PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Be patient, brothers, until the Lord’s coming. Think of a farmer: how patiently he waits for the precious fruit of the ground until it has had the autumn rains and the spring rains! You too have to be patient; do not lose heart, because the Lord’s coming will be soon. The Judge is already to be seen waiting at the gates.James 5:7-8,9

The reading from this evenings Vespers speaks to my heart. While life seems to fly by the older one becomes, it can also seem to crawl along. Finding a job, for example, takes forever these days. Many things in life take time to unfold, and I try to hurry it along. That is not a good habit, I have discovered, but it is difficult to break.

I admire the trust of farmers. They put seed in their fields, do all they can do, but in the end, they wait for rains, warm days and nights, and the process of growth itself, to see what type of harvest the will carry in.

I am called to that trust, as well. Where will I live and work? How will my young adult children will find their ways? Will my books find a publisher? These and countless life challenges take time to be met and for the results to unfold.

We do our best; we do what we can; and then we wait. When the wait is long, the temptation is to, as the author of the reading above warns, to lose heart.

In dark winter nights, I light the candles in my Advent wreath, gaze at the warm flame, and remind myself of the generations of waiting that bore fruit. Remembering that harvests did come, that some struggles have been met and have been resolved in ways more positive than I might have imagined.

Advent is a time to wait. Let us pray for wisdom and hope so we might persevere.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
“On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food…And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples…Then the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces…Let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation for the hand of the Lord will rest on this mountain.” Is 25:6a,7a,8a9b.10 (from today;s Mass readings)

Both the first reading and the gospel from today’s Mass present a warm and compelling picture of our God. Everything about the two accounts pulls us toward the Lord who is generous beyond anything we have experienced. I read these passages and think: “I want to be there.” This God is irresistible.

Hope stirs in my heart that begins to beat faster. Can there be such a place? Does such a God exist? No hunger, physical or emotional. No strife, no tears, no shame. All is forgiven and healed in one immense embrace of Love.

Twice in my recent past, I have been graced with a taste of what is to come. Odd as this may seem to some, one of the places that came to mind as I sat with these passages was a beach house in Thailand. I had been visiting with a friend who had gone there for medical treatment, and since a number of the doctor’s patients were Christians from the western hemisphere, he threw a party for us on Christmas.

“For you, this is a feast of love,” he said, ” and you are far away from your family and friends. So tonight, we will be your family and we will celebrate together.” And celebrate we did. The good Buddhist doctor, his family, staff, and friends, through a party for those who had come for physical healing. The food was unending as was the love and compassion shown to all. I still can feel the warmth and embrace of our Thai friends and friends we had met from around the world. I would return.

The second place that exuded acceptance, warmth, and community is the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical & Cultural Research. When I arrived for the academic year, exhausted in all ways, I was given the time, space, and support that helped restore my physical, emotional, and spiritual self. The setting, was serene and beautiful, as I imagine were the mountain settings in the Scripture readings. While there, I joined with Benedictine communities of monks and nuns in worship and prayer.

As deeply transforming as both of these experiences were, they were but a glimpse of what God has in store for each of us, for all of us together. Matthew;s gospel presents another encounter with Jesus that makes my heart yearn within me:

“Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind, the mute, and may others. They laid them at his feet, and he cured them…he took the seven loaves and fish; and after giving thanks he broke them and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all of them ate and were filled…” Mt 15:29-30; 36-37

I once read a book, “The Secret Life of Bees,” that made me want to “go there” to find the fictional home of August Boatwright and make it home for awhile. The draw was the same and as ancient as that found in the Scriptures, in the Buddhist doctor’s actions, and the CIECR’s community: Holy Love. unconditional and poured out on everyone, salving our human hurts and wounds. Food, the kind you eat as well as the kind you draw in through your skin, that fills the empty places within.

Advent is a time of anticipation: Jesus has come to show us the way home to the place that exceeds our most extravagant imagining of all that is good. He came once and walked with us on the earth; he comes now, through others; and he will come again, to show us the way home into the embrace we long for. The place that will finally fill us up.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Jesus was walking along the sea of Galilee and saw two fishermen casting their nets out for a catch. He called to them and asked them to leave their nets and follow him and he would make them fishers of men.

What would make two grown men leave their nets and follow a stranger who promised to make them, of all things, fishers of men? What does that mean anyway? The only thing stranger than the invitation was the response of Simon and Andrew: Sure. We’ll leave everything we know to follow someone we don’t to become something we are not sure what it is.

