Saint Augustine’s in the Woods My first day on Whidbey Island included praying Evensong with two Benedictine monks from nearby monastery of The Brothers of Saint John the Evangelist and a few members of the congregation. While waiting for the service to begin, I read the small prayer booklet’s introduction: “Vespers is the ancient evening prayer of the Church in which we look back on the graces of the day just passed and are grateful. Thanksgiving is the theme of this Office.”

I had much to be thankful for: Kathryn’s friendship that called me to the Northwest from Ohio. Her husband’s welcoming hospitality. Breathtaking views of Puget Sound and woods of towering Douglas firs, hemlocks, and cedars. Birds I have never seen or heard. And, not the least, blessedly cool, almost cold temperatures that had already provided respite from the scorching temperatures and humidity in the Midwest this summer.

“Give praise to the Father Almighty, to his Son, Jesus Christ the Lord, to the Spirit who dwells in our hearts, both now and forever, Amen.”I made a slight bow as these words fell from my lips,remembering the Benedictine monks at Saint John’s Abbey in Collegeville, with whom I have shared so many evenings of prayer, and whom I held in my heart that night.

Thanksgiving not only for the day past, but also for the promise of the days that stretched ahead. The end of one day, the beginning of a week. Prayers shared with friends. Thanks be. Amen.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen After a longish day of travel that took me to Seattle via Tennesee, I met my friend Kathryn and her husband Gary for my first experience of Washington state. First impression? Cool, almost cold! Wonderful relief coming from parched midwest. Gary parked the car and we took a walk along Puget Sound until arriving at one of their favorite little seafood diners. All types of seafood was breaded and fried by the owner, an older man who had been running the Sun Fish for quite a few years. Kathryn and Gary had salmon. I tried scallops. Not greasy. Delicious.

We walked back by the beach dotted with white tents, closed, which sheltered all types of art work. A festival of somesort. Along the water, three groups had built roaring bonefires in large firerings. I don’t know if they used driftwood, but it was plentiful. Frisbees, dogs, laughter, music, all part of the scene. But, the one who stole the show was the bubble lady of Puget Sound. At least that is what I called her. She was using poles about six feet long connected with fabric “rope,” and dipped into what I can only say was amazing “bubble juice.” The crowd around her grew as she raised the poles above her head, holding them about a foot apart, and walked slowly, allowing the air to create huge bubbles that twisted and grew, alive with color and movement. So alive did they appear that we were all surpised when they suddenly dissolved into white film that fell to the ground.

She blew into the swirling film and created bubbles inside of bubbles, holding us all, young and old, spellbound. I remembered making a much smaller version of the bubble poles for my children and to use in school settings, but I had not developed a bubble solution as fullproof as the bubble lady’s. When she was taking a rest, I walked over and began a conversation. She sells the “bubble juice” that she had developed far beyond my own dishwashing liquid and glycerin. She also photographs the bubbles and hopes to sell large prints to those decorating office buildings. (You can view her bubbles at Big Dipper Bubbles

“My bubbles are art,” she said. Kathryn, Gary, and I agreed. Art in the moment, and art caught by a camera. We didn’t have the opportunity to see the photos. Disappointing. I will check her website. But what a perfect way to begin a week-long visit with friends: Celebrating life, its simplicity, its beauty, its serendipity. The bubble lady set the tone for this trip to the Northwest that would nourish my spirit with joy and prayer as well as my body with as much seafood as I can resaonably put into it!

St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral Sunday I attended Mass with Kathryn at the Episcopal Catherdral in Seattle, Saint Marks. The large church building was on its way to becoming a full-fledged gothic cathedral when the depression hit. Years later, the decision was made to leave it as it was and use the millions of dollars completion would have cost for other, more worthy causes. As a result, the church is an interesting mix: Large windows that were to be stained glass, but that are filled with rectangular leaded panes of glass; the rafters can be seen high above where the ceiling would have been; only a few columns have been surrounded with finishing stone. Behind the altar has been ornamented with one of the few additions…a modern glass scultpure filling the space just in front of the plain glassed rose window.

During the service, an announcement was made that one of the church staff would be leaving for budgetary reasons. As one might expect, many parishoners had sent notes and emails, expressing their concern. The poeple were assured that all was well and that the person and familiy were “fine.” They were looking forward to a new ministry, thought as yet, they did not know what that would be. God will provide.

