Khristian Ames
In fifth grade, my all-boys school went on a weekend camping trip that year. It was the first time I slept out, cooked over the fire, and was in the world of trees, stars, and animals. Nature is something that I had always thought about through the window of a car, or through a book, before that, but it was real that weekend.
The camp was in an endless-looking state park. The first day, we had a hiking trip around the entire park under the guidance of our teachers. The path passed through large pines and through small streams. I can still remember the smell, earthly, and clean as it could be in case it rained, even though it did not.
The air was cold, and the trees loomed over us. That night, we built a fire. A person handed me a stick and a marshmallow and taught me how to make a s’more. I burnt the first one, and when I got it finally right, the taste was indescribable.
On the following morning, we canoed. The water was smooth, and our oars gave us splinters. It was very quiet. For once, nobody spoke. It was merely water, wind, and sun.
In the afternoon, we went on another hike, and this time we encountered a bear. It was too distant to be injudicious, and too near to discern its massive shape. Nothing about it seemed dangerous; it was just there, a part of the same space we were in.
In retrospect, I consider what Saint Francis has said in The Canticle of the Sun: “Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Sun and through Sister Moon and the stars: through our Sister, Mother Earth, who nourishes and controls us.”
My feelings could not be described with any words at that time. But now I find I was coming to see nature like Saint Francis, not merely scenery, but family. That weekend made me learn that the world is not there to use, but to be a part of. All the trees and all the fires and all the ripples on the lake are all created by the same thing that upholds us. And I can hear, when I reflect on the trip, the words of Saint Francis as a prayer: thank God, we still have the world that can make us stop and look about and feel thankful to be here in it.
Morgan Black
Throughout my time at Neumann, my favorite thing about the campus itself was that it was surrounded by nature. The school is surrounded by big, beautiful trees and grass and
sometimes I see animals like deer, squirrels, and birds. I have seen the beauty that the school has. In the school, you see beauty everywhere you look, specifically when it comes to seasons.
For example, the fall or spring seasons. The trees are blooming or changing colors during these seasons. For this article, I am going to talk about a time where I experienced a wonderful nature walk through Neumann and also experienced the beauty of what school provided for me during the walk.
On September 12, 2025, I went to nature with one of my friends to go and clear my head. I was stressing out about school and my own personal life that I just needed a place to be at peace with. I walked through the garden that is past a building on campus called Glenn Riddle. Walking through the garden, looking at the trees and the animals that are nearby made me feel at peace. I wasn’t worrying about anything or anyone, I was just being me and being happy. I felt like doing this nature walk helped me with my mental and physical health.
It gave me the chance to be myself and be able to relax and focus on myself and only me. Nothing makes me happier than being free from pain and suffering. The canticle of the sun quotes “Be praised, my Lord, through Brother Wind, and through the air, cloudy and serene, and every kind of weather through which you give sustenance to your creatures.” This quote relates to my perspective of my nature walk and how I perceived it when I was doing the walk.
Zoe Brennan
I have created many memories in nature throughout my life. Some of the most memorable involve the times I spent at an all girl’s sleepaway camp in Medford, New Jersey.
I was immersed in a 800 acre site located deep in the pine barrens of New Jersey. I stayed in a cabin with five other girls for a week away from my family. The cabin had no running water or electricity. I distinctly remember the car ride to camp. We turned off a main road onto a sandy trail that led deep into the woods. I felt like the air got cooler, even though the sun seemed a bit brighter. Time seemed to stand still as we ventured down the sandy trail deeper into the forest.
One of the things I appreciated was the rawness of it all. The change from the digital modern world to one immersed in nature was a refreshing switch from what I was constantly used to. I actually liked being able to disconnect for the week, although it was
hard at first. It felt refreshing to be in the woods.
One of my fondest memories involved the nightly community campfires. Because we were in the woods away from civilization, the moon and stars looked extra bright. Several times I couldn’t even hear the conversations around me because I was so immersed in the night sky. It reminded me of the line from Canticle of the Sun: “Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars.” I understood what Saint Francis was trying to express in that line. The idea that nature has profound beauty that should be appreciated. Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed and stressed, I like to look up at the night sky. It reminds me of my time at camp and the peacefulness of looking at a clear night sky. It provides me with a moment of peace and clarity.
Owen Brown
I have always enjoyed my time outdoors. Growing up, I was always more comfortable going outside during my free time rather than staying inside. I have a deep respect for nature in part due to my time spent fishing. Fishing, among other outdoor hobbies, is one of my favorite things to do.
My favorite experience of nature up to this point in my life actually came this summer. I got an opportunity to travel to the midwest with some friends. My one buddy, Zach, moved onto a ranch in Montana right after COVID. Thankfully, in August, which is the perfect time to visit a place like Montana, two of my friends from high school and I made it out there to visit. While on the ranch, we went mountain biking, ziplining, horseback riding, and we played a round of golf on the most beautiful golf course I’ve ever seen.
