“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.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen I stand on the patio behind the apartment and watch rain pour down in long lines, like strokes from a pen, shrouding everything in gray. Thunder rumbles in the background. A small chickadee, sinichka my friend from St. Petersburg called them, takes shelter in the blue spruce beside me. We are both hushed into reverential silence. I stand close to the brick house, beneath the overhang. Together, sinichka and I feel the wind and watch it play across the water, patches of light blooming and then, just as quickly, dissoloving back into dark as the wind changes its mind and churns up brightness somewhere else on the lake. Sometimes the light races across the surface, hanging on to the wind, but can’t keep up and lets go, falling back into smooth green water.

We wait, sinichka and I. I’m not sure what she waits for. I suspect that once the heavy rain turns into a gentle summer shower, she will fly off in search of food, calling out “chick a dee dee dee” as she dips and darts away. I am waiting for Grace. I know it falls around me as surely as this morning’s rain, soaking my heart when I open it wide.

I am standing here, trying to be wide. I don’t want my hair and clothes to be drenched, so I press close to the wall but push my soul out into the storm. “Come, Lord Jesus, Come,” I pray like it is Advent.

Big wet drops of Grace hit the protective crust that encases my soul. Messy splatty drops melting some of the hardness away. Somewhere birdsong blends with thunder, an unlikely duet. It works. I look to see if it is my sinichka, but she has gone. The rain has lightened. Opening the apartment door, I walk through ready for work. I hope it rains all day.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen The Lord’s voice shattering the cedars;
The Lord shatters the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes Lebanon leap like a calf
And Sirion like a young ox.

The Lord’s voice flashes flames of fire.
The Lord’s voice shaking the wilderness,
The Lord’s voice shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.
The Lord’s voice rending the oak tree
And stripping th forest bare.
Ps. 29

The Psalm said the Lord’s voice shattered cedars. I looked around the Abbey Church. We were still standing, monks and the rest of us. All in all, morning prayer was pretty calm. A few voices stumbling to follow the chant. A few more following a more hurried pace, not yet used the monastic practice of pausing a bit at the end of each line regardless of punctuation. Prayer with the monks slows me down and gives God time to move into the hiatus. I have been here before. I know the pace will soon become habitual and when I return home, church will seem rushed.

But I am waiting for my heart to be shattered like the cedars. To feel Divine Power shaking me to my roots. Then I’ll know what to be about. What words to put down on paper…or in this case to fill the computer screen. Selling bras at Macy’s, doing laundry, watering flowers. It isn’t enough. Or it seems not to be. Then there was the customer who came by on Saturday just to wish me well at the workshop. Her daughter stopped by last week and told me her mom talks about me all the time. Recently widowed, she is a bit lost, and enjoys our conversations and my interest.

“Remember the worker priests of the 50’s and 60’s?” my counselor asked. “That is you. At Macy’s.” I guess she is right. I have women who come back to see me, sometimes just to talk, like Claire who wished me well, or Katherine, the sweet old woman in a wheelchair who told me she was so glad that she met me and had me fit her for bras. We spent forty minutes picking out three. There was the young woman who worked in the same department. She is a writer, too. Life had been beating her down lately. Assault. Illness. Separating parents. Medications. She missed too much work and was let go. I am sorry for that. She was great with customers and worked hard putting bras away, a thankless and futile exercise. We connected. I read her poetry. We hugged goodbye.

(Hmm the dragonfly at my backdoor. Does he want back in after I rescued him from the bathtub this morning? Or maybe just saying ‘thank you?’)

So, where is the soul-shaking I long for?My ex-husband used to say he was waiting for Jesus to knock him off the horse, ala Saul on the way to Damascus. I always said that for me, encountering God was a process. Something that happened in the smallest details of daily life. Like cooking dinner, or reading to my daughters. Or teaching writing, or taking a walk. I didn’t need or even want something spectacular. Jesus was Emanuel, God-with-us, epiphanies everywhere, everyday. That used to work for me.

Lately, though, encountering God in the ordinary isn’t working so well. Perhaps my “ordinary” is too ordinary. Or I have become jaded. I go to Mass but not every Sunday. My work schedule is my excuse. Working late on Saturday and early on Sunday. I could go if I wanted to get up really early. But I don’t.

I remember a time when church was exciting. When I struggled to pray the hours alone, wishing I had a community to pray with. Enthusiasm for God and all things religious moved me. Over the past few years that desire has all but left. I am grieving. Maybe that is it. Grieving my mother’s loss almost three years ago, my dad’s death a few months ago, a divorce a little over a year ago. And working at Macy’s. I have settled into as much routine as one can when working in retail with its crazy hours and unpredictable schedule, and it doesn’t include Lectio or quiet prayer on any regular basis. My soul is hungry but I am too lazy to get up and fix it dinner.

I am hoping this workshop will shake me out of my discontented complacency. I am hoping the other women here and Lauren will inspire me. I am hoping for God’s voice to shatter the cedars and shake up my heart.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen – View from my apartment Apartment 7 has a new couch and chairs, new beds, but the same wall of windows overlooking the lake. From the moment the door opened up, I felt at home. This was the same apartment I lived in a few years ago while a resident scholar at the Collegeville Institute. I am honored to have been invited back for a weeklong writing workshop on spiritual autobiographical memoir directed by Lauren Winner.( Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis; Girl Meets God)

Along with eleven other women from across the country, I will be spending the days writing, workshopping one another’s pieces, and learning about the craft of memoir. Of course there is time for conversation, making new friends, and praying with the monks in the Abbey Church.Uncharacteristically, I woke early and walked up the hill with two other participants for morning prayer. I have grown to love the slow deliberate praying of the Psalms, sometimes reading, sometimes chanting.

The week holds much promise not only for learning more about the genre and developing skills of the craft, but also for hearing the stories of eleven amazing women. The conversation is rich as are the experiences we bring to the table.

A needed time of Grace. Thanks be to God!

PHOTO: Mary van Balen On Father’s Day I was winging my way to Collegeville, MN to participate in a weeklong writing workshop with Lauren Winner. My father was winging right along with me, I know. And how appropriate: Father’s Day. I can’t imagine a better father. Right up to his last days he was encouraging, giving hugs, and bestowing his warm smile. Love sparkled out of his blue eyes. Everyone at the nursing home loved dad. “A real gentleman.” “Such a sweet man.” “He waved at us when he was wheeled into the dining room.”

My blessing. My grace to have such a father. I remember working with him in his workshop when I was a high school junior. I wanted to enter a painting contest and even though I could not fit art class into my college prep schedule, the art teacher had agreed to sign off on my entry. Dad was stretching fabric over a piece of wood. I wanted to paint a pregnant Mary, never having seen an image of her carry the child before.

Dad and I talked as we worked. I confided my dream of writing a book. As was usual in our home, I was given encouragement.

“Honey, if anyone can do it, you can. If you want to write a book, you will.”

He smiled his “reach down inside you and give your heart a hug” smile, and I knew he was right. If he believed I could write a book then I could. Case closed.

And I did.

When I was a resident scholar in Collegeville a few years ago, Dad and Mom were behind my venture. Mom died of cancer during my first month there. Unknown to me until a couple of years later, mom had said, “Joe, if Mary needs anything while she is in Minnesota, you make sure she has it.”

He did.

My computer died in October and Dad bought me a new one. He was all encouragement when I called to chat with him.

Now, back in Collegeville, I know he is rooting me on. He and mom, together again, telling me I can write a book. I will succeed. Telling me I must do the work my heart tells me is mine to do.

I miss Dad. I miss Mom, too. I remember them at morning prayer at the Abbey. I remember them in my apartment study. I give thanks for their lives of love and generosity. My work is partly their work, and I want to make them proud!