As we drove home, Kathryn and I discussed the theological concept of lament. Sometimes people are hesitant to share their saddness or pain, not wanting to appear to be “whiners” or ungrateful. Or worse yet, of little faith. In fact, lament is not any of those things.

“Hebrew Scriptures are full of lament,” my friend said as she explained more about the idea and how it might have been additionally helpful to the people in that morning’s congregation. Lament is a community experience, bringing people toegther in compassion. Sadness is acceptable. So is anger or frustration. God can handle all that, and by expressing such emotions, one is not rejecting faith, but rather acknowledging human emotions.

As in Psalms of lament, the one lamenting moves from expression of anger, despair, or frustration with a perceived lack of action on God’s part, to an expression of faith. I recently learned of a family whose young daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and was surprised at the lack of “lament” in some of the communications I had read. They praised God for everything, for being with them, for their faith, for the fact that the cancer was more easily treated that some. Nowhere was there a hint of anger or frustration. I am not judging, and if I were is a similar situation, I might not put my anger out there for everyone to see. Still, as I read, the empahsis on praise and the lack of lament was striking. And in a similar way, so was the lack of expression of sadness at leaving the longtime congregation of the the church person who was soon to leave a job with nothing for sure on the horizon.

I am not saying that, faced with tragedy or hardship, we should wallow in self pity or allow anger and bitterness to take over. As I listened to my friend, I do think sharing very human emotions with a community helps us move beyond those feelings and into faith in a way that binds us all closer together and deepens the faith of all.

Lament.

The day had been long. Work. Haircut. Doctor’s appointment. Late dinner with friends. I had met them at a restaurant I had not been to before and had difficulty finding a parking place downtown. When I returned to my car I found a ticket on the windshield: The spot was in a residential permit area. Sigh. I’m not used to thinking about residential permit areas. Mom’s words came to me: “In a year you’ll never know where that money went. Don’t worry.” Thanks, mom. Worrier extraorinaire over some things, she was right about this one.

I had had a wonderful evening, been treated to a marvelous dinner. So, why obsess about a small parking ticket? So, I didn’t. On the drive home, instead of worrying about $40, I recalled parts of the conversations. One of the dinner party, Vicki, is a rabbi, and she shared the story of finding the torah for her new congregation ten years ago. An amazing story of a Polish rabbi in the 1940’s giving the torah to a Catholic friend to keep until the deported Jews would return. Of course, they never did. The torah came to the US and using the internet, Vicki found a few members of that Polish congregation who had come to live in Brooklyn, not far from her congregation. This story goes on.

Another story: Among the nine of us sitting around the table, two had recently learned of the transsexuality of either a relative or friend. With my daughter, that made three. We shared stories. I promised to let them know when my book on the topic is published, and I wondered how many others in the restaurant that night might have similar stories. Harold had a good way of expressing the need we all have: To become more “wide minded.” Indeed.

By the time I arrived home, I was thankful for the richness and fun of the evening. Then I opened the door. Another blessing! Someone, who would likely not want to be identified for her good deed, had come into my house while I was gone and cleaned it! No dishes cluttered the kitchen counters and sink. Actually, the counters were clear and clean and lovely. I looked through the kitchen and saw the couch. Throw neatly folded and draped over the back. Pillows on either side. Chairs in place. Shoes in the bedroom closet where they belong. Then I noticed the floors. Swept. I almost cried.

These next two days will be packed, and I go out of town on Saturday. I couldn’t imagine accomplishing everything I need to do before leaving. Getting out from under the house cleaning had seemed impossible. I had had a colonoscopy the day before, and those of you who have had that test know you don’t get much done the day of or the day of preparation! I had managed some writing, but house cleaning? No. It is almost always the lowest priority in my schedule.

But here was a gift, pure and simple. Someone noticed. Someone took the time to help, unasked. Someone has my deepest gratitude. I am running in as many directions as a crazed cat, and someone had taken the time to clean up the “center.” She and God are exceedingly good.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen “There was the work hard, play hard Eden of childhood truths and treats. Run out in the rain, my Czech grandmother would say urgently, run quick! I flew out the back door, naked, screeching with demented joy, to stand under the drainpipe, rainwater sluicing down my tadpole body.”

…………………………….from “The Florist’s Daughter: A Memoir” by Patricia Hampl

Sometimes, in the midst of news of wars, poverty, illness, and hateful rhetoric, something comes along that reminds us of the human capacity for joy, sheer joy. Often simple, it arrives unheralded, breaking into the quotidian of life or the darkness of suffering or despair.

