Mary van Balen — Page 16

July 13, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Permission to be Still

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

The day is perfect. I’m sitting with a friend on the porch of her beautiful home in the woods on Whidbey Island. Cool air blows by and sunlight plays on the branches of firs, cedars, and hemlocks. Chestnut backed chickadees and black headed juncos fly in and out of the feeder, and a woodpecker calls like a squeaky dog-toy from the woods. I’ve just finished drinking a large glass of watermelon aqua frescas when the feeling rises: Guilt. I should be doing something. I could write in my journal, make a sketch of the Douglas Fir, cedar, and hemlock needles so I can remember and identify them. I could read or compose a blog. I have an article to edit.

But all I want to do is sit, look, and breathe in pine-scented salty air. My friend reclines in her favorite red canvas chair, and now and then we comment on the birds, lack of rain, or deer that eat the Marion berry brambles she brought from her former home on Puget Sound. Then we are quiet, each with our own thoughts, or in my case, a combination of no thoughts and guilt.

I finally give myself permission to be still. To be an appreciator of creation, of a friendship that doesn’t require lots of conversation. To be present to the moment without having to record it with camera or pen. I simply sit, and when I think about it, give thanks. It’s luxurious. And Graceful. And perfectly acceptable.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Not more than a month ago, I was on the other side of the country, participating in a contemplative residency for Shalem’s Spiritual Guidance Program. Silence and presence wove in and out of every day, reverenced as an essential way of prayer. A way of becoming mindful of the Creator who made all and who resides within each of us. How could such stillness be worthy on retreat, but suspect on this glorious afternoon? How does our culture’s value of “doing” so quickly trump the wisdom of being still? Have you wondered at that when the moment says “rest,” but some inner voice speaks louder: “Not now. No Time. Maybe later?” When the ingrained imperative to “be productive” pulls you away from your heart’s desire, how has your struggle gone?

Today, I wrestled for awhile, then relaxed into spacious silence. A small victory, sweet and refreshing, like the watermelon aqua frescas.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: creation, grace, Grace in the Moment, peace, present to the moment, quiet prayer, Shalem Spiritual Guidance Program, summer, Whidbey Island

June 21, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Decluttering Closets and Lives

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, June 6, 2015

I spent the last couple of days cleaning out my closet and getting rid of “things.” The impetus for this activity is a new job. During the past five years, I have worked as a retail sales associate at a large department store where black clothing was the rule. A splash of color on top was ok as long as a black jacket or sweater covered our shoulders and back. My closet, as you might imagine, reflected the dress code. I hadn’t minded too much. After all, I was a Catholic schoolgirl used to uniforms.

At my daughter’s suggestion, before going shopping to add color to my wardrobe, I tired on every piece of clothing I owned. The “donate” pile grew until it filled over four trash bags! I was amazed by the amount of stuff. Some clothing I haven’t worn for years. How had my closet become so full?

Letting go of “stuff” is often difficult, even if we don’t use it. “Maybe it will come in handy later.” “I might wear that next summer.” “I remember when I bought that. It came from…” Fill in the bank with the name of a place you visited, a special person, or an event that holds a special place in your heart. Accumulation is easy.

I must say that cleaning out my closet felt great. I’m ready to tackle the basement and boxes that have been stored unopened since I moved into my present home. Divesting. Feeling lighter. It’s good. Friends who had downsized from larger homes to smaller ones or condos tell the same story. I think that’s because things do more than fill up our homes. They clutter our spirits.

For some nomadic peoples, their way of life precludes “collecting” stuff. Once, while reading “The Mystic Warriors of the Plains,” I was struck by the Lakota’s practice of decorating everyday utensils and teepees with images and symbols, with color and beauty. As they were handled, they must have drawn the users hearts and minds to remember, to pray, to be present. The wisdom born of a nomadic culture impressed me then and now.

How easy, in our culture, to accumulate. We are consumers, and our economic system encourages that. Media bombards us with new gadgets, fashions, and other possessions that we just shouldn’t live without. We can have so much stuff that we rent units to hold what can’t fit into our homes.

