Fanciscan Point

JMJ
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So what does a good seminarian do on a Friday evening in the Month of Mary? Well, I should think it obvious, he should walk along the lake shore with Rosary in hand, Our Lady's intercession up above, and Irish tunes on his lips.
A lot has happened since my last post, which is precisely why I have not posted on the lots. If I had, then the lots would have been more like a little, and then we would have no reason to post. But, thankfully there has been lots, and not little. However, with all this lots it could turn out to be of little meaning, but "since brevity is the soul of wit, I"ll be brief" (Polonius).
This evening, myself and several other guys made our way around the winding road of our school's lake. All in all it measures three miles, which might not be much, but it is everything one needs for a beautiful walk around a three mile lake. About half way around the old blacktop roadway is a moss covered path that leads through the ever thickening forest toward the lake shore. It is a trail worn by years of priests at prayer as well as the occasional family of deer. The seemingly ancient passageway winds its way past the yonder smelly swamp and the spring grasses that have just inhabited the forest floor, and plants you along the east shore line, on a beautiful nook known as Franciscan Point. There you are able to wonder at the miracle of a spring sunset, and take in the silhouette of our chapel's spire as the day draws to a close. It was at this place that the men of Mundelein seminary spent their Friday night.
After setting up the fire pit and grabbing the evermore immobile concrete benches, we sang to our hearts content and then to our voices' detriment. We recalled the Ol' Black and Tans, rejoiced at Ol' Finnegan's Wake, and sang to the Whiskey in the Jar. As the night drew to a close, and our smoke filled eyes screamed out for our concession, we gave into the call of our distant beds and sang our last song to Sweet Molley Malone. We found our way back to the now blackened path and after some searching the old winding blacktop roadway. With the sounds of Dublin's finest pub still ringing in our ears we walked the few miles back to our beds and said our goodnights to our sweet mother, thanking her for her intercession.
Well, perhaps it wasn't so brief, but it was a good Friday night nonetheless. It was either Franciscan Point or the tales of Ugly Tie-day Friday, but I'll save that for another post.