Once, while reflecting with a group on this section of Matthew’s gospel(4,18-22) which is the reading for today (the feast of St. Andrew)someone volunteered that perhaps Andrew was tired of being a fisherman. He was ready to move on to something else.

I know that feeling and suppose it has been the motivation for many people to take a leap into the unkown: The known has become just too painful, depressing, or unproductive to continue. Something else, almost anything else, can appear attractive when one’s life is oppressive. The promise of the unknown is untarnished by its realities.

If Simon and Andrew knew ahead of time what dropping their nets and following Jesus would mean, they might have reconsidered. But they didn’t. Besides, Jesus was a commanding presence.

He must have had overwhelming charisma. I remember hearing Mother Theresa speak and felt the magnetism of holiness as I walked near her in the lobby afterward. People were drawn to her, wanted to touch her clothes, just be close to the Good that emanated from her.

Mother Theresa was holy; Jesus is God. I wonder what being around him, even in the early days of his public life, was like. From the response of Andrew and Simon, I imagine it was overpowering. Jesus’ presence demanded response. Some people moved with him. Others dug in their heels and opposed him.

Sometimes, being faithful to who we are made to be requires courage to leave the familiar behind and embrace the unknown. What makes this possible for me is trust in God-with-Us. I don’t have the grace of having Jesus standing oustide my house calling out directions, but I do have the gift of friends and wise companions who help me discern God’s voice speaking in my heart.

Advent is a time of waiting, of listening, of preparing our hearts to accept the gift of God’s self and what that means in our lives. I may not be as quick as Andrew or Simon to drop my nets, but I pray that I will be as faithful to my new path when I do.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Unexpected activity on the homefront resulted in my arriving late for Mass,and I walked in while the celebrant was delivering his homily.

Bill, one of the hospitality misinters that morning, gave me an especially long, warm hug. I put my head on his shoulder and thanked him for his welcome. I love my little parish. No one feels judged there. All are welcome, even when they are late.

I stood and listened as the priest spoke about two expereinces of time, “chronos” and “karios.” I think reading Madeleine Le’Engle first introduced me to these two concepts. Chronos is the time most of us expereince every day, the time that we measure, plan, fill up, or fritter away. “Chronological” comes from “chronos” and we are familiar with what that means: events follow one another in a linear fashion.

“Kairos” is different. It is “Now,” always present. I think of it as God’s time. It is in the moment that we meet God, that we rest in the Divine. “In God, there is no time.” How often I have heard those words spoken, sometimes while on retreat, sometimes in periods of formation in a community of spritual seekers.

Once, someone asked me why we pray for the dead. “They are dead, gone. What good does it do to pray for them now?” The words that sprung to my lips were: “There is no time in God. Everything exists in one holy moment of NOW. In God’s eyes, there is no past or future. He holds each of us, our entire lives, in the Divine embrace. We exist always in God.”

Our life journeys appear linear to us, but, as one friend said, God looks at us and sees us as we were made to be. I like to ponder that and make space in my days to sit in silence, aware of being in the Presence of the Holy One, aware that all is held in existence by Patient Love. It helps me deal with the chronological expereince of my day, which is often packed with things to do and places to be.

After the homily, I slipped into a pew and joined with the others in praying our way through the liturgy. I received communion and expereinced the sense of kairos: God is truly present within me, within us all.

When Mass was over, I walked to the back of the church and looked at cards hanging on the “Giving Tree,” searching for one that spoke to my heart, for something I could give to a person in need this holiday: ladies pajamas, shoes, jackets and hats. Then I saw it, a card with the name “Geneva H.” printed large. A little Geneva wanted a life-like baby doll. I stared at the card.

My mother’s name was Geneva, as was my grandmother’s, and their last name began with an “H.” I have never met another Geneva, young or old. Never.

My mother died a little over two years ago, but she is part of who I am, and memories of her remain vivid. She loved children. Nothing made her happier than to hear she was to be a grandmother or great-grandmother again. She beamed as if each time was the first time.

“I don’t understand why my granddaughters don’t finish their education, get married, and have a family,” she’d say. “There is nothing better to do with your life.” Granddaughters studying for their PhD’s puzzled her. She was proud of them, of course, but hoped for them that they would one day find the right man, settle down and raise a family.

As I reached out and lifted the card from the tree branch, I expereinced a moment of karios. A moment of knowing that my mother, and her mother, and I, and this little Geneva were all held by God, the Maternal Spirit that wraps us all in Love as we move through time and in time and finally realize that what is essential has always been with us.