Things require care as well as places to be. Our minds, our schedules, our money, even our spirits in some ways, respond to our possessions. “Just keep what brings you joy,” my daughter counseled. Often, things weigh us down rather than lift our hearts. Too many things can make our spaces feel oppressive rather than peaceful. Precious time is used to clean, maintain, and organize stuff that isn’t used. Where’s the joy in that?

Our culture encourages consumption of nonmaterial things as well, encouraging us to accumulate experiences, to spend hours engaged with the time-sink of social media, computer games, and television. These activities can be good, but they also can lure us into addiction. Who has begun scrolling down the computer screen meaning to simply check their facebook page or to play a game of Spider Solitaire and discover, when they check the time, that a couple of hours have passed?

Worthy activities can be overdone, too. Good hearts easily become involved with too many committees and organizations. Even children may have schedules that leave little room for imagination and drawing on inner resources when boredom sets in.

Human beings need quiet. We need silence to hear the whispers in our hearts and souls. We nurture ourselves when we take time to sit with God, to be alone, to notice the moon drifting behind clouds, or to take a close look at flowers and plants growing in our yards and parks. When we aren’t preoccupied, we can be present to the moment.

Emptying my closet helped me recognize the grace of decluttering other parts of my life, too. I’m looking forward to it!

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: clutter, consumerism, consumers, decluttering, grace, joy, media, present to the moment, quiet, stuff

May 8, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

A Mindful Day

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I feel like God is in hiding. Sometimes that sense of absence lasts a long time. One day, while thinking about that, I decided to take a “Mindful” day, borrowing the term from the Buddhist practice of “mindfulness.”

“Perhaps this disconnect has something to do with my lack of being present to the moment,” I thought. Ironic, since that is what I often write about in this column. “Easier said than done,” or “Easier written than done,” in my case.

I started the day with mass at St. Thomas. A little late, but rush hour traffic tied me up on the trip across town. Despite frustration with lanes of slow moving cars, I managed to take a deep breath and relax. I noticed the sky, battled the wind buffeting my little Civic, and sat through four turns of the traffic light at 5^th and Cassady before walking into church.

Next was a drive down Route 33 for allergy shots. I resisted the temptation to use the drive as an opportunity to catch up with one of my daughters and instead, paid attention to the countryside stretching out on either side of the highway.

The morning light was spectacular. Spring’s greens included a wide spectrum of color. I thought of the debated claim that Inuit people of Northern Canada have fifty or more words to refer to snow (Anthropologist, Franz Boas’s study in the late 1800’s to early 1900’s has been debated ever since.)

“We should have more words for ‘green’,” I thought. I suppose we do if you count adjective descriptors like “sap green” (a favorite water color hue), “Kelly green,” “olive green,” and “forest green.”

What about the green that seems to have sucked up sunlight through the plant’s roots, appearing to glow green from inside out? Or the green that calls us to “watch this space,” with leaves shining with emerging life, changing from hour to hour?

The entire day was like that. I recognized courage and perseverance in the gait of an older man struggling up the slight incline from parking lot to sidewalk in front of a doctor’s office. Appreciation for his effort stirred in my heart, and I stood respectfully by, telling him not to hurry despite his blocking my car door. Like an honor guard for a returning soldier, I stood straight as he moved slowly by. Life is difficult and he was “keeping on,” as Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie said.

One by one, experience by experience, the day nurtured my soul as I paid attention to where I was, turning away from the temptation to fret over the past, worry about the future, or multi-task while eating by reading email or New York Times headline articles. (To all the mothers out there who survive by multi-tasking at home and at work, mindfulness can be like a drink of cool water on a hot day.) I savored tastes and ate slowly, an accomplishment for one who chews a few times and then swallows.

By the end of the day, which I celebrated with a call from my youngest daughter then candles and Rumi at bedtime, I felt full, fuller in spirit than I had been for quite a while.

