PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Over the past fifty years I have entrusted my heart, soul, and mind to entries in journal pages written in eclectic styles that include reflection, documentation, study, rant, questions, lists, drawings, and pasted bits of print, but whatever the form, the writing always ends up as prayer. At least my definition of prayer, which is presenting oneself to God in the very moment, aware, if only briefly, of resting in Divinity’s infinite self, breathing the Holy One’s breath as my own.

In dusty boxes, my life’s journey is recorded between covers of various sizes and colors on unlined pages that allow my pen and mind free range. My fifth grade handwriting teacher would be appalled by the seeming chaos, with words scrawled right to left, up and down along margins, squeezed between drawings, photographs, and program notes. But as the Spirit hovered over the swirling masses of creation, she sometimes shows up and helps me make sense of life that has spilled onto the pages.

Since their youth, my children have watched me fill up journals at all hours of the day and in all types of places: my office, the living room, on a park bench, at the beach house. Those memories stirred in my oldest daughter’s mind while she browsed a gift shop in a science and history museum in Louisiana, and when she returned home she stopped by and reached into her jacket, pulling out a small book.

“I brought you something, Mom,” she said. “I think you’ll like it. Jen and I went to a museum, but it wasn’t that interesting, so we spent some time looking around the gift shop. I saw this journal and thought that it was something you would use; it’s handmade.”

I took it from her and looked closely. A tiger-eye stone embellished the soft leather cover; the weight felt perfect in my hand. After we shared dinner and conversation about her trip, I gave my daughter a hug and many thanks. I waved goodbye, then sat on the couch, stroked the cover of my new book, and felt the pages. Unique, it should hold something other than the usual variety of entries that filled my other journals, but what?

The next morning, I knew: Blessings. This gift would become the repository for blessings that I manage to recognize. God is always showering the gift of self upon us, but I am often too busy or preoccupied to notice. Every once in a while, though, a blessing hits me over the head and I can’t miss it. The first one in this book? The love of a daughter: a daughter who, while on vacation, remembered me and my journal keeping and brought me an exquisite book to fill as I wish.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Life does not always provide opportunities to thank those who have made a difference in our lives, but when it does, the moment is one of grace. Last week I had the pleasure of welcoming into my home my high school Latin teacher who was in town for a class reunion.

The last time I had seen Louanna, she was called Sr. John Martha and wore the habit of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. More than love of Latin drew me back to visit Louanna during my first year of college. She had introduced me to the classics and through them to discussions of ageless themes that thread through human existence: friendship, suffering, faithfulness, old age, morality, common good, conflict, power, and the corruption that often attends it.

Despite disliking school for most of my undergraduate life, I found Latin class to be a bright spot as I trudged through high school years. We translated Virgil’s Aeneid, Cicero’s essays, and had lively discussions, grappling with issues these great thinkers encountered. I remember one question brought up by the love affair of Aeneas and Dido: Can one love to a fault? Some classmates said yes. I thought of my mother, one of the most loving people I knew and pondered the matter: From a Christian perspective, one cannot love too much, I decided. Wisdom and prudence are necessary when choosing how to express great love, but the love itself? Jesus gave us the answer. That I remember the text and my personal reflection on it forty odd years later is testament to the quality of Louanna’s teaching.

Near the end of my senior year, when Louanna asked if we would like to sell our copies of the Aeneid to the incoming class, only two students did not: my best friend, Jolaine and me. We treasured the deep purple book with its thin paper foldout vocabulary page and wonderful footnotes. “We’ll translate it again,” we told each other. I am not sure about Jolaine’s book, but mine travelled with me to college where I did translate it occasionally as I worked through other texts in Latin class.

Knowledge of Latin provided unexpected help when I backpacked through Europe a few summers later and stopped quite by chance in the beautiful town of Zernez. The gateway to the Swiss National Park, it is nestled in the Alps in a small area of Switzerland where Romansh is spoken, even today. To my delight, I could read signs and understand a little conversation. Of course, I could also translate Latin inscriptions on monuments in Rome, but hearing a linguistic cousin of Latin spoken by the living? That was exciting.