I can’t wait to go shopping for a baby doll. I will be faithful to sitting quietly for some part of each day, mindful of the gift of Christmas, the child born from a young woman’s womb, to teach us that what we long for is already given.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTOS: Mary van Balen
This year’s Advent wreath reflects the non-traditional path I have been traveling and the beauties to be found in it. Many of my belongings are packed away and I was not sure what kind of wreath would mark the weeks of Advent. After unsuccessfully looking for the perfect blue and rose colored candles or candle holders, I decided to use what was at hand instead.

I drove to a friend’s home, and together we walked past her old barn and along the paths that wind through fields and along fence rows to gather earth’s bounty. I had nothing particular in mind and we kept eyes and hearts open to see what would be offered for the taking.

Cold winds had stripped away petals and foliage revealing what undergirds nature’s magnificent summer displays. The spare brown stems and delicate lattices that held each flower in place have their own subtle beauty.

Winter in our lives can do the same to us as challenges and suffering strip away externals and force us to look at what holds us together and enables us to be who we are. Rather than lament the passing of summer and its extravagant gifts, we learn to wait through winters and appreciate the graces they bring.

So, my Advent wreath celebrates the simple yet profound and hard-won graces of this time in my life. It reminds me that I wait with the rest of creation for the re-birthing of the Holy One within me and within the world. I will have faith and know that I am not alone in my vigil.

Walking the fields with Melanie, warming our frozen fingers around a hot cup of tea and eating homemade bead at her counter was a liturgy celebrating the beginning of this season.

I returned home and arranged the berries, pine, stems, and grasses around four vigil candles and a bird’s nest. All creation is gathered together and it speaks of the miracle of God’s choosing to be one with us.

Jesus was born two-thousand years ago to help us recognize the Divine Presence that lives within us. The Holy One who is our center and support. Who makes us who we are. Who does not abandon us in the winters of our lives.

Jesus is re-born in each of us and will bring all things to oneness with Him and with The One Who Sent Him. Advent celebrates what was, what is, and waits expectantly for what is to come. As I ponder the events of the past year and of my present place, I know that we are called to do the same.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTOS:Mary van Balen
I live in the house where she and dad raised my four silblings and me. I sit on their couch, launder clothes in the washer she’d used for years and gaze out the dining room window, watching squirrels scamper up and down the grand pin oak in the front yard. Just like mom did, and her mother before her. Over the past two years since she died, many things remind me of her and I miss her face, her hugs, her love.

Thanksgiving preparations put an ache in my heart, a deep-down “missing mom” that lingered over dinner and remained as I fell into bed.

I used her rolling pin to make pie crusts.

“There’s nothing to making a pie crust,” she always said. Her mother, Becky, who lived with us, had said the same thing. I believed them and have made my own pastry since I could reach the counter. With every handful of flour, every pass of the rolling pin over the dough, I thought of her and tried to put as much love as she had done into each pie.

“Mom,” I said, “I could use one of your smiles, or comments that everything will be fine.
Not that I doubt that it will or that I haven’t had Thanksgivings without the entire family gathered around the table, but this year is different. The separation is finally legal. A good thing.”

I put the pie crusts in the freezer to chill and moved on to pin wheels. They were a favorite and disappeared almost as quickly as they came out of the oven. The old cake pans, black with decades of patina, were still in the oven drawer were they always were. The pin wheels baked while I mixed pumpkin, eggs, and spices and filled the crusts. As sweet pungent smells filled the house, I sat at the kitchen table and continued my conversation with Mom.

She was pleased to see her daughter carrying on traditions she had passed along and reminded me that chilling the crusts and crimping their edges was an improvement. I could almost feel her arm around me and knew it was her whisper that reassured me: “Everything will be good in the end.”
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Mary van Balen
Yesterday was a struggle. Perhaps, as my spiritual director suggested, this year’s holiday season will be difficult. When she mentioned that a week ago, I was quick to respond: “Oh, I don’t think so. I have been living on my own for close to two and a half years. Besides being legally recognized, not much has changed. I’ll be fine.”

She smiled, and knew better I suspect. This time last year my three daughters joined dad and me for Thanksgiving. This year, Dad is in a nursing home, and I baked a ham tonight to give him an alternative to turkey when my daughter and I have dinner with him at noon on Thursday. Later my daughter and I will visit one of my brothers and his wife. I need to be in bed early to be ready for work in at 4:45 am on Black Friday (Stay tuned for that one!).