On Saturday I attended a pool party given by a counselor friend who includes a large number of transsexuals in her practice. I had never ventured into the pool at these annual gatherings, but did last week. My swim suit fit a bit tighter that I remembered, but, oh well. Pride aside, I caught my breath as I waded deeper into the water. Laughter filled the evening as people executed dives, some better than others, tried silly stunts, and slipped under the water as they tried in vain to keep a ball in the air. Nothing amazing. Just fun. Fun, food, and conversation shared by those touched by challenges of transsexuality. I stayed late, but was not the last to leave by far. Who wants to let go of such moments?

No. We open wide and suck them in, gulping down the sweet delight.

Sometimes joy comes with a joke, or a dry one-liner during a game of euchre. My dad was good at that. At work, I hear a baby cry as its parents or grandparents try do to a little shopping. But once in a while, a baby or child gets the giggles and her laughter floats through the store. It is contagious. Soon everyone is smiling, not knowing what is funny but enjoying the moment anyway. One of my coworkers has the greatest laugh. I might be hauling a load of bras and dresses out of a fitting room or trying to make a dent in the rails of undergarments waiting to be hung correctly and returned to the rack.

Then, Seretha’s laugh would fly over the Muzak and noise of business and make my day. I pictured her face, her broad smile, and was glad I belonged to the “sisterhood” as she called us.

Sometimes music is the source of exhilaration, like the Trans Siberian Orchestra concert I attended last year. I bought a couple of their CDs and played and replayed my favorites for weeks. Or, the first time I heard Luciano Pavarotti singNessum Dorma or the part ofRodolfo in Puccini’s La Boheme. I have no words.

Yesterday, a friend sent me a musical video that made me laugh and click the replay icon again and again. Watching talented musicians having so much fun tickled hope in me.

Have fun!

PHOTO: Mary van Balen – In scholars study lounge, Collegeville Institute “I have a prayer request for you,” my sister said. “A young man, twenty-six, discovered that he has stage four lung cancer.” Never a smoker. The prognosis is unknown, but it does not appear likely that he has long to live.

“It seems I am being constantly reminded of the fragility of life.” my daughter said when I told her of a friend of ours who was hit by a car while riding on his bicycle and sustained serious spinal chord injury.

“There is one word you will never hear around here,” my friend in the nursing home told me: “Death.”

She was right. At least from what I heard when I visited my father there. I suppose we were all trying to make the last years or months of life as full as we could. Conversation was often difficult since many of those living there were hard of hearing or very tired. Around the dining room table we talked about the food and about family or friends who had come to visit. When someone from the small group died, no one told the others. The absence of the table mate spoke for itself. Once, when I asked about someone who was gone, the aide whispered that he had died. They didn’t usually tell the others because they didn’t want to upset them.

I am sure this is done with all good intentions. Perhaps the news would upset some of the people there, but the unwillingness to talk about death struck me as strange in a place where most people go knowing they will likely die there or in the nearby hospital.

This conversation came to mind when I discovered that today is the feast of Saint Camillus of Lellis (1550 – 1614). Born in Italy, Camillus left a life of compulsive gambling and riotous living to become a servant of the sick and dying and eventually founded an order dedicated to that ministry. Serving the sick during the time of the Plague often meant putting one’s own life in jeopardy, and the willingness of Camillus and his order to do that made the commonly heard phrase, “To serve the sick, even with danger to one’s own life,” became a fourth vow of the order.

You can read more about the Camillians at their website. One interesting fact is the large red cross that Camillus chose to put on their black cassocks was the original “red cross,” a symbol we now associate with care for those in great need.

Our unwillingness to talk about death was brought to my attention yesterday in a piece on the Huff Post Religion Blog by Travis Reed that highlighted Stanley Hauerwas and his video series, “Living with Death.” A prominent theologian, Hauerwas contends that just what those in Medieval Europe feared was what we want: a sudden death. Those in Medieval times wanted to know they were dying so they could make peace with their family, friends, church, and God. Hauerwas thinks that modern folks fear death more than God and work hard to avoid dealing with it.