Today I keep a Latin/English dictionary handy and am thankful for the understanding of English and grammar that comes as a bonus with Latin studies. I am most grateful to my teacher for the introduction to great thinkers, authors, and poets. Louanna was delighted to learn that one of my daughters graduated with a degree in Classical Languages. I was delighted with the opportunity to spend Sunday morning with the woman who provided not only an oasis in my high school years, but also a love of classics and language that continues to enrich my life.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Many things, including this blog, were put on hold for the past week while I was busy packing boxes, making runs to Headstart or the Saint Vincent de Paul center with donations, and sorting through the last possessions left at the house as we prepared for closing.

I look on the successful sale of our home in this difficult economy as a grace. On the market for just a little over two months, our home was purchased by a young couple as taken with the park-like backyard as we had been twenty-eight years ago, and handing my house keys across the table to them was a joy.

Getting to that closing, however, in the three weeks from contract to sale, was not easy and included a hastily put together garage sale, endless phone calls and emails to determine what should be saved and what could be given away, and dividing what remained of jointly owned goods.

For weeks after work, I grabbed a fast food dinner and drove a half-hour to the house to help finish the job. No time for blogging or much of anything else. Now that the sale is history, I can return to “pre-sale” routines. The additional boxes sitting in my bedroom and living room waiting to be sorted through and repacked can be dealt with at a relaxed pace. I still need to find a full time job and catch up on writing projects, but with no more trips to the house or working into the early morning emptying it, my load is lightened. As I told a friend, I can see a light at the end of this tunnel.

Current changes in my life have not been easy. They require perseverance, faith, sweat, and sometimes tears. Support of family and friends have enabled me to keep going when I have felt like giving up. With gratitude and hope, I can happily say this particular challenge has been successfully met!

PHOTO: Sky & Telescope / Dennis Di Cicco

I stayed up late last night and set my alarm for 3am this morning to watch the Perseid meteor shower, and, as Alan MacRobert of Sky & Telescope wrote in his blog, even in a big city, I was not disappointed. I stood in the driveway, leaned against the garage, and eventually laid uncomfortably on the wooden bench swing to watch brilliant bits of debris left by the Swift-Tuttle comet in years past streak through the sky. Mac Robert’s blog said that some filaments left by the comet centuries ago – 441 and 1479 – might come into play this night. My mind reels at the thought.

I remembered times spent with my family and parents, sitting in field on a friend’s property south of town, wrapped in blankets and marveling at the show. Early this morning I wondered at the meteors’ silence, how they glowed and disappeared with no fanfare. “What else is like that,” I asked my sleepy brain.

Flowers open and close silently, as least to human ears. Plants growing, leaves letting go of branches in the fall. Celestial events happen without a sound: The sun painting the sky at dawn and later defining the moon with light brilliant enough to light up the night even indirectly bouncing off our natural satellite. Closer to home, I thought, cells divide and old cells die inside my body; my hair has turned gray without warning. My pupils make no sound as they open wide or narrow down as light conditions change.

As my mental list of amazing events grew, I became drowsy and decided I had better return for some sleep before heading off to work. Reluctantly, I lifted my body from the swing and took one last look at the sky.

“Grace,” I thought. “Grace slips into the soul without a sound.”
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Friends. God’s Grace. Emerson said, “The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.” Tonight I would add that they are also the support that keeps it standing.

I have been emotionally fragile for the past week or so. Alone in the early evening, sorting through Christmas ornaments and preparing to pack up the last few things in the house we are selling, I realized I did not have the heart for the work. I called a friend to see if he would like to go out to eat; he had other plans. I stared at the mess for a while and decided what I really wanted to do was drive back home and have dinner; I wished I had someone to share it with me.

I called a friend from my theology study days and she offered to meet me at a restaurant despite having already eaten. Forty-five minutes later we were sitting at a table. I ordered wine and fish and she sipped on a glass of ice water. Heartfelt sharing continued until we walked to our cars and parted after a warm hug.

I had not been home longer than five minutes when the phone rang. My night sky-watching friend called to see how I was doing. We both wished the sky was clear instead of harboring a storm; who knew, perhaps we could have seen a glimpse of the spectacular aurora borealis that was painting the sky further north. The Perseid meteor shower arrives next Thursday and depending on my work schedule, we might be able to spend an evening sitting atop her grassy roof watching.

