The High Road Gallery The sun beat down on artists, poets, and gallery visitors gathered for the opening of the “Language of Art” exhibit that featured twenty-five selected pieces of art and poems written in response to them. One by one, poets took center stage and read their works. I sat in a plastic lawn chair and watched, noting the variety of forms poets take: young and old, men and women. Some women readers wore pumps and dresses, others jeans and t-shirts. One walked up and halfway through her poem her hands began to shake. She put one behind her back while the other shook the paper.

“Such a small group,” I thought, “and she is so nervous. She must not be accustomed to reading her work before an audience.” I admired her commitment to her art. One man wore a sports jacket. Others were more casual. Each was given rapt attention and applause when they had finished. All of us sat, listened, and sweated together until the last line was read, when we moved back into the gallery to cool off and study again the art and poems displayed beside them.

How many similar events are held across the country in small towns and big cities? I thought of my friend, Kilian McDonnell OSB, who will publish his fourth book of poetry in time for his ninetieth birthday this fall. I thought about artists in general, those who work with pigments and clay, fabric and paper, words and ideas. A few are well known and financially successful, but most are like those gathered at the small gallery on this Sunday afternoon. Faithful to their work, eager to share it, grateful when it is received with open minds and hearts.

Artists of all types invite the rest of the world to slow down, look closely and feel deeply. They remind others to wonder, to connect the unlikely discovering truth in the process. They elicit smiles, laughter, tears, and questions. They grapple with big questions, enter into mystery’s darkness, and plumb the soul’s depths. Then they share what they have found with any who will listen. They do these things because they must. Money or not, success or not, being an artist is not something one does, it is who one is.
“Waiting” by Laurie Van Balen

As I walked outside to my car, holding a bit of cheese balanced on a cracker, I gave thanks for the gift of artists in our midst and the grace and courage they bring to the world.

PHOTO: Public Domain
Sunday morning when my cell phone alarm began to ring, I fumbled with it until I found the “snooze” button. I had driven all night to return home from a family wedding reception and had set the alarm to wake me for early Mass. My legs did not want to move and neither did the rest of me, but I forced myself out of bed and made it to church a little late. I was glad I did.

“Someone once said that you need three things to have hope,” our pastor said as he began his homily. “Someone to love, something to do, and something to hope in.”

As I listened to his words, I thought of my life. I had been feeling discouraged. My path had not turned out as I thought it might and its direction was lost in the mist of uncertainty. Still, I had someone to love. No husband, but children, family, and friends. Yes, I am blessed with three daughters, with friends from across the country and around the world: GED students, authors, care givers, professors, and poets.

I have something to do.I am a writer, as my daughter reminds me. I work as a retail associate to make ends meet, but I am first, a writer and I have books to finish and projects yet to discover. I have a father to love and care for. I can be present to my daughters. I have a part to play in God’s work of brining the Kingdom, and though I do not often know just what that is, I believe with Thomas Merton that the desire to please God does indeed please God.

And hope? Many things can be hoped for, but, as Fr. Denis reminded us that morning, our reason to hope is Jesus Christ. He has revealed the Love and Compassion of the One Who Created All. He gave us the Spirit of that Great Love to dwell within our very selves. What work we have to do, we are empowered to do. What love we are called to share, we will have to share. That includes me.

After the homily, I walked from the back of the church and slid into a pew, sitting by a friend. We share the hymnal, sang our hearts out, loving “You Are Mine” and “Jesus Christ Has Risen Today.” Receiving the Eucharist fed both my soul and my body. By the time Mass was over, my friend and I both felt like Easter.

Hope had found her way into my soul and was shaking her feathers and singing her wordless tune.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son… “Then he sent some more servants and said, ‘Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.’ Mt 22, 1-2;4

“I’m too frazzled!” my older sister, Jan, said as she walked back into the front door of her home a minute after having left. “I’m looking for my phone. Have you seen it? I’ll call my self. If you hear it ring, bring it out to the car. I’ll go out as see if I have it somewhere in my purse.”