He raises interesting questions. While life is surely a gift to be celebrated and safe guarded, death is also a gift. At least that is what St. Francis thought, calling it “sister death.” More recently, Henri Nouwen wrote a wonderful book, “Our Greatest Gift,” that is a meditation on dying and caring for the dying. Many books dealing with this issue are available, but the words of my old friend echo in my head. No one wants to talk about death, especially to those who are dying.

I include here the video clip of Stanley Hauerwas. It is thought provoking, no matter our thoughts about the subject. While I would not want to embrace an image of an angry, vengeful God who needs appeased before I die, as those in Camillus’ time might have had, I do see the value in wanting time to prepare for our final act on earth.

Of course, all our life is preparation, filled with “little deaths” that present opportunities to prepare for or physical death. And living life well and full is a preparation, too. As Mary Oliver says in her poem When Death Comes:

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder/if I have made of my life something particular, and real./I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,/ or full of argument./

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

Life and death. Inseparable mysteries. Gifts.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “You’re a natural contemplative,” a priest/friend once told me in high school. A few months before, I wouldn’t have known what he meant. Raised Catholic and having attending Catholic schools from the start, one might have imagined I would have already learned about the rich tradition of contemplative prayer in the the Church. No. Perhaps at that time, such knowledge was deemed unsuitable for the person in the pew. Or perhaps the diocesan clergy were not practicing contemplatives themselves: You can’t give what you don’t have.

A community of Carmelite nuns, opening their doors to those hungering for something deeper, gifted me with vocabulary and understanding of what I had been drawn to since a child: a quiet way of prayer that was simply part of who I was. They also provided a place where I could come and, well, pray. Sitting in the quiet chapel for a half hour before Mass, just aware of being with others in the Presence of God, was one of the most life-giving times of the week during those years.

Through my Carmelite friends I learned of Sts. Theresa of Avila and John of the Cross. I learned that meditation was not the property of Eastern philosophies and religions that many of my friends had looked to for something beyond rote prayers taught in most Catholic schools. And once given words for my way of being prayerful, I found more “teachers” in literature on the topic of contemplative prayer.

The writings of Thomas Merton and Dorothy Day spoke to my heart. I gobbled up what I could find. Who knew? Madeleine L’Engle, beloved author of of young adult literature I read to my fourth grade students, was also drawn to comtemplative prayer and had written books that explored it in her life. And of course there are the poets.

L’Engle’s books introduced me to some metaphysical poets: George Herbert, HEnry Vaughan, Thomas Traherne. The great but unsung modern Carmelite poet, Jessica Powers is one who feeds my soul as does Mary Oliver.

The list goes on, and grows, and becomes more inclusive. But today, on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I remember those who opened the doors for me. I treasure the friendship of one Carmelite friend particularly. To this day, when I need to weep or to delve into the meaning of Hebrew words, she is the one I call. Thank you.

And Happy Feast Day!

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

from Mary Oliver’s poem Sometimes
(Mary Oliver, 1935 – )

“I didn’t get your book proposal,” my sister messaged and I received on my new iPod Touch.

“Sorry. I pulled up your email address. Just forgot to do anything with it. Where IS my mind?”

Where indeed. This is a “day off” and already I am behind. Sore from a night of trying out a foam mattress at the same sister’s house, I have driven my car to the auto shop where repairs were completed after a fender bender, but an oversight on the door lock needs attention. I have visited two grocery stores (feeling a bit like an old lady in a nightgown as I dressed by pulling a knit sleeveless dress over my head, ran a brush through my hair, and slipped on stretched out black flats that slap the floor when I walk) finding all three ingredients for meatball appetizers (read frozen meatballs, grape jelly, and chili sauce) I am crockpotting for a swim party tonight. Did I mention that this is the first day in weeks that we will have rain?

I returned home, threw ingredients into the crock pot, changed clothes, and drove to my new workplace to discuss scheduling problems that resulted from my changing locations and which I discovered when I checked email. I have washed sheets and clothes for work tomorrow, revisited the mattress comparison website now that last night’s sleep experiment has cast doubt on my first choice, and given up on the house. I haven’t showered yet and already the day is speeding along on its own schedule.

I think of Mary Oliver’s quote (and exquisite poetry that often calls one to attentiveness) and wonder if she has days like this, or if she is always attentive, amazed, and articulate.

I will try to rein in my day. Enjoy the coolness instead of cursing the clouds, and take note of the overflowing sink’s message to me: Slow down, be still, and listen to your heart in the quiet moments I require to become clean again.