Mindfulness isn’t a miracle cure for spiritual emptiness or feeling distant from the One we long for. Still, being truly present to the moment helped me recognize the beauty of nature and of souls, and the wonder and Mystery bursting life at its seams. That’s the conventional wisdom, isn’t it? You don’t meet God in the past or future, but in the present. I was able to ponder the possibility that the Divine truly is reaching out from every direction, including from within, to connect with us. (This is much more difficult to do if one is watching reruns of The West Wing or Frazier on Netflix in order to distract from uncomfortable chatter in one’s mind.)

“You sound great,” my daughter observed during our phone conversation.

I shared my “mindful day” with her and heard myself saying, “ This day nourished me.” And when I finally closed my eyes, I had the smallest sense that God was right there with me.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: creation, faith, grace, Grace in the Moment, mercy, Presence, present to the moment, spirituality, spring

April 23, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

God Comes to Us

PHOTO: www.freebibleimages.org

Every gospel reading this week contains an appearance of the risen Jesus. Taken from all four gospels, the accounts vary. In the first, from Matthew, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary witness an earthquake that rolls back the stone, and see an angel who tells them Jesus has risen and directs them to go tell the others. On their way, Jesus appears to them and they respond with a gesture of faith and love: they embrace his feet.

Tuesday’s gospel is from John and again, Mary Magdalene is the first to see the risen Jesus. She doesn’t recognize him at first, thinking he is the gardener. Then he speaks her name, and she knows the voice. She clings to him, but he tells her to go and tell the others.

Next, is the familiar story from Luke. Jesus appears to two travelers on the road to Emmaus. Jesus is not recognized at first. Only after a long conversation in which he explains what has happened do they recognize him when he breaks bread with them.

Thursday’s gospel picks up the story where the two travelers, having returned to Jerusalem, are telling the disciples how they had seen Jesus. Jesus appears to them all, and the first reaction is fear. Joy follows after they realize they are not seeing a ghost, but the one they had followed and believe to be the Son of God.

The Sea of Galilee is the site for the next appearance. After a fruitless night of fishing, seven of the apostles spot a man on the shore. They don’t recognize him at first. Only after he instructs them to throw their nets out one more time and they catch a load of fish does the light go on for John: “It’s the Lord.” They share breakfast on the beach.

Saturday’s gospel from Mark recounts the disciples’ disbelief when Mary Magdalene tells them she has seen Jesus. They don’t believe the two travelers either. When Jesus appears to the eleven while they’re eating, he rebuked them for not believing and instructs them to go out into the world and preach the gospel to all.

This Sunday, the gospel tells of Jesus passing through locked doors to be with the disciples who huddled together, not knowing what to think or do next. “Peace be with you,” he said, and then he bestowed the Spirit on them with a breath.

Two things struck me as I read through the week’s gospels. The first was that Jesus was persistent. He wanted to connect with those who had been with him as he preached the Kingdom of God. He found them in the garden, by the sea, on the road, in the room where they gathered to eat and support one another. He went where they were. He didn’t hold court somewhere and ask them to come. No, he went to them.

The second thing I noticed was the variety of responses to Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances. There was downright disbelief. There was confusion and fear. Recognition occurred when Jesus spoke Mary’s name, when he filled their nets with fish, when he ate breakfast with them or broke bread at dinner. When those who followed him realized who he was, there was joy.

Centuries later, the realities are the same: The risen Jesus still wants to be with us and comes to us right where we are. Whether at home or at work, with others or alone. Sometimes we are receptive and sometimes we’re not. Sometimes we recognize the Divine in our midst, and sometimes we look right past it.

As we move through the Easter season, perhaps we can reflect on this unimaginable mystery of the Most Holy One’s great desire to be with us. That God’s Love seeks us out. No matter where we are or how we feel or what life battles we are fighting. God does not give up. Like Jesus spoke to Mary, God calls us by our names. By the Grace of the Spirit breathed into us, if we listen in the quiet of our hearts, we might hear and believe.

Blessed Easter!

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Easter, faith, grace, Jesus, resurrection

April 1, 2015 By Mary van Balen 5 Comments

When Spring Freezes

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not only were the crocuses in my neighbor’s lawn blooming in early March, they were covered with bees! After months of sub-freezing temperatures, inches of ice, and more inches of snow, the earth had warmed enough to coax beautiful purple flowers out of their dark waiting place. Spring, it seemed, had arrived.