Many times all three daughters have not been able to make it home for Thanksgiving. What is different this year is that there is no family home for them to return to, and there will not be again, at least not in the traditional understanding of “family home.”

I thought of my sister traveling to spend the holiday with all three of her children and their spouses (and fiancee), my brother with his clan of children and grandchildren gathering at the farm. Sadness crept into my heart. Once again my spiritual director had proved wiser than me.

I felt stuck, mired in a place between what had been and what might be. Most of my belongings remain in boxes stacked around my bedroom. When self-pity threatened to take over, I did something uncharacteristic for me: I cleaned.

My office was a mess: court documents that needed filed mixed with correspondence, sales receipts and countless other bits of paper laying on my desk. The file cabinet was unorganized and deciding the right place to put freelance writing projects and bills was almost impossible. So, I decided on a deep-down clean and reorganization.

For hours, papers and file folders spilled onto the floor. I had a “shred” pile, a “return to file” pile, and a “pack away” pile. By 6am the next morning, the piles were gone and I had designated a separate drawer in the file cabinet for different projects and personal papers. After setting the alarm for 1:30 pm the, I fell into bed.

“I’m unstuck,” I thought as I closed my eyes and smiled. I had only a moment to savor the sense of purpose and direction that accompanied preparing my work space for writing projects. “I am a writer with jobs to do and ideas to pursue,” I told myself and then promptly fell asleep.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Mary van Balen
“FAITH: May the God of FAITH be with you, sending you miracles and teaching you to expect them. May God show you things that can be seen only in darkness. May your faith see you through the unknowns in your life, calling you to trust the unseen presence of God in them. May your faith serve as a beacon to light the way for other pilgrims on the way. May the blessing of FAITH be upon you.” p 60

My group of “Sabbath House” friends sat together after dinner, pondering the blessings that come with struggle and pain in our lives. We read a meditation by Joyce Rupp and then shared our personal struggles and the blessing they offered, however difficult to see or feel at the moment.

Max, leader for the evening, had placed a stack of her new book, “Blessing Upon Blessing,” on the coffee table.

“Pick a number,” she said to Ann, and then opened her book to that page and read the blessing aloud.

“Amen,” the rest affirmed as Max handed Ann a copy of the book. Ann turned to me.

“Pick a number.”

“60,” I said, and we all chuckled since I had been celebrating my 60th birthday for the past few weeks with various friends and activities.

Ann read the blessing of FAITH quoted at the beginning of this blog. The blessing seemed particularly appropriate for my current journey, and I tried to open myself to the grace it named, appreciative of the groups “amen!”

I was given a book and turned to Lavonne, continuing the circle of blessings. Each prayer seemed meant for its recipient, and by the final “amen,” the room was awash in the awareness of God With Us at that moment and in our lives.

As I reflect on the idea of “blessing,” the words of a priest friend come to mind. We had been talking when someone came up with a bottle of water and asked him to bless it. He did, and when the woman left, happily carrying her bottle of holy water my friend turned to me and said: “The blessing just makes us aware of what is already holy.”

As Max wrote in the introduction to her book, blessings are part of “this double-edged journey to the Holy.” When a blessing is given and received, we become aware of “…what has been there all along…a loving and lavish God who never stops blessing us.”

Today I have found myself grieving for what has and has not been in my life; for things hoped for that were never realized and for things unwanted that came along anyway. Letting go of lost dreams and accepting reality is painful, and today it brought heaviness to my heart and tears to my eyes.

Yet, as I sat with Max’s book of blessings and prayed not only the blessing of Faith, but also of the blessing of BEGINNING AGAIN, peace began to seep back into my heart:

“May the God of BEGINNING AGAIN be with you. May that God hold you near as you grieve what is past and move with faith into what is to be. May the hand of God carry you across the darkness of loss into light. May your courage and your trust become for those around you a living witness to the mystery of death and rising. May the God of BEGINNING AGAIN bless you.”

Only after praying with this for a while did the structure of the blessings become obvious to me. It reflects both the desire to receive blessing and the blessing our remaining faithful to our journey is to others in our lives. I felt a little foolish that I needed so long to see why Max’s blessings moved me the first time she used them at one of our Sabbath House gatherings.

We are called to bless and be blessed, and the Holy One is the source of both. Today my need was greater than what I had to give, or so I felt, anyway. So, before going to bed I gave myself the luxury of resting in one last blessing:

“May the God of NOW, the Divine, I AM, invite you into each moment, into each circumstance and experience of your life. May you enter the NOW of your life and stand with the God who is already there. May you become aware that you are never alone and may you share this Now God with all those who are searching. May the God of NOW, the God of Presence, bless you.

