say.

She continues playing in the stream, assessing the bugs, wondering after the fairies. We see none.

But I hold that branch in my hand, surprised how smooth it already is. I pull at the loose bark, dust off the edges, wonder at the tiny markings made along its length.

When we get home, I pull out a knife and some sandpaper. It’s a quick job. I hand it to my daughter.

“From the fairies,” I say. She nods.

The next day she paints the staff. A collision of color and texture.

“Close call on that falling branch,” I say to my wife. “That would’ve left a mark.”

“Dark fairies,” she says with a shrug. “Or maybe light.”

“Light, I hope,” I say.

Perhaps we do believe in fairies.

And another thing:

• I wrote about the hit show “The Bear” and Ignatian spirituality over at National Catholic Reporter. Check it out.

• I wrote about finding hope abroad this summer for my weekly “Now Discern This” column at Jesuits.org. Give it a read.

• I interviewed my friend and Catholic movie buff John Dougherty on this week’s “AMDG: A Jesuit Podcast.” Give it a listen.