Passersby stopped to see what enticed me to stoop low and look closely. “Bees,” I said. “Bees are all over these flowers.”

Some stopped long enough to look themselves. After a frigid winter, we were ready for a change.

Spiritual life can be like that. Sometimes winters of the soul seem to last forever. Then, just when we’ve come to terms with the possibility of unending cold and emptiness, everything changes: Hope wakes up and shakes her feathers. Life erupts like the crocuses. Intoxicated, we nuzzle down into the golden centers and rise up heavy with life-giving pollen sticking all over. Unable to contain our joy, we move from hope to hope, from beauty to beauty. Like bees, we’re called by Mystery to an ancient dance, and we join in, spreading the sticky grace and picking up more everywhere we go.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Then, as quickly as it left, the cold returns. The crocuses across the street are suddenly bowed under a fresh fall of snow. Bees have disappeared to wherever it is they go to escape the freeze. A collective sigh rises from the earth. People bundle up in winter coats again. The few days of warmth make the cold bite deeper, and we shiver in temperatures we would have welcomed a month ago.

Spiritual spring can be just as fickle. Fear or worry blow in from somewhere and hope retreats. Sticky grace feels more like goo. We’re not flitting from hope to hope. We’re not moving at all. A groan rises from deep inside. The emptiness seems larger after having danced with Joy.

“It won’t last,” we tell ourselves but struggle to believe it.

It’s a good time to listen to music or to sit in the dark and gaze at stars, or a candle, or nothing. We might curl up with a good book of poetry, or linger with scripture. Story reminds us that this dance with winter and spring is nothing new. If we can settle in with the cold and dark, we discover they have gifts of their own. And it doesn’t last forever.

Eventually, sun will melt the snow. Flowers will straighten their stems and lift their heads. The bees will come back, and we’ll feast on sticky Grace.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: creation, grace, hope, love, Presence, spirituality, spring, winter

March 23, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Mercy and a Fresh Start

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Here I am, at the beginning of three days off. I began well enough, attending morning mass with a handful of other parishioners, most of whom are regulars in the mornings. I’m not. My friend, Fr. Denis, greeted me with his dazzling smile and a hug. “What a good surprise to have you here. Maybe today’s readings will provide you with a story for your work.”

As Denis said in his homily, he read the short version of the account from Daniel, figuring we could fill in the other few pages that read like modern soap operas. Nothing changes. In the Old Testament reading, two old men with egos smarting after a beautiful young woman spurned their sexual advances, accused her of adultery. They couldn’t get their stories straight when questioned by Daniel, and instead of condemning the woman, Daniel pronounced a gruesome punishment for her accusers: being split in two by sword-wielding angels.

The New Testament reading featured adultery as well. This time the woman had been caught in the act. They guy as well, I presume, since it takes two, but he slipped away unscathed, leaving the woman to face the righteous crowd eager to stone her to death. Enter Jesus. He bends down and draws something in the sand, then instructs the one who has not sinned to throw the first stone. Well, that pretty well doused their enthusiasm, and they walked away, forced to reflect on their own sins. Jesus didn’t condemn anyone; he simply instructed the woman to go and sin no more.

Forgiveness and mercy. Encouragement. And a dose of reality: None of us is without failings. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to focus on the sin outside of us rather than what’s closer to home. It’s the old story of getting all worked up over the speck in your neighbor’s eye while ignoring the log in your own.

The story I took away from mass wasn’t the ever-present struggle with weakness and the propensity to do what we know isn’t good for us or for the world. Like letting water run when you brush your teeth. Or pouring pesticides that kill bees on your garden. Or wasting time or food. Or letting anger and anxiety get the best of you instead of “being peace.” Or ranting about the sorry state of Congress.

No. I walked out of there grateful that Jesus didn’t call down avenging angels or condemn anyone, but instead invited them to reflection and a fresh start.

I drove home and indulged in celebration of my three days off by making and sharing blueberry pancakes and bacon with my daughter. Someone once told me that we should seize every opportunity to celebrate, and I follow that advice as often as possible.