The coolest part of it all was definitely our camping trip. On our third day we left the ranch, and traveled northwest. We hiked up into the Absaroka mountains and set up a camp site. When nighttime came, the stars in the sky were incredible. The night sky was different shades of dark grey and purple, and it was littered with what seemed like hundreds of stars. Being from a suburb of a large city, I do not get to see stars like this at home. Usually I’m lucky if I can see a couple in my backyard, and maybe Venus. But nothing like what I got to experience in Montana.
The stars are another wonderful part of God’s creation. They are referenced in St. Francis of Assisi’s, The Canticle of The Sun. Francis writes, “…through Sister Moon and the stars, in the heavens you have made them bright, precious, and fair.” I was lucky enough to
experience the stars in their full beauty this past summer and I plan to go back and visit again next summer. An experience like that further strengthens my respect for nature and encourages me to share with others that they should respect it too.
Jacki Connolly
As I walked along the beach one quiet afternoon, the rhythmic crash of the waves and the soft breeze brushing my face made the world feel still. In that moment, I understood what Saint Francis meant when he praised God through all of creation.
There is something sacred about the sound of the ocean. Each wave seems to breathe, rolling in and out like a living prayer. When I walk on the beach, I feel a deep sense of peace that goes beyond words. The salty air fills my lungs, the sand shifts beneath my feet, and the cool wind wraps around me as if to remind me that I am part of something much bigger.
In The Canticle of the Sun, Saint Francis wrote, “Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.” As I listen to the waves crash against the shore, I think of those words and how they celebrate the purity and power of nature. The sea, endlessly moving yet calm in its rhythm, reflects the same humility and strength that Saint Francis saw in all of God’s creation.
That day on the beach, I realized that nature speaks a language of peace. The ocean does not rush or demand attention; it simply exists, steady, and alive. I felt God’s presence not in a church pew, but in the whisper of the breeze and the echo of the waves. It reminded me that creation is not separate from us; it is a mirror of divine love and harmony.
When we take the time to truly notice the world around us, the air, the water, the sunlight, we begin to see it the way Saint Francis did not as something to use, but as something to cherish. The environment becomes a teacher, showing us gratitude, balance, and reverence for life itself.
Every walk by the water reminds me that creation is sacred and alive with God’s spirit. The beach is no longer just a place to visit; it is a place to listen, to breathe, and to remember that, like the waves, peace always returns.
Aria Love El-Garrison
Saint Francis wrote The Canticle of the Sun 800 years ago, an ode to all of God’s creation. I didn’t truly understand his words until a very quiet evening last summer, standing barefoot on a beach in the Outer Banks, surrounded by nothing but the wind, waves, and a sunset that felt serene.
“Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, who is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.” That line from The Canticle of the Sun describes something I didn’t fully grasp until that moment while watching the water. The beach was empty, no people, no noise. Just the sound of waves collapsing and mending into each other, and the soft colors of the sky melting into the sea.
I took off my slides, buried my feet in the sand, and stood still as the water tapped against my toes. The air felt alive but calm, like it was breathing with me. It was peaceful in a way that felt almost too much to take in, the kind of silence that humbles you without saying a word.
As I watched the ocean move, I thought about what Saint Francis meant by calling water “precious and humble.” The ocean didn’t demand anything or take anything. It just kept flowing uninterrupted. It made me realize how often we overlook the things that sustain us. Water helps life and basically connects everything, yet we take it for granted until it’s gone.
That walk changed the way I looked at nature. I started to understand that sustainability isn’t just about reducing our waste. It’s more about respect. It’s acknowledged that nature doesn’t revolve around us and instead we revolve around it.
When I finally left the beach, I felt lighter. The ocean made me feel something I didn’t know I needed, a sense of calm, and a quiet reminder to notice and care with the same humility that Saint Francis saw in “Sister Water.”
Tasia Gaskins
St. Francis of Assisi’s The Canticle of the Sun expresses a profound sense of unity between humanity and the natural world. In this particular hymn, Francis praises elements of creation. He uses the terms “Brother Wind,” “Sister Water,” “Brother Fire,” and “Sister Mother Earth” as reflections of divine goodness. Yes, this particular poem arises from a medieval worldview, its message of gratitude continues to resonate in the modern world.
During a bike ride with my mother and sister along the Schuylkill River Trail, I realized that I found myself living out Francis’s vision in an unknown way. Along that bike ride I experienced movement, sunlight, and the living landscape around me which revealed how The Canticle of the Sun continues to speak to anyone.
