The Island and Saint Aidan

brandi willis schreiber

illustrated by Micah Peek

Ancient Faith Kids

c hesterton, i ndiana

The Island and Saint Aidan

No part of this publication may be reproduced by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

An imprint of Ancient Faith Publishing 1050 Broadway, Suite 6 • Chesterton, in 46304 store.ancientfaith.com

isbn: 978-1-968863-11-1

library of congress control number: 2026943754

Prayer of St. Aidan from The Ancient Faith Prayer Book, 2014, edited by Vassilios Papavassiliou.

All Scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version, © copyright: 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission.

Photo of Brandi Willis Schreiber by Reagan Leigh Photo Cover design and art by Micah Peek

Printed in the u nited s tates of a merica

To Rex and your St. Aidan

And to Chrissy and Andrew, such beloved godparents – bws

To my loving wife and our fleet-footed daughter – mP

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t he Prayer of s t. a idan of l indisfarne

Leave me alone with God as much as may be. As the tide draws the waters close in upon the shore, Make me an island, set apart, Alone with You, O God, holy to You. Then with the turning of the tide Prepare me to carry Your presence to the busy world beyond, The world that rushes in on me, Till the waters come again and take me back to You.

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cha P ter 1 The Island 13

cha P ter 2 The Plover 25

cha P ter 3 The Marram Grass 37

cha P ter 4 The Rabbit 49

cha P ter 5 The Sea 61

cha P ter 6 Saint Aidan 71 e P ilogue 85

bibliogra P hy 99

Discussion Guide 103

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The Island

In a faraway kingdom long ago, a little island sat in a cold, grey sea. She was made of shale and limestone, bleached to white and a pale blue. She couldn’t remember her beginning, her rocks were so old. When she tried to remember, all she could pull up was a feeling, and that feeling was that she’d been made with love. I am shaped by Love, she thought. And that is enough.

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For an island, she was very small, but swaths of brilliant orchids—white, pink, and magenta—dotted her in spring. Bees tumbled flower to flower, sipping nectar and stuffing their leg pockets with pollen. Rabbits grazed through creeping willow and dug burrows in honey-colored dunes.

In summer, the air smelled sweet and green. Glossy seals with mottling like stones flopped against the island’s shores, and she felt their warmth on her sands, warm as a hand of love. Not far from the seals, marram grass grew along the beach, sending deep roots into the dunes and sheltering skylarks with its sharp leaves.

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Later, in autumn, the air cooled. The rabbits grew fat on wild seed heads and snuggled in their dunes, and masses of birds flocked to the little island. They sent up a great noise from morning until moon-time. But the little island didn’t mind. She loved the surge of life.

In winter, her small fields tarnished to silver, and a wild and bitter wind beat her shores. The wind turned over her shale and limestone, and many birds left, but others arrived—some with feathers shiny as oil or pale as snow. These new birds settled near her icy waters until the air warmed again, and then they flew away, too. Each bird and its family felt like her family, for a while. And when they left, she felt a small pang of grief, for she had known them.

They had known her, too, for a while.

But she cheered them on when they flew. To go was their design.

And to be here was hers.

Willis Schreiber.

The little island loved the roots of the grass and the soft and busy flutter of birds and seals and all their young. When it rained, sometimes a small stream ran through her, and she loved the porpoises and dolphins that played where the stream met the big, great sea. She loved the curtains of seaweed that danced beneath the waves. She loved the fish that swam back and forth.

Mostly, she loved being a home. She knew, somehow, this was God’s purpose for her.

But still, she was lonely.

In the distance, the mainland—forested and dotted with villages—was a long, purple-blue shadow on the horizon. Rarely did someone from there visit her. For unlike other islands always surrounded by sea, this little island was a tidal island. She became an island because of the tides.

When the tide went out, a bridge of sand appeared, muddy and slick, connecting the little island to the mainland. Sometimes people crossed this bridge and hunted her fields, fished her waters, or

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gathered stones from her shore. Sometimes they slept in her small fields beneath piercing stars shining above.

But the tide always returned and swallowed the bridge.

Copyright

by Brandi Willis Schreiber.

Twice a day the tide went out, and twice a day the tide came in, but the tide never quite went out or came in at the same time. Sample pages only. Purchase the full book at https://store.ancientfaith.com/the-island-and-saint-aidan/

Because of this, and her small fields, and her sometime-stream, no one lived on her for long. “There’s nothing here,” they said. “No reason to stay.”

And they left.

She felt them go, like the birds, and often wondered, What do I have that would make them want to stay?

But she already knew the answer. She could not offer much more than solitude. She could not offer more than who she already was.

I am shaped by Love, she remembered. And she reminded herself the birds and the grass and the rabbits and the dunes all called the little island, who sat in a cold, grey sea, their home.

Year after year, the seals played and grew plump and then disappeared into the crisp, cold sea. The birds migrated. The winds and waves shifted the sand into new dunes, and the marram grass grew over them. Everything came and went in its season except the pastel light that always tinted the

For a long time, this was all the little island knew.

Until one early summer day, a man walked across the land bridge.

After that day, everything changed.

21 morning and evening in this far, northern place.

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The Plover

She balanced on orange legs vibrant against her white belly. Black ribbons of feathers banded her eyes and neck, making her look like a lady bedecked in a charcoal scarf and mask. Despite her bold feet, she was nearly invisible against the faded colors of the shore. One might not know she was there at all, if it weren’t for her call. The bright

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