I walked downstairs this morning and saw today’s newspaper laying on the dining room table. The headline and photo arrested my attention: “WHICH IS MORE HUMANE?” The photo showed the death house at an Ohio prison that held both an electric chair and a gurney used when giving a lethal injection.

Together the photo and headline seemed an oxymoron. How could putting someone to death possibly be humane, no matter how it is done? The question was raised as the result of the inability of a team of emergency medical technicians in Ohio to execute a prisoner by lethal injection. They tried for almost two hours and could not find a suitable vein for the IV. Gov. Ted Strickland finally called a halt to the prolonged attempt. The inmate’s lawyers are appealing, and at the moment the man convicted of abducting, raping, and murdering a fourteen year old girl has no execution date set.

Many Ohioans are outraged. “Why worry about being humane to a cold-blooded murderer?” they ask. His heinous crime gives permission to treat him as less than a human being, or so some people are saying.

In the Catholic Church October is “Respect Life Month.” Many church-goers will hear sermons on the need to end abortions. Life is a gift. True. But life is a gift from its beginning to its end. I am struck by the apparent ease with which some who are adamantly opposed to abortion change their “respect life” stance when the death penalty is involved.

Emotionally, supporting the right of an innocent unborn baby to be born is much easier that holding out for the right of a convicted killer to live his or her life to its natural end. The desire for vengeance is strong.

Once while driving home from work, I heard a NPR program featuring people who had put prisoners to death sharing memories of the executions they had participated in. I couldn’t listen to the entire program; my stomach was sick.

As long as a person has life, he or she has the possibility of transformation. Jesus did not give up on the those who crucified him or the criminal who hung beside him. Redemption is God’s gift. Judging anyone irredeemable is not our right.

Years ago in Texas, a woman who had murdered her husband was executed despite her transformation. She had become a model prisoner and was praised by guards for helping other inmates. She had become a Christian, and her faith which had moved her to serve others where she was, strengthened her as she faced death that came despite appeals from around the world to spare her life. Even the Pope had pleaded for her, recognizing the good work she was doing.

Why was she murdered? She was a wonderful example of rehabilitation that worked. The system would not forgive.

I hope that in this “Respect Life Month” we will look at all life, even the most corrupted and repugnant, and realize that we have no right to take it away. Instead we should pray for the sinners, for their victims and their victims’ families and leave the end of life to the One that began it.

How much easier to tackle a project like painting a room when others share the work! A friend has helped me with preparing and painting the wood trim. I am actually looking forward to finishing it! My daughter agreed to paint the ceiling. This little “office” will be bright and ready to hold bookshelves, desks, and a computer before I know it.

Happy St. Francis Day!

This was a feast day I celebrated with my children by baking animal-shaped sugar cookies or buying a big bag of animal crackers! Even when they were away in college, I sent animal cookies. This year I did not think about the feast until it was almost here, too late to send anything. I conveyed my greetings over email or cell phone, but that is not the same.

Of course, my adult children did not need the animal crackers. There is just something about keeping traditions, no matter how small, that connect our present to the past and the future. Traditions are a constant in a world that is always changing. Traditions bring the warm comfort of memories, especially appreciated when the present is cold and harsh. Next year I will try not to forget.

Today will be a gift to myself: I am painting a small bedroom that will become my office. It has been sitting empty, waiting. Weeks ago, my brother prepared the walls, filling in cracks and repairing a little water damage, not much for a ninety-year-old home. Why have I waited so long to pick up where he left off? Doing something for myself often is more difficult than doing something for others.

This may be a “mother’s syndrome.” Attuned to needs of our families from the moment we wake to cradle a crying infant, we buy clothes, pack lunches, and organize impossible schedules. We dry tears, cheer at games, and help with homework. We listen, hold, and make our house a home.

These are good things, but sometimes in the process, I forget the necessity of doing something for “me.” Painting my office does not seem as important as meeting with concerned students, being with my father, celebrating a daughter’s entrance into grad school, or riding along as she makes a last minute run for computer parts. (Those errands are always more fun when done with someone else.)

The hours spent for others, especially my children, are treasures I would not trade for any amount of time or money. Relationships are most important: God, family, and those who people my life. Still, how easy to forget the relationship with self, the need to nurture one’s spirit so it does not wither. I can tell when mine is drying up: I resent others and their needs. I want to go away, read a book, or watch a movie, anything that does not demand attentiveness.

What wilts my spirit ? Lack of sleep. Constant activity. Neglect of prayer. Not being able to say “no.” Stress. Bad eating habits. Nothing new. What we all know, but often ignore.

I would like to claim all of the above as reasons for not painting the room, but to be honest, I have to throw in a bit of procrastination. That being said, I am taking this day and making a beautiful space for myself. As I work, I will remember that God wants me to have what I need. After all, she is a mother, too.

Words from “October Days” by M. van Balen
Photos: by M. van Balen The Collegeville Institute

“THE SUN HITS THE LEAVES ALREADY ON FIRE…”

“…FLAMING TO THE SKY…”

“LEAVES ON THE TREES, