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.

“Saint Benedict” by Br. David Paul Lange OSB – Photo: Mary van Balen Readers of this blog know I have found grace and renewal at Saint John’s Abbey in Collegeville, MN, Saint Benedict’s Monastery in St. Joseph, MN, and the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical & Cultural Research. The three are closely related not only geographically but most importantly by their roots in Benedictine spirituality, and in the case ofthe monastery and abbey, the Rule of St. Benedict.

Benedict’s Rule, while providing stability and orderly creative space to some in the tumultuous times in which he lived, continues to guide many who seek the same today.

In this morning’s Huffington Post, St. Benedict vs Rugged Individualism, by Thomas Worcester, offers thoughts on the Rule’s relevance for current political debates on healthcare and immigration.

Today the Roman Catholic Church celebrates the feast of Saint Benedict, Abbot. I celebrate it, too, rereading some of the Rule, wearing the new St. Benedict Jubilee medal I bought while attending a writing workshop at the Institute last month, and intentionally living the day with the famous Benedictine balance of work, prayer, recreation, and study.

One day this June, while leaving the Abbey church there after morning prayer, I saw buzz of activity around a newly installed statue of Benedict. Sculpted by Br. David Paul OSB, Benedict holds a book and quill and is surrounded by more books and manuscripts. A large raven or crow stands at the saint’s feet. Often thought of as a bad omen or a harbinger of death, the crow has a brighter side, and even has a place on the jubilee medal. In Christian lore it can symbolize Divine Providence, bringing food to saints who, for one reason or another , are spending time alone in deserted places. Elijah, for example. Or Benedict.

Most of what is known about Benedict is found in the second book of the Dialogues of Saint Gregory the Great. In it we read the story of how Benedict, who fed bread crumbs to a crow each day, asked her to take a loaf meant for him that was poisoned by a jealous local priest, and drop it somewhere where no one would find it. The crow hesitated and then obeyed. Upon her return, Benedict fed her as usual.

The story of Benedict and the statue remind me that Divine Providence is not only something bestowed on saints of history, nor is it merely pious legend. God’s care comes to us in countless ways. Sometimes through people who fill our days. Family and friends, prayerful communities and maybe a sales associate at the department store offer concern, hope, and good cheer. Opportunities arise. Formative ideas are found in words written or spoken, in books or movies, in a card or letter. Or email.

God is Present as always. We may not need rescued from a poisoned loaf, but we can all use support and nurture as we make our way through life. As Thomas Worcester reminds us, we are expected to offer the same support to others.

This blog post is a “thank you” to my Benedictine friends and the many others who bring God’s grace into my life. It is a challenge to bring Benedict’s commitment to the care and the common good to others. It is also an invitation to hope. Next time you hear a crow’s raspy caw or see the black birds roosting in a tree, remember that God sends sustenance through unlikely messengers.

(Woodcut by Alison Wallace)

Zingerman’s Bakery OK. I live in Columbus, Ohio not far from The Ohio State University. A Buckeye alumna, I may be expected by some to be less effusive about that “place up North,” but I must confess, I love Ann Arbor. I spent a couple of days there recently and enjoyed everything from the weather (7 to 10 degrees cooler than home) to the interesting shops and the plethora of ethnic eating places. Of course, the biggest draw is family, especially my daughter. Spending time exploring Ann Arbor is always most enjoyable with her.

She took me to favorite restaurants, starting off with an appetizer and wine at the Pacific Rim. The crab cakes were delicately delicious. So good, in fact, that we ordered a second round.

We walked to the next destination, Amadeus Cafe, but were disappointed to discover it was closed for dinner on Sunday. We turned and made our way to Cafe Felix and were not disappointed with a Julia Child’s favorite, beef bourguignon. Wine, salad, bread, and peach melba a la mode finished off the dinner.

The next day, we added a stop at Panera’s, curry dinner prepared by my sister, and finally before I left, an amazing lunch at foodies world famous Zingerman’s Delicatessen. I added an after lunch splurge of dark chocolate covered marzipan and a turtle on my way to the freeway.

Ann Arbor is also a great place to people watch and talk. The young man at Schakolad Chocolate Factory was eager to share why he and his wife moved to Ann Arbor from New York City.

“It is the people,” he said, “and no one is in a rush here. If you bump into someone on the sidewalk in New York, people say ‘Look out!’ or ‘Get outa my face!’ But not here,” he continued. “Here the argument is ‘Oh, excuse me. It was my fault!’ ‘No, no. It was MY fault.'” He laughed. So did I.

The bartender at the Pacific Rim, a foodie himself, overheard our interest in local foods and offered a tip for a future trip if we wanted a local food restaurant that rivaled his favorite on the West Coast.

Students, business people, and wanderers like me, fill the sidewalks and add to the ambiance. “Drivers here are crazy, though,” my daughter warned, putting at least part of the blame on no-fault insurance.

At Zingerman’s one cannot help but overhear table talk. The folks at the table behind us were the crew from the show “House Hunters,” in town for a shoot. Another table held a mother and two adult daughters, locals enjoying lunch under the shade of the big, blue umbrellas. Grandparents and grandchildren. Students. Business people. An unending variety of sizes, colors, shapes, languages, and conversations.

Today’s reading for mid-morning prayer fit the scene:

There is a variety of gifts but always the same Spirit; there are all sorts of service to be done, but always to the same Lord; working in all sorts of different ways in different people, it is the same God who is working in all of them. 1 Cor 12, 4-6

What delightful variety of people on this planet. What gifts each brings. In my little slice of place there were bakers and chocolatiers, artists and musicians, archaeologists and writers, students and professors. Friends and strangers. People who live together and people who will likely never see one another again.

What a glorious conglomeration. “An embarrassment of riches,” I said to my daughter, still playing with terms of venery started on the evening of “An Explosion of Turkeys.”

I couldn’t help but think of Thomas Merton’s famous theophany at Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, Kentucky recounted in “Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander:”

“In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers… And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “With all its faults, I am still grateful that I live in this country,” my daughter said as we shared breakfast. “I mean, when I wake up I might wonder how hot it is, or what I should wear when I go outside. I don’t wonder if, once I venture outside my house, if I will return safely. Or return at all. Literally.”

Justin, also visiting for the weekend agreed. “Thanks for Justice Roberts. And you likely won’t hear me say that again!” He laughed. Roberts’ unexpected “yes” vote kept Obama’s healthcare reform alive, and despite Republican posturing and promises to overturn the decision or repeal the healthcare act, they will not achieve their end through physical violence.

The USA has problems. Big ones. Our “coups” happen behind closed doors when politicians, lobbyists, or big money make changes in how things are done or even what things are done. Commitment to the common good has all but disappeared on the political scene. We spend obscene amounts of money on military budgets while programs addressing poverty, education, and healthcare are underfunded if funded at all. I continue to chip in my $5 here and there to the Obama campaign while giant PACs raise fortunes.

Still, my daughter has a point. That evening we pack up folding chairs and drive to the golf course where my oldest daughter will help set off the fireworks. I used to decry the money used for such civic displays across our country. Maybe it’s growing older. Maybe it’s getting to know the good folks who give days working with a modest parks and rec budget to put on the show. Maybe it’s wanting to believe in the possibility of change. Maybe it’s knowing that in the midst of “now” and “not yet,” Hope remains. Surely, enjoying the evening of camaraderie and the artistry of chemistry and physics exploding against the dark sky was good for the spirit.

PHOTO: Lisa Durkee According to James Lipton’s book An Exaltation of Larks, a group of turkeys is called a “raft,” as in a large, often motley collection of things: a raft of books. (p 47). I do not intend to challenge the term found in the 1486 book by Dame Juliana, “The Boke of Saint Albans,” or the earlier “Egerton Manuscript,” 1450, but rather to add to it my own term of venery for a gathering of these birds based on personal experience.

One evening last week, all of us attending the writing workshop at Collegeville, ate dinner at the Episcopal House of Prayer just down the road from the Institute. After wine and lentil stuffed peppers, we walked to see the Oratory that sits next door. Chairs circled the diameter of the prayer room, pillows and mats dotting the space between the edge and the center circle that was filled with sand and held an ornate brass cross on a tall standard. The space above the center telescoped out in softly lit layers that drew the eye to the evening sky.

A small rectangular space sat at the four direction points, a window looking out at the nearby woods. Four women were gathered in one of these, looking outside and discussing a bird in their view.

I heard snatches of their conversation:

“Do you think it’s a wild turkey?”

“No. I don’t think they can fly that high.”

“Maybe it’s a turkey buzzard.”

As one who had made a list of birds I might see while in Minnesota, I walked over and looked out the window to see the mysterious creature. in my youth, tired from hiking, I rested under a tree that soon filled with turkey buzzards. They were huge. I moved around enough to let them know I was alive but not enough to draw attention to myself, breathing easier after they decided to check out another tree. The bird outside the Oratory did not look like a turkey buzzard to me.

“I think it is a wild turkey,” I said, noting visible stripes on the tail feathers. “I saw some roosting in trees when I drove from the Cities to Collegeville a couple of years ago.”

I volunteered to walk around the outside of the building the woods and make noise to startle the bird into flight for easier identification. The monks of Saint John’s Abbey are good stewards of their few thousand acres, and keep most of it as a nature preserve, including the area around the House of Prayer. The tree was a few steps away.

At the boundary between lawn and woods, I purposely tromped on every dry branch in my path. The bird did not move. Keeping a lookout for poison ivy, I inched my way closer to the tree, stooped to pick up a stick, and hurled it into the woods. The bird did not move. Branch after branch hit trunks and leaves. Still, the bird did not move.

I looked behind me. Four faces pressed against the Oratory window. Someone was taking photos. Probably Lisa. She had just finished documenting Renee striking the singing bowl with its wooden mallet, sending a reverberating gong out into the round prayer room like ripples from a stone fallen into water.

A gnarly branch, thick as two thumbs, caught my eye. I picked it up. Bleached and riddled with bug holes, it broke easily over my knee. “Craaaack!” The bird shifted, partially lifting a wing before settling down again. Holding half the branch in my right hand, I swung my arm back like someone preparing for a long cast.

“Whoosh!” I let it fly. Its wobbly spin took it through a veil of leaves and then thunked it against a limb. That did it.

I caught my breath as the huge bird exploded before my eyes becoming four birds, awkwardly flying in different directions, but staying close to the tree. I had disturbed a mother and three young wild turkeys from their evening rest. They retuned and clucked their alarm as they walked along another branch. A mother myself, I felt remorse. I know the difficultly of quieting three children and putting them to bed.

“Sorry,” I whispered, and bowed slightly, like the monks do in the Abbey Church as they enter in a double line, turn just before the altar, and reverence the Divine Presence in the other as they peel off and walk toward their choir stalls at either side of the sanctuary.

Surely I was on holy ground.

© 2012 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Mary van Balen – Collegeville Institute early morning Noon prayer did it. Three funerals in the Abbey Church that day, so I successfully navigated the maze beneath it and found the small chapel where prayers would be said. Two psalms spoke:

“Have mercy on me, O God, in your faithful love, in your great tenderness wipe away my offences; wash me clean from my guilt, purify me from my sin. For I am well aware of my offences, my sin is constantly in mind.” Ps 51, 1-3.

Well, I hadn’t been well aware of anything until I prayed that line. Perhaps it was hearing the words in communal voice, but I knew what I had done: I had forgotten what I had been given, and not been thankful.

Lately, I have been more aware of what I haven’t been given: a job that feeds my spirit and makes better use of my gifts; a job that pays the bills; a home for my book revised, revised, and revised again; vision for my future…

As I prayed, I was suddenly embarrassed. How could I focus so much on what seems missing and overlook the gifts…

-The opportunity to come to the Institute, attend the writing workshop and pray at the Abbey. Reconnecting with old friends and making new ones.
-A fulltime job.
-Health. Home.
-Close family.
-Supportive friends.
The list could go on, but the point was made. I had sinned.

“God, create in me a clean heart, renew within me a resolute spirit, do not thrust me away from your presence, do not take away from me your spirit of holiness. Give me back the joy of your salvation, sustain in me a generous spirit. Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will speak out your praise.” Ps 51,10-12,15

Then came Psalm 62, 5-8:

“Rest in God alone, my soul! He is the source of my hope.He alone is my rock, my safety, my stronghold, so that I stand unwavering. In God is my safety and my glory, the rock of my strength. In God is my refuge;trust in him, you people, at all times. Pour out your hearts to him, God is a refuge for us.”

I remembered Kathy turning as she left my apartment earlier that day.

“Don’t worry. If it is of God, it will happen. And it WILL happen.” She smiled and was gone. I watched as she disappeared around the corner and then looked at the lake. After a couple of days of rain, the air was clean and cool. Perfect. God doesn’t mind my complaints and fretting, holding on to them is the problem.

Noon prayer is short. I looked at the monks. The voice of the man beside me wiggled into my consciousness as we recited the final words in slow cadence. He had just lost his wife. He was here for help and encouragement. Weren’t we all? And wasn’t it here?

I left with a monk, a dear friend. We had lunch. He has too many poems. We laugh. And I give thanks.