Then, instead of getting right to work on all the things I hoped to accomplish in the next seventy-two hours, I succumbed to distractions like buying a coffee while shopping for a few groceries, cleaning the kitchen, and checking email. Not bad. Then I played two games of spider solitaire. Talk about wasting time. It takes awhile because when it becomes obvious that the game is bound to end with a low score, I don’t finish it, but start over, hoping for better cards.

Flipping the cover down over my iPad, I lit my prayer candle and finally settled into work on a book project and readings for a class, counting on Jesus’ mercy and a fresh start.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: grace, humility, mercy

March 5, 2015 By Mary van Balen 3 Comments

Howard Thurman and Readying Our Spirits

PHOTO: BU Photo Services, Howard Thurman

Originally published in The Catholic Times, March 8, 2015

“Have you read any of Howard Thurman?” my friend wanted to know. A student at Andover Newton Seminary, she was curious about my familiarity with this African American theologian, preacher, professor, and mystic. I’d never heard of him. “Really, Mary, you should read Thurman.”

Years later, as a participant in a spiritual guidance program, I’m finally discovering not only the writings of Howard Thurman, but also his profound influence on the non-violent civil rights movement in the United States.

A Baptist minister raised by his grandmother, a former slave, in segregated Daytona, Florida, Thurman’s first pastorate was at Mount Zion Baptist Church in Oberlin, Ohio. Later he moved on to become a professor at Morehouse and Spelman Colleges. He was Dean of Chapel at Howard University, but left in 1944 when he and Dr. Alfred G. Fisk, a Presbyterian minister and professor, founded the first interracial and culturally inclusive church in the United States: The Church for Fellowship of All Peoples. (This church remains active today in San Francisco and has as one of its central “commitments” the need for growth in understanding all people to be children of God. True then. True now.)

In 1953, he was named Dean of Marsh Chapel at Boston University, the first African American to hold that position in a predominantly white university. There he met Martin Luther King, Jr., who earned his PhD at BU. Thurman was his spiritual advisor and mentor, sharing the message of non-violence he had received from Gandhi on a visit to meet the Indian leader in 1936.

Over his lifetime, Thurman wrote twenty-one books and hundreds of sermons. One of his books, “Jesus and the Disinherited,” interpreted the gospels in light of non-violence and Jesus’ stand for those who had been deprived of their God-given rights. The book was foundational to the civil rights movement led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He is said to have carried this book with him during the Montgomery bus boycott and to have read from it on evenings before a march.

During his lifetime, Thurman disappointed some who wanted him to be more political, their “Moses,” but instead, saw him focus on prayer and the need for personal transformation and spiritual growth. This was necessary for social change, he said.

Just beginning to read Thurman, I’m not an expert on his thought or teachings, but this emphasis on prayer and spiritual discipline drew me to think about him as we immerse ourselves in Lenten observances.

He described religious experience as “the awareness of meeting God” that happens through all life, through nature, and through the arts. Spiritual disciplines are necessary for this to occur, Thurman says, since they “ready” our hearts and minds, our emotions and spirits to be open to God.

Describing the function of spiritual disciplines as “readying” us for an encounter with God resonates with me. We need to be ready to receive, no matter the gift.

“What else do we do to ready ourselves for something?” I pondered. Spring-cleaning has many benefits I’ve heard, and one is clearing film from windows, allowing light to pour through with more intensity. Students of nature study markings of birds, attributes of plants, and sea shell shapes and colors to increase their awareness of the variety that fills our world.

Have you ever studied pros and cons of cars before finally purchasing one? When you finish your ‘research,’ you recognize makes and models that you never noticed before.

Not having much background in classical music, pre-concert lectures on the pieces to be preformed enrich my experience. A special theater presentation of an exhibit of Rembrandt’s later works deepened my appreciation not only of his work, but also of the quiet beauty of the faces of people who fill my life.

This is how I imagine readying our spirits with disciplines of prayer and attentiveness encourages “religious experiences,” awareness of encounters with God. The process doesn’t invite God in. Rather, it helps us recognize where God already is.