She disappeared through the door again. I heard no ring, walked to the front door, looked out, and saw her giving me a thumbs up. I walked back to the kitchen, hung up the phone and smiled as I looked at the cake and supplies waiting in the family room for pick up.

My sister’s youngest of five children (and only daughter) had been married in Texas two months ago. Today Jan and Howard are having a reception for the new couple in their hometown for family and friends who were unable to make the trip to Texas.

No wonder Jan was feeling frazzled. Despite a troublesome back and a full schedule helping with grandchildren, involvement in an outreach to the poor in a crowded urban city, and various commitments to her church community, Jan had managed to bake her wonderful carrot cake into a large, three tiered wedding cake.

She and Howard left to cart other paraphernalia to the reception site: pop, wine, plates and flatware, decorations, signs for the guest book and a pile of glow necklaces and sticks (always thinking of things to keep the young children happy and occupied), tea, coffee….the list seems endless.

Other family members are pitching in too, chauffeuring the couple from the airport to homes, helping transport children, as well as supplies, and setting up in the party room. A sister and brother are on their way from a neighboring state, gathering to celebrate another wedding.

We may no longer slaughter our fattened cattle and oxen (well, the Texas couple may when their turn to celebrate a son or daughter’s wedding comes around), but putting together the wedding banquet is a major undertaking. Months in the planning, countless late nights, errands, and “frazzled” moments, money spent, and homemade touches witness to the deep love and joy my sister and her husband take in their daughter, her new husband, and their commitment to married life together.

This gives us a glimpse into infinite love and joy God takes in each of us. The Holy One gives all to preparing the “banquet” for us. And there is more. Not only are we invited to share in Divine Life, we have been invited to help prepare the “banquet” for all God’s people. We have been called to continue the work Jesus began on earth, to bring the Kingdom.

Weddings are a grace not only for the newly married couple, but also for those celebrating with them. The gathering of family and friends remind us that whether in our love for one another or in our commitment to bringing the Kingdom for all, we do not labor alone. We have the support of other and the Spirit who dwells in each heart.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “Hurray,” I shouted.

“It’s on!,” my neighbor said.

I was never as happy to see a headlight shine bright as I was tonight. My daughter and her friend had taken me to dinner and while driving home I remembered that I had two new headlight bulbs in the back seat for her to install. I called. She said the owner’s manual would give me directions and the job should not be difficult.

“If you can’t get it, I can help tomorrow night.”

“OK. I’ll give it a try when I am home.”

I turned into the driveway and pulled close to the garage incase the job lasted longer than the evening light. The manual made it sound easy if I could figure out what the “hold down wire” was and if the power steering fluid holder came out easily. In just a few minutes I had the new bulbs out along with a packet of some sort of grease that the salesman said I could put on the connectors.

Pulling off the plug was easy. So was removing the rubber weather seal. The “hold down wire” that looked mysterious in the manual’s diagram was the only problem. I found a little wire with my fingers and pushed it this way and that. I am not sure what I did, but suddenly the wire moved and the lightbulb almost jumped out.

“OK,” I said to myself, “that wasn’t hard.”

I greased the connectors on one of the bulbs, pushed it into the hole and seated the tabs in the correct places. Then came that pesky little wire. I worked and worked at it. I even went into the house, opening the door with a tissue over my now dirty, greasy hand, and brought out a flashlight. I had learned one lesson: Don’t take something apart without noticing how it went together.

Luckily, the driver’s side headlight was still in place. I went over and after a bit of tugging, slid out the steering wheel fluid canister, removed the rubber weather seal, and took a good long look at the “hold down wire.” This one was much cleaner than the other. I could see where it went, but my fingers couldn’t slide the other one into place.

I walked to a neighbor’s house and carefully rang the doorbell, managing to avoid smearing it with grease.

“Hello! How are you?” he greeted me with a smile.

“Do you have a moment? I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever replaced a car’s headlight bulb?”

“Well, I tired once, but it got so complicated that I ended up taking it to the dealer. But, I’ll give it a try. I can take a look anyway,” he said as he sat on the steps and put on his shoes. Luckily, as it turned out, Honda had made my job considerably less complicated.

We walked across a couple of lawns to my car. I explained my trouble with the little wire, and together we looked at the one still in place. He felt around and tried. I tried while he held the flashlight. (My husband always appreciated someone aiming the flashlight at the right place. It does help.)

Finally, I managed to put the wire behind the tab to secure the bulb. I can’t claim a lot of method. I just kept moving wire with my fingers until it clicked into place.

“I had to push it UP. That is what did it.”

The rest was simple once I reread the manual after unsuccessfully trying to replace the weather seal AFTER plugging the bulb connectors into to plug. As my neighbor had gently observed, the hole in the seal was not big enough to go over the plug.

“OK,” he said, “let’s see if it works.

Replacing the driver’s side bulb went smoothly. My neighbor slid into the car and tried the lights again. Two bright spots (extra bright, if one can believe the bulbs’ packaging) appeared on the garage door. Success!

Having someone to hold the flashlight and talk to as we figured it out was a help. It made the job pleasant. Good neighbors are one of life’s blessings; success in a new endeavor, one of life’s simple joys. I went inside, wishing I had some of that smelly orange soap that was always in our basement to clean up after greasy jobs. Soft Soap citrus worked. I used a dental bridge brush to clean under my nails. I have to sell bras and pj’s tomorrow and can’t have grease monkey hands.

I called my daughter to share my success, opened a box of Junior Mints and turned on the TV to watch the Red Sox play Cleveland: 14 – 2, Sox. A good evening to celebrate.

Last week, the current issue of The Christian Century arrived in the mail. On Saturday morning I brewed a cup of tea and took the morning to read it. One article after another

https://maryvanbalen.com/the-scallop/1227/

PHOTOS: Public Domain or used with permission from Freedom Rider David Fankhauser, PhD I intended to write about some thought provoking articles in The Christian Century, but I clicked on the television to check news and watched the PBS special on the Freedom Riders instead. I was eleven in May, 1961, but remember news broadcast images of the Civil Rights struggle including some of the Freedom Riders. Watching the special last night was both horrifying and inspiring.

I know people who have marched with MLK Jr. in Selma and one who worked with the bus boycott in Montgomery. As a teenager, I joined in protests for the Farm Workers Union and marched in protests against the Viet Nam war. Facing National Guard bayonets on my college campus, I experienced rubbery knees and covered my nose and mouth with wet towels to lessen the effects of tear gas.

None of these actions of mine required the raw courage of those college students who became “The Freedom Riders.” Trained in non-violent resistance, these young people knew they were likely going to face beatings, arrest, and possibly death, yet boarded the buses anyway, intent on calling national attention to the immortality of segregation and the need to change Jim Crow laws.

Seeing adult whites, police, and public officials stand and watch (or participate) students ruthlessly beaten was chilling. White women holding babies calling out encouragement to those doing the violence and governors smiling as they proclaimed the violence was the fault of the out of town “rabble rousers” seemed unbelievable.

I learned more about the Kennedy administration’s reluctant involvement and eventual support of the movement and the Freedom Riders’ meeting with Martin Luther King, Jr. The threat of burning 1500 blacks as they gathered in their church to support the students and to hear MLK Jr. finally forced the governor of Mississippi to declare marshall law.

If you have the opportunity to watch this documentary, do it.

While we can look at this as history, we also must remember that the ignorance and fear that engendered such horrific acts is alive and well in our country and in the world. Racism is not gone, as can been seen in the “code talk” by politicians and pundits (for example, Trump’s questioning of how Obama…who Trump asserted was not a good student…was accepted into Harvard, insinuating affirmative action granted him the opportunity).

Racism is not the only example of hatred and discrimination in our land and across the globe: Homosexuals, transsexuals, women, and the poor are often targets. Actions may not be as blatant as beatings and killings (Though some are. Did you read about the transwoman who was dragged by the hair from a restroom in a MacDonalds and was kicked and beaten?)

Violence today is often done “cleanly” with political policies, job discrimination, and uneven application of the law.

We ow much to the Freedom Riders. We must honor their courage and convictions by acting on the best of our own.

PHOTOS: Mary van Balen

“During the Easter season we recall his resurrection and, at Pentecost, the sending of the Spirit. Not only is God-with-Us; God is within us. Liturgically, we celebrate these two seasons at separate times, but we live them as they really are: both present at every moment.”
Mary van Balen

Christmas and Easter? Read my column and find out.

PHOTOS: Mary van Balen I have fallen into some bad habits: Eating too much junk food; staying up late; skipping exercise; watching tv; missing prayer time and blog posts. I am not sure what precipitated my “fall.” Splurging on some Easter treats and then not being able to stop? Grocery shopping when I was hungry and buying comfort foods I should have passed by? Weeks of almost incessant rain; Odd work hours?

Whatever the causes, I have paid for the slips with inability to fall asleep, restless nights, and an couple of added pounds. Headaches and lethargy often follow my bouts of sweets eating and those have made an appearance as well.

A friend of mine who struggles with weight issues said when she slips off her regimen and eats too much of the things she shouldn’t, she tells herself, “Today is a new day,” and gets back on track.

Well, today is my new day. First, the weather cooperated and I woke (after a few hours of poor sleep) to a beautiful sunny morning. The temperature was cool, 40F or so, but I love that. I opened doors and blinds and flooded the house with light.

Next I began playing Pavarotti’s Greatest Hits, started making two loaves of bread using white whole wheat, milled flax seed, and unbleached white flour. Following an old Tassajara Bread Book recipe: making a sponge first, then adding the oil, salt, and additional flour and let the Kitchen Aid Mixer do its kneading while I washed a few days worth of dishes.

When the dough was ready I placed it in an oiled bowl, covered it, placed it on a wooden TV tray by a window in the sun and left to walk to the bank and other errands while the dough raised in the sun and to the strains of La Boheme.

I noticed tiny light green oak leaves, shining with a bit of red on their tips and bags of mulch that had been waiting for a sunny day to be spread on gardens.

Back home, the dough was ready to be formed into loaves and put into bread pans to raise again. I fixed salad to eat with tomatoes and crackers, read the paper, and enjoyed the music.
An hour later two loaves of bread sat on the counter and I prepared to take a warm loaf and some real butter to my dad at the nursing home.

Today is a new day. I am sure I will slip into jags of eating potato chips and drinking cola. I will not always turn off the TV and give myself an hour or so of quiet before bed, but I will try.

Easter has come. Spring is here. And, like the robin babies in the nest on my garage, or the goslings I saw in the parking lot by work, I am ready for a new start!

PHOTOS: Mary van Balen

Therefore, let us celebrate the feast,
not with the old yeast, the yeast of malice and wickedness,
but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.
1Cor 5,8

Alleluia! He has risen. Let us rejoice…..or be filled with joy!

My sister and brother-in-law joined me for Easter Mass that was celebrated in a mixture of English and Spanish for our ethnically diverse congregation. African drums, flute, clarinet, guitar, organ, piano, bells and tambourines accompanied spirited song. One could feel Joy in the air and in the soul.

What about Easter Joy? It is neither something we can manufacture, nor, as Bishop Rowan Williams stated in his Easter sermon, something we can develop through theory or technique. Rather, Easter Joy comes upon us, grasps our heart, and enters in.

It is the Joy of Presence. Jesus promised to be with us always. The Spirit dwells in us, no matter the situations we face. Violence and hatred fracture our world. The earth groans under the weight of its inhabitants, most of whom are unaware that their lifestyles have a devastating effect on the planet. Personal tragedies, deaths, and suffering do not go away on Easter. So, what made hearts happy and voices strong enough to shake the small building that held our worshipping congregation? What made smiles quick to appear and laughter bubble up from those gathered?

Some still mourn the deaths of family members. The unemployed face a jobless Monday, again. Some battle cancer. Others care for aging and sick family members. Immigrants wonder if their families will be torn apart or if they will remain together to face an uncertain future. The church was full of suffering, unknowns, and grief. Yet, nothing was stronger than Joy.

The cross is part of the Easter journey. Jesus did not promise an easy road. He did promise that whatever our path, we would not walk it alone. When we listen deeply, the Easter story jolts us into a new vision of our lives. Like Mary and the other followers of Jesus, we are surprised and emboldened to see the world with fresh eyes. God is Present with us, in us, and in our world. That changes everything. God will rejoice with us, weep with us, and hold us when no one else does. In the end, we, too, will know new life.

May we nurture that Easter Joy even when the feast is long past and life’s challenges nibble away at our faith. May we be able to wait expectantly, quietly ready to be surprised by Joy.
© 2011 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen For just as from the heavens
the rain and snow come down
and do not return there
till they have watered the earth,
making it fertile and fruitful,
giving seed to the one who sows
and bread to the one who eats,
so shall my word be
that goes forth from my mouth;
my word shall not return to me void,
but shall do my will,
achieving the end for which I sent it.
Is 55,10-11

I love the scope of Holy Saturday readings, from creation springing from the Word of God to Mary Magdalene and the other Mary encountering the risen Christ. Immersed in these Scriptures, one may sense the long wait, the movement from matter’s beginnings to early life; from epoch to epoch; from early humans to Jesus’ ancestors; from the promise of the Messiah to his coming.

While the earth waits for winter thaw and softening ground able to receive seed, we have waited through Lent. It seems long. When my children were younger, we spent the day before Easter coloring eggs, baking hot cross buns to share with neighbors and cleaning the house for the coming celebration. Easter was not yet, but its light and joy was already spreading into our hearts.

With Jesus’ death fresh in their hearts and his resurrection unimagined and yet to come, Jesus’ followers would have had a different experience.Waiting when the past has broken hearts and the future uncertain is a darker time. As the Vigil’s readings attest, God’s people have known many period of painful waiting. We still do.

The world on this Easter Vigil night is reeling with death, violence, and war. In many countries people are waiting not for Easter celebration, but for cessation of gun fire, for freedom, for a way to provide food and shelter for their families.

In some places the wait has proved too long, and hope has died. I heard a man interviewed on NPR today who spoke of his seven years as a political prisoner as a time when “hope died.” When he heard of the revolution taking place in his country, he could not believe it. Then, when it continued for the second day he wondered if it might be true. Finally, hope stirred again in his heart. What had seemed dead had come to life; what he believed impossible was happening.

I imagine Jesus’ followers had similar feelings. When Jesus died on the cross, something inside them died as well: their expectations, as unformed as they might have been, were dashed. Their Messiah was dead and buried in a borrowed tomb. No wonder many had difficulty believing when the two women came telling them that they had seen Jesus, that he was risen from the dead.

In our lives, we, too, wait. We have hopes that have died, expectations that have not been met, dreams that have been dashed. I think of this as I hear the readings. i fidget. They are long. They remind me not only of the yearnings of God’s people, but also of my own. Celebrating the Vigil Mass is just one stop on our journeys. We come at different places in our lives, and yet, we are also one people on one journey: The transformation and salvation of all.

This liturgy allows us to pause together, to pray, and to lift one another’s hearts: Jesus has risen. The future, while a long time coming, is no longer unknown. Light will triumph over darkness; joy over sorrow; life over death. For each of us and for all of us together.