Amen.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

(To order this book contact: The Spirituality Network, Inc.
614.228.8867
spiritnetwk@hotmail.com
or visit the website: spiritualitynetwork.org)

PHOTO: Internet Movie Database
The movie, “Agora,” tells the story of Hypatia, the great female mathematician, philosopher, and scientist of ancient Egypt during the fifth century CE. The story follows atheist Edward Gibbon’s account of the destruction of the great library in Alexandria that has Christians destroying the collected wisdom of the ancient world. While a number of ancient sources place the burning of the library well before the time of Christ let alone the life of Hypatia, the library’s destruction was likely not due to a single event but to many, some as mundane as crumbling papyrus and lack of time, money, and interest to maintain such a huge collection.(see The Mysterious Fate of the Great Library of Alexandria, Bede’s Library, James Hannam ; The Great “Library” of Alexandria?” by Heather Phillips; Library of Alexandria, Wikipedia; The Burning of the Library of Alexandria by Preston Chesser . )

While the story of Hypatia, an independent woman in the male domain of scholarship, the history of Alexandria, and the fate of the library kept me riveted to the screen, the theme of intolerance and violence born of religious fanaticism was uncomfortably current.

How quickly human beings divide themselves into “us” and “them,” making oppression, violence, terrorism, and holy wars acceptable, even good. My stomach felt sick as I watched Christians, Jews, and Pagans slaughter one another in the name of God.

Humankind has made great strides in science and technology, but we have not moved as far from the self-righteousness and arrogance that oozed out of the movie’s religious “leaders.” The philosophical Hypatia was the most noble of character, tolerant, peaceful, and committed to the search for understanding the mysteries of the universe.

I left the theater curious about the Royal Library and Hypatia. I also left with the conviction that people of faith must live lives of peace and justice. Many do that in quiet ways, living good lives. Little at a time they allow Grace to touch the world. Still, we should not be afraid to speak out against atrocities committed in the name of God of Love no matter who is responsible. How would today’s people of faith, I wondered, fare in a movie made about struggles in the beginnings of the twenty-first century?
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTOS:Mary van Balen
Short gray hair replaced the long dark cascades that framed her face in younger years and some songs were voiced in a lower pitch, but Joan Baez still sang songs that called blessings on the poor and homeless, the “salt of the earth,” that lamented the injustice suffered by “deportees,” and that called for peace.

Her voice occasionally soared in the same hauntingly clear tremulous soprano tones that had filled concert halls and farm worker’s fields in the 60’s and 70’s. More often, the sound was softer, and once the ending of piece appeared sooner than expected, dangling awkwardly for a moment between her and the young man who was accompanying her on guitar.

“We love you, Joan!” someone in the audience shouted.

She looked up. “Even with all my flaws?”

The answer was resounding applause. “Yes!”

“Well, they will spill out all over,” she said with a smile. If they did, no one noticed.

The evening was a delightful ninety minutes, honoring not only the woman standing humbly before us, honestly singing out her heart and soul, but also her years of giving, of challenging, of championing the poor and forgotten.

The crowd relished joining in on the chorus of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” I managed to refrain from singing along with so many that I had sung as a young woman myself in coffee houses, sing-a-longs, and war protest marches. Joan Baez had been a heroine. Along with Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and Peter, Paul, and Mary, she was an inspiration and source of songs that became part of my repertoire.

How refreshing to join with others in celebrating the gift of a life well-lived. No feigned Hollywood perfection. No attempt to hide evidence of hard fought struggles. No adulation of youth. Age does not diminish what we have to give to the world, only how we offer it. At nearly seventy, Joan Baez still tours the world, singing her songs, lifting the marginalized into view, calling for justice, recognizing God with us, and asking for blessings.

After the concert, I visited with a friend I had sung with years ago. He is recovering from open-heart surgery and this was his first night out. Like Joan Baez, he is still singing. When he left, I wandered outside and joined a handful of others hoping to see Joan. Time passed quickly as I shared conversation with a mother and daughter who had arranged to enjoy the evening together: Christy and Elise.

PHOTO:Christy
Finally Joan emerged from the theater and walked to the large touring bus. Tired as she must have been, she graciously signed autographs and posed for photos with her fans. I was grateful for the opportunity to thank her for her life, for her work, and appreciated the hug she gave me in return.
© 2010 Mary van Balen