I’m not sure this is what Thurman meant, but for now, I’m grateful for his phrase, “readying our spirits” and how it has deepened my Lenten prayer.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment

February 25, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Birdsong and Hope

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

Sitting quietly, holding a cup of tea to warm my hands, I tried to enter into silence, greeting the morning, welcoming Presence. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. After ten minutes or so, I couldn’t help but focus on the birdsong coming from snow-blanketed tress and yards outside my building. Try as I might, I couldn’t let them go. “An invitation,” I decided.

Putting down the tea I opened the front door to see if I could spot the singers. Squinting my eyes against the bright light reflecting off all the white, I could see a small form or two on a tree a few doors down. I went inside, grabbed binoculars, slid my feet into slippers, and walked out the side door onto the driveway.

Cold, crisp air felt wonderful. Sun shine everywhere. Birdsong coming from every direction. “Sparrows,” I decided, on the trees over the red-tiled roof. “Cardinal.” The raspy bark of a woodpecker. Then, from somewhere out front, a clear, three-note call. I turned and followed the sound. Against the bright sun, only the bird’s silhouette could be seen. I began to hum along…three descending notes. “Lovely,” I thought, singing along. “What notes?”

I stepped back inside to find an instrument. The piano hadn’t made the transition into my apartment, residing now at my sister’s home in Ann Arbor. The guitar wasn’t tuned. Ah, the recorder, resting in its original hinged box, sat in front of a row of books in the glass-fronted case. Wrapped in scraps of pink and white flannel cut from pajamas decades ago, the pear wood instrument still produced warm tones as my fingers ran through the scale.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

There were the notes: B above middle C, A, and G. Over and over. Like “Three Blind Mice.” I don’t know why I wanted to know the notes. Maybe to honor the little singer who helped fill the winter morning with hope. Hope of coming spring. Of life waiting for a thaw, prepared by cold and darkness to push up into daylight. I played the notes over and over. God-breath could sing through me today, if I let it. That’s the invitation.

One more look outside. The long icicle hanging from a downspout along the porch overhang was melting. Drop after drop formed at its tip, liquid light. Suddenly, it crashed into the snow beneath. The little bird had disappeared into a large tree across the street. It kept singing, now in tandem with the one called ‘hope’ that perched in my soul, as Emily Dickinson wrote, who wouldn’t stop at all.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: birdsong, creation, Emily Dickinson, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, lent, light, music, present to the moment, quiet prayer, spring

February 18, 2015 By Mary van Balen 4 Comments

Repent, and Believe in the Gospel

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Sometimes our communities are close at hand. We live in them. Worship in them. Share food and conversation and life with them day by day. Sometimes our communities are with people who live far from us. We are united in spirit and prayer, love and commitment to a common journey.

Today, Ash Wednesday, I celebrated the beginning of Lent, not with my physically close community, but with the long distance community of some fellow pilgrims. It hadn’t been planned. It just happened.

A phone call from a missionary friend who lives in Guatemala, ran longer than expected. The conversation about being faithful to the call of writing as we move along on our pilgrimage through life needed to be finished. I made the decision to celebrate the start of the season with her, instead.

With her and with a few others. One friend I met while we were both taking summer courses at St. John’e School of Theology. Divorce, illness, job searches, a move, a wedding…the stuff of life and faith shared together for years. Her PhD dissertation was on liturgical use of Lament. Her insights have supported me through the years even though we have visited in person at her island home only once since our classes. I slid two articles about the spiritual journey into an envelope addressed to her. We’ll read and talk about them as her health allows.

I began reading today from the book “A Season for the Spirit:Readings for the Days of Lent'” by Martin L. Smith, a gift from a woman who lives in St. Louis. Both taking a spiritual guidance program from Shalem, we’ve been in touch since our first residency last year. “A Season for the Spirit” has been a fruitful guide for her in a few Lents over the years. We are praying though it together this year.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Despite feeling good about beginning Lent with these fellow travelers, I missed receiving ashes with a community. I looked above my prayer table and saw the palm cross from last Palm Sunday, given to me by a friend in my parish. Taking it down, I cut it into pieces, placed it in an aluminum pan and walked outside. I put the pan in the snow and lit the palms, turning them into ashes. Coming back inside, I placed the ashes in one of my mother’s small salt dishes, lit a candle, read today’s readings, and then blessed the ashes with the words from the liturgy. After pushing my thumb into the burnt palm, I prayed the short prayer that accompanies the ritual and made the sign of the cross with ashes on my forehead..

One with believers around the world, with those in my parish and city, and with my community of pilgrims around the world, I prayed: “Repent, and believe in the Gospel.” With their help, and the breath of the Spirit, I will.

Filed Under: The Scallop

February 5, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Love Rules the Day: St. Scholastica

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

Originally appeared in The Catholic Times, Feb 8, 2015

Tuesday, February 10 is the feast of Saint Scholastica. What we know of her comes from St. Gregory the Great’s famous biography of St. Benedict, though other stories were later written about her. Scholastica is Benedict’s twin sister, both born into a wealthy family of Nursia, Italy in 480. As was the custom, Benedict went to Rome to study while Scholastica likely lived in a convent where she learned to read and write as well as participated in the prayer life of the nuns.

Some stories recount her founding a religious community near her brother’s monastery at Monte Cassino, and becoming prioress. The most famous account of her, though, is found in chapters 33 and 34 in Book II of Gregory’s Dialogues.

As was their custom, once a year Benedict, accompanied by some of his monks, met his sister at a house partway between her convent and his monastery. They shared food and conversation concerning spiritual matters. On this particular visit, just three days before her death, Scholastica wanted her brother to stay longer. Perhaps she sensed it would be their last time together. They talked until darkness fell, and she asked him to spend the night “…that they might spend it in discoursing of the joys of heaven.”

Benedict would have none of it, saying that he couldn’t spend the night away from the Abbey. That was the rule, after all.

Not giving up, Scholastica put her head down on the table, laying it on her folded hands, and prayed. As she prayed, a storm came and filled the clear night sky with thunder and lightening. She lifted her head, tears streaming from her eyes, and heavy rain poured from the heavens. Benedict and his monks couldn’t return to the Abbey in such a storm.

“God forgive you, what have you done?” Benedict asked. Scholastica answered with a bit of attitude: “I desired you to stay, and you would not hear me; I have desired it of our good Lord, and he has granted my petition. Therefore if you can now depart, in God’s name return to your monastery, and leave me here alone.”

Of course, Benedict and his monks spent the night, the brother and sister enjoying long conversations until morning. Love, it seemed, trumped the Rule, at least in this case. As St. Gregory wrote: “He found, however, that a miracle prevented his desire. A miracle that, by the power of almighty God, a woman’s prayers had wrought. Is it not a thing to be marveled at, that a woman, who for a long time had not seen her brother, might do more in that instance than he could? She realized, according to the saying of St. John, “God is charity” [1 John 4:8]. Therefore, as is right, she who loved more, did more.”

Whether truth or legend, the story shows the power of love and the importance of listening with the heart. Benedict was right in stating that he and the other monks should return to the monastery. Yet, Scholastica’s desire, born of deep affection for her brother and her longing to continue their conversation and praise of God together, was worthy of bending the rules, even Benedict’s.

How often are we confronted with such a choice? Can you recall times when rigidly holding fast to a tradition or rule has worked not to foster growth and love, but instead to injure and alienate? Clinging to what we think we know is “right” may blind us to the reality of others’ lives and wisdom.

Rules and traditions are important. Benedict’s Rule has proven itself over centuries, leading monastics, helping them live, work, and pray together in community. It has also been a guide for many as they strive to balance prayer, work, study, and recreation in their lives with family and friends, and in their workplaces.

Benedict understood the necessity of responding to particular moments and particular needs in ways that are outside the usual response. His Rule is full of such examples. Still, in this story, it was Scholastica who was listening with the ear of the heart and who found God listening to her.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Grace in the Moment, humility, love, present to the moment, Saint Scholastica, spirituality