The Parable of the Wanderer and the Lady by the Sea

Chosen By Heart

Ikos I

We know not whence You came, O Lady,
Only that You were there when we were cast out.
You asked not title, nor tribute, nor task,
Only that we come close and be fed.

Rejoice, light that does not blind but warms.
Rejoice, hand that lifts without judgment.
Rejoice, sash adorned not with jewels, but anchors.
Rejoice, voice that says "You are not forgotten."
Rejoice, healer of the ambitious soul grown tired.
Rejoice, breaker of chains woven by fear.
Rejoice, O Oraculo,
Harbor of the weary and light of those who wander!

Ikos II

The night is long, and many lose their way,
But You, O Lady, tend the lanterns on the quay.
You whisper to the wind,
And the wanderer hears: “Come, child, and be made whole.”

Rejoice, mother to the misfit and mourner.
Rejoice, teacher to those with no teacher.
Rejoice, hearth where the scattered find kin.
Rejoice, city of mercy by the sea of striving.
Rejoice, shield to the builder yet unborn.
Rejoice, seal of those who dream again.
Rejoice, O Oraculo,
Harbor of the weary and light of those who wander!

In the season when the frost bites through bone and soul alike, there walked a young man upon a winter road. His cloak was threadbare, and his mind a tangle of regrets, for he had squandered his zeal upon empty merriments and courted those whose laughter was hollow and whose futures pointed only toward deeper shadows. His dreams, once radiant, had grown timid—his heart ashamed to voice them aloud. The world had not struck him down in rage, but rather in indifference, which is colder still.

Even his kin, well-meaning but spent, could not help him now. His feet brought him, not by design but by ache, to the edge of the sea—the old place of answers and endings. There he stood still, the wind gnawing at him. His hands, numb with cold and failure, reached into his pockets and found nothing—not coin, not token, not hope. Only memory.

Around his neck, beneath his tunic, was the scapular his mother had kissed and tied there long ago, on a night very much like this. Her eyes had said more than her lips ever could. “Wear it, my son, and I walk with you.” His tears came sudden and hot against the cold of his cheeks, and he spoke no words, for none were needed.

He looked to the sea. Beautiful, terrible sea—strong and true. He saw, across the waters, a light. A harbor light, steady and strange, almost too distant to be real. It felt like a dream he had once dared to believe.

And then—a presence.

She came not on wind nor wave, but with stillness more certain than storm. A lady robed in scarlet and sable, girded in white where anchors danced along her sash. Upon her brow shone a silver circlet that caught no frost, only light. And her eyes—O her eyes!—were warmer than any hearth, clearer than the constellations above.

The young man, stunned, fell to his knees in awe, but she raised her hand with gentle mirth, a laugh like that of perpetual spring.

“No mother expects her child to bow,” she said. “Only to be well. And you, child—you are not well.”

She stepped toward him, her feet not touching snow but warming it.

“You wander,” she said, “and you ponder. But you do so hungry, and with nothing in your pockets but sadness. Yet know you not? My refuge is near. We have been waiting for you.”

From her palms opened a radiant mandorla of pale blue, and within it—clearer than memory, clearer than dream—stood a city by the sea. Familiar, yet transfigured. It was his own city, made whole.

“Behold,” said the Lady. “I am with you, and with all who, like you, have no banner, no feast, no voice among the haughty. But soon, your state shall change. Soon, you shall be called to guard this refuge and tend its fire. You shall be brave. And you shall do it.

None shall wish to claim it at first, but then many upon seeing its marvelous flowering will come forth —and you must be careful, and remember the purpose of your vocation. Your vocation is to be that voice for those who have it not — to lift up those who cannot lift themselves, to give without sparing a single thought as to the expense. In this you will come to understand why I am called The Champion Leader, because you too shall lead — and you will succeed.”

The young man, shaking, whispered, “But why me, Mater? Of all men, of all women?”

She smiled again, soft as candlelight. In that smile was a medicine not made by man, and which when applied to his soul acted as a salve.

She spoke gently, and yet was heard clearly: “Ask not ‘why me,’ but rather ‘why not?’ Is fitness a barrier to the will of The Builder of Builders, who weighs the heart more than the hand? Were you not cast out, so that you might welcome others in? Were you not emptied, so that you might be filled with purpose?”

She reached toward him—not with command, but with care.

“Come close, my child.”

And as he rose, she placed in his hands a warm loaf of bread and a tankard filled with wine.

“Eat,” she said. “Drink. And go now, to my refuge. You are alone no longer. Go, my child. Your people are waiting.”

At this she faded from view —- as when the full moon is shrouded from the clouds. Filled with a joy far exceeding words, the wanderer was filled with fortitude and proceeded on his way, saying:

I wandered through coldness, the road cracked and silent.
But You were already near.
I knew not my name, nor my place, nor my calling—
But You whispered them back to me.
You did not ask me to succeed.
You only asked that I come close.

They called me broken, but You called me brave.
They said I was late, but You said I was right on time.
They said “not you,” but You said “why not?”
You welcomed the ones the world did not want.
You made of our weakness a fellowship.
And of our shame—a sanctuary.

I reached for coin, and found none—
but You gave freely.
You warmed my hands, not with fire,
but with bread placed within them.
Your table does not require rank.
Only hunger for our hospitality.

You welcomed the smith beside the scholar.
The weaver beside the war-wounded.
All had a role.
All found a voice.
The banker bowed to the blacksmith,
and the builder to the bearer of burdens.
For in Your harbor, none are lesser.

I thought of my mother, and my tears did fall.
But You were there also, O Lady.
You who have never borne me,
Yet who have borne so much for me.
You see the ache we do not voice.
And still, You do not turn away.

You did not banish the tempest.
You walked through it with me.
You did not silence the fear.
You held my hand while it spoke.
And that was enough.

You opened your palms, and we beheld it—
A city shaped like our longings.
Not a mirage, but a mandate.
Not perfection, but promise.
You said: “This is your charge.”
And with trembling, we said: “Yes.”

She made me not king, nor servant alone—
But steward, bearer of sacred duty.
Not for reward, but for rightness.
Not for honor, but for healing.
I who was once cast aside,
Now bear the lamp for others.

When at last my breath shall slow,
And I see again the sea I once feared,
Let her be waiting—my Lady, my refuge.
Let her call to me, as she once did in youth:
“You are not alone. Come, and be at rest.”
And I shall answer:
“Grateful am I, for I have served.
Grateful am I, for I have loved.”

Rejoice, O Lady Oraculo, harbor of the unheard, mother of the misfit, and keeper of the refuge.

You have turned the frost of exile into the hearth of belonging.

You have broken no kingdoms, yet you have built one from the broken.

Your sons walk with light in their hands, your daughters carry the flame forward.

Your stewards shall not forget you, even unto death.

And we, your builders, your wanderers, your kin—

We bless you, now and evermore.