After our conversation, while I was checking email, the phone rang again. This time it was one of my oldest friends, not by age, but by longevity of the relationship: We were college roommates our first year away from home. We have tramped through Europe together and camped across the country to South Dakota to climb Harney Peak and pray where Black Elk had prayed. We have supported one another through deaths of our mothers and of a friend.

Rita is not known for keeping in touch, but that doesn’t seem to matter. When we do see one another, talk over the phone, or write a letter (It has happened) the connection is deep and true. We caught up on life’s blessings and challenges and ended the conversation only because I had another call, from one of my daughters.

As I type, thunder rumbles and rain pelts the windows, but that is nothing compared to the deluge of love and warmth that has been falling on me all evening and late into this night.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

IMAGE: Artist Unknown
Last night I received a call from a good friend whose son suffers from chronic depression. He was not taking his medications and was sinking into a darker place than the one he usually inhabits.

After the call, I sat and let tears run down my cheeks. Another friend of mine has spent much of her income on medications and counseling, often doing without when disabilitly payments didn’t cover the costs. Why are some of us afflicted with a disease that makes the moment by moment choice of life so conscious and excruciating? Life dishes out enough pain and suffering to challenge all of us. Why do some people have to face its difficulties already burdened? It’s the Job question, I guess. Nothing new, but suffering is not rendered easier by its constancy throughout human history.

I have a friend who is writing his fourth volume of poetry. This one is based on Job, and I emailed the poet this morning requesting a preview: “I could use a few of your Job poems. Can you send some along?”

I hope he does. In the meantime, I gathered myself up and drove to my parish for morning Mass. Eucharist strengthens me when the only prayer I can utter is “help!”

The first reading was from Jeremiah and could sound offensive if one didn’t know, as the celebrant reminded us, that the people of the Old Testament attributed life’s happenings to God’s actions. Jeremiah was no different: If Israel was suffering under foreign powers, it was because God was punishing them for their sins. God made all these terrible things happen.

As I listened to the reading proclaimed I thought: I came to Mass for this? To hear that we deserve what ever suffering we experience and that God is its source? Not exactly uplifting. Of course, God was not the source of the pain and the following verses offered hope: God offers the hope of coming close, of being held and healed.

The second reading had Peter doing fine walking on water until he lost focus on God and began thinking of the absurdity of what he was doing: People don’t walk on water. Impossible. Then he sank.

After spending time in prayer, Jesus had come to his disciples huddled on a floundering boat in the middle of a storm. He had called to Peter and impulsive as he was, Peter jumped out of the boat and started walking.

Following that first impulse to trust God With Us is not easy for me to do. Like Peter, I start thinking and begin to sink.

Holy One who is always with us, help my friend trust in you to love her son through his lifetime struggle. Help me trust in your love, too, so I can offer hope to my friend and to those who struggle with depression. You cry with us. You invite us to come close. You promise to be with us and to provide life and healing.

Help me to stop thinking so much and to trust more.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Today the Catholic Times published a cover article: Catholic Blogs:Sharing the Gospel in the Digital Age by Tim Puet. When Tim interviewed me for the article, he saved this question for last: If Jesus were alive today, would he be a blogger? If so, what would he blog about?

I did not hesitate to answer “Yes.” I think Jesus would take advantage of opportunities offered by modern technology to reach a broad audience with his message. As I read the CT article, I was intrigued by fellow blogger Patrick Madrid’s comment that, in his opinion, Jesus would not blog as he preferred face to face communitcation.

A columnist in this week’s CT,Christina Capecchi, wrote about her choice not to Tweet during her trip to the Holy Land. “In order to tune in, I must log off,” she wrote.

Then, as if I did not have enough food for thought, the fortune cookie I broke open after dinner contained the admonition “Be Present to the Moment,” my mantra.

So, would I change my answer to Mr. Puet’s question? No, I would not. However, I am sure that if Jesus were alive today, he would be in control of his use of modern communication technologies, not be controlled by them, something many of us have yet to learn.