As I began my ride, the warmth on my shoulders and the steady rhythm of my pedaling drew me into a state of awareness. In The Canticle of the Sun, Francis praises “Brother Sun, who brings the day,” for his brightness and life giving energy. On the Schuylkill Trail, I understood this phrase, the sunlight illuminated every color the green of the trees, the blueish brown looking water, the silver of the bikes gliding past me. In that moment the sunlight was not just a physical factor but a reminder of free will. I was able to go on a bike ride on a random day and simply see life around me with people I love. At that moment, “Brother Sun” was not a metaphor but a reality.
The river itself embodied another of Francis’s phrases “Sister Water, who is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.” As I rode alongside the Schuylkill, with constant winds I watched its shifting reflections and felt the breeze the faster I pettled. The river seemed alive, constantly moving while still going at its own pace. This moment made me realize that I have not been using my free will to its full advantage. Francis saw water as a humble servant of life, just how I recognized the Schuylkill nourishes not only the city but its people.
The Schuylkill river offers beauty and recreation. The path along the river became a space where nature and humanity coexist. I felt more connected with Earth than I’ve ever felt in my years of living.
As I kept riding, I became aware of everything, the rustle of leaves, and even the sounds from geese. Francis’s poem suggests that creation itself is a hymn of praise, and by paying attention, we can join in that music. With that being said, my bike became a means of participation in that song. In that sense, the ride was not a physical act but a spiritual practice, one that bridged the distance between medieval devotion and contemporary experience. Looking back on it, by the time I returned home, I realized that The Canticle of the Sun is not limited to the pages of a religious text or the prayers of a saint. Its spirit can be found in ordinary encounters with nature, for example my bike ride. Riding along the Schuylkill River, I experienced what St. Francis celebrated centuries ago, the sacredness of the world and the joy of being part of it. The Canticle of the Sun reminds us to pause, to see, and to praise the creation that continually surrounds us.
Preston Goshorn
Last Summer, I walked through a shallow stream near my house with my dog splashing beside me. The water was cold but clear, running over smooth stones, and for a moment, everything around me felt calm and alive. My dog kept stopping to sniff the air and stare at the trees as if he understood something I didn’t- something about how simple and perfect nature really is.
That Walk reminded me of The Canticle of the Sun, written by Saint Francis of Assisi almost 800 years ago. In his poem, he praises God through every part of creation: “Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.” As I watched the water move and reflect the sunlight, I realized how right Saint Francis was. The stream wasn’t just water- it was something alive, something worth thanking. My dog seemed to know it too, stopping every few steps to take it all in.
Saint Francis didn’t separate people from the rest of creation. He saw everything- animals, trees, rivers, the sun- as connected and full of meaning. He also wrote, “Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire, through whom You light the night.” When I got home later that evening and watched the sunset fade into orange and pink, I thought about how every part of nature gives something to us. The sun gives light, the stream gives peace, and even the air feels like a quiet reminder that we’re alive.
We live in a world that moves too fast, where people often forget how much nature gives us. That simple walk showed me that sustainability isn’t only about recycling or policies- it’s about paying attention. It’s about realizing that what Saint Francis saw in his time is still here for us to notice today.
As Saint Francis taught, everything in nature reflects something holy. My dog might not know who Saint Francis was, but in that stream, he acted like a student of his spirit- curious, thankful, and alive in the moment. Maybe that’s what sustainability really starts with: learning to admire creation the way even our animals already do.
Sophie Harris
In May of 2025, My boyfriend, our two friends and I took a quiet road trip through various parts of Pennsylvania and Maryland. On our last day of the trip we researched parks in hopes to find a natural waterfall. We discovered Kilgore Falls which was the furthest park from us at that point but we were determined to end our trip with a beautiful sight. The trails led us through woods and rivers, eventually after about two miles we reached the falls.
When we planned our trip to the falls all I had in mind was getting a couple good photos, getting some fresh air, but this sight gave me the vision for this paper. Things that are worn, scarred, and lived through still hold great beauty.
When we first arrived at the falls it was unbelievable. The trees cleared and suddenly all we could see or hear was the rushing water taking over the woods. I took off my shoes and socks and stepped into the stream of water. The water was cold but clear and you could see everything on the ground below you. There were rocks all throughout the water I used as stepping stones that made me question how they could have been there without the purpose of my traveling. They were sharp and slippery, which somehow made them even more beautiful. Those rocks had lived through much time. Everything had a purpose, everything felt like it was there, shaped that way for a reason.
This experience connects me back to the words from The Canticle of the Sun by Saint Francis “Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, which is very useful and humble and precious and chaste.” The falls wasn’t just an aesthetic sight, it was humble, cleansing, and pure. The flow of the water shaped everything necessary for it to be enjoyed by all who encountered it. When we left the falls my socks were soaked and my feet had cuts, but those factors didn’t take with me. It was the sense of ease that came over me. It taught me that beauty doesn’t depend on being new, or untouched. Sometimes things worn with time hold the most truth and beauty.