Because we are able to Tweet our thoughts and activities every few minutes, giving our followers a blow by blow description of our day, does not mean that we should. Because we are able to maintain contact with hundreds of acquaintances and friends through social networking like Face Book, does not mean we are obligated to do so.

Jesus did relish personal contact He was an observer of life, an appreciator of creation, a lover of conversation and story, but his priority was his relationship with the One who sent him. Jesus’ passion was giving his life to spreading the Kingdom, and in order to do that, he balanced his need for time alone in prayer with interaction with others. Often, need intruded on his desires and Jesus gave up his plans to retreat, climbing hills to speak to huge crowds or healing the sick who gathered at his door. On the other hand At times he probably frustrated his friends when he chose quiet prayer to hanging out with them. Jesus made choices. We do, too.

Jesus, the Divine incarnate, carried his love of God and commitment to revealing the Kingdom among us into the marketplace of life. He was a mystic in the marketplace, as I mentioned in other blogs. He used what he could to bring his message to every one, rich or poor, literate or non-literate. We are called to follow his example.

Like Jesus, we require time for prayer to deepen our relationship with God so we can reach out to others in the many ways available to us today. Responsible use of media and technologies (and that includes cell phones, email, television, and computer games as well as blogs) is a challenge, but the choice is ours. Use of digital communication does not preclude other, face to face conversations; sometimes it facilitates them.

IMAGE: Saint Brigid

Last month I presented a reflection on being “Mystics in the Marketplace” to a group of Catholic business people and their spouses. Today is the feast of Saint Brigid of Sweden, a woman who could be called a patron saint of mystics involved in the world. Years ago, my daughter took the name Brigid at Confirmation, but I had not thought of the saint for years. Reading about her reminded me of the many reasons Kathryn had for choosing this woman as one to inspire her.

At the age of thirteen Brigid married a nobleman, Ulf, who shared both her noble background and her religious commitment. Together they raised four boys and four boys. Brigid spent some of her adult life as a lady-in-waiting for the new queen of Sweden but was also known for her compassionate care of the poor and her prayer. She and Ulf made the famous pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela but on their journey Ulf became ill and died shortly after their return.

After Ulf’s death, Brigid devoted herself to religious life and founded an order for both men and women, the Brigittines or Order of the Holy Savior. Brigid did not remain in Sweden long enough to see the monastery completed but followed her call to Rome where she became a vocal proponent of Church reform.

She also became involved in negotiations for an end to the French and English war and challenged the moral laxity of the age. Her compassion and kindness to the common people of Rome made her a beloved figure.

The example of St. Brigid can speak to our age. Her life of prayer did not keep her from involvement in issues of the day. Quite the opposite. It was a source of strength and inspiration for her activity, enabling her to persevere in the face of resistance. She called for reform in the Church and in a society that had become self-indulgent.

Over the past one hundred days, we have witnessed an environmental tragedy that is emblematic of our lifestyle’s disproportionate use of the world’s oil supply. We are a society driven by consumerism that is in many ways self-indulgent. Brigid’s life challenges us to bring our faith with us into the marketplace of everyday life. She was not timid in speaking truth to power.

Interestingly, when Brigid founded her order she insisted on simplicity of life and even of architecture, but put no limit on the number of books members could own or read. She was a woman who valued education and sharing thoughts and ideas.

As evidenced in the effort to contain the BP Gulf oil spill, solutions to problems increasingly require input from people of various sectors including academia, business, and blue-collar workers.

Brigid was a woman, a wife, a mother, a leader, a reformer, and a person of deep prayer. We may be tempted to think one or two of these vocations rule out the others, but St. Brigid shows that to be wrong-headed. We must be people of deep prayer, and we must be deeply involved in the world.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Mary van Balen
“…Others fell on rich soil and produced their crop, some a hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty…”

Today’s gospel reading is the familiar story of the sower taken from MT 13. Most often, when I encounter it, I think of the seed as God’s Word and of myself as the soil. Am I inhospitable ground? Shallow? Distracted? Of course, I want to be rich soil where God’s word can take root and bear fruit not only for me but also for the Kingdom. Today, however, I had a different take.

Perhaps using half of a giant zucchini from my sister-in-law’s garden this morning suggested the new angle. As I scooped out seeds and pulp and shredded the rest for zucchini bread, I pictured Laurie’s garden space. She has cultivated it for years and the earth is loamy and dark, a fertile place for anything to grow. I imagined being in such a place myself. The Collegeville Institute provided such a place for me. I thought of the reading and myself as the seed in need of a nurturing place unobstructed by hard ground, bedrock, or rampant weeds where my shell would soften and my roots sink deep and spread wide, providing sustenance and anchor for the self that grows above ground, exposed to storms and drought as well as gentle rain and needed sunlight.

If I am the seed, what is the soil? Only God provides such a place for us: God’s own self, always available, always safe, rich, and life giving. A month ago I wrote a blog about thirty minutes of quiet time with God. Such prayer is a way to sink one’s roots into God’s Abundance. Remembering throughout the day that we are surrounded and are sustained by God helps us draw nourishment from her Abundance.

Thinking of myself as the seed and the plant also reminds me of the grace of stability. I can’t physically remain in one place all day, but my spirit can remained anchored in the God’s Life, and perhaps like summer zucchini plants, yield fruit a hundredfold!
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PAINTING: Wheat Field in Rain by Vincent van Gogh Vincent van Gogh Gallery
This Sabbath was meant to be kept,” the rain insisted last night as I sat in a pizzeria waiting for my dinner to arrive. It had been a pleasant day. After morning Mass, I ate a leisurely breakfast at Panera’s and read a friend’s essays written while he attended a writing workshop. They were good, ranging from a deepening relationship with his tattoo artist son who needed help translating “get out of my face” into Latin for a client to God’s maddening habit of going quiet.

I changed tables at the invitation of a friend who had come in for a quick lunch and finished my iced tea with her and her companion. Returning home, I wrote a blog entry and began cleaning my office, something I had wanted to do for weeks. On Friday I will have a visit from the Catholic Time’s editor and photographer. The paper is planning an article on local bloggers, and my workspace is not ready for public display.

Molly called from Minnesota. We talked about being a new mom (Her daughter is eleven months old) and marveled at how women have managed to raise children, cook dinners, and keep a house sort of clean for generations.

“It’s a marvel,” my busy friend said.

“Yes, and one women get little credit for doing,” I added, knowing that many people see a paycheck as the only bona fide proof of work that appreciably contributes to sustaining a household.

After the call I changed clothes to attend a farewell party for a young woman from work soon to embark on the adventure of attending law school in California. I was looking forward to sharing pizza and conversation about topics other than bra sizes and clearance prices.

Thunder and lightening threatened, but I slid an umbrella into my purse and drove off. First stop: the grocery to cash a check. I had driven only three blocks up the street when rain began pelting down as it had earlier in the day: in heavy sheets blown sideways. I crawled to the grocery, sat in my car for a few minutes and decided to make a dash for it hoping the storm would exhaust itself while I was inside.

Despite partially opening the umbrella in the car, I was soaked the moment I stepped out. My sandaled feet landed in a puddle deep enough for small fish, and rain drenched my pant legs from the knee down.

I sprinted thirty feet to the door only to find the store lights flickering off and on. A woman, hesitant to walk through the automatic door that stopped halfway between closed and open, looked at me with big eyes that asked, “Should I do it?”

“Just be quick,” I advised, not wanting to be caught in its path if the door sprung to life again in the closing rather than opening mode.

Inside, a manager was hurrying from cashier to cashier. “Does the belt run? Any power to the registers?” No. None. The store closed, its entrance lined with people reporting their situation on cell phones. I ran to the car, khaki pants sticking to my legs and brown leather on my sandals a wet black.

Driving out of the parking lot, I barely missed hitting a woman who suddenly emerged from a curtain of water. A huge puddle gathered where the parking lot met the street. I drove through it since the small voice from the past reminding me not to drive a car through such deep water had nothing to say about what to do instead.

The road had turned into a river flowing between cement banks. Cars hugged the center lanes but sprouted watery wings when they couldn’t avoid deeper places. I drove ten blocks to the pizzeria, sloshed inside, peeled off my jacket, and ordered a small pizza and soda.

And there I was on a Sabbath evening with nothing special to do and no place to go but home.
© 2010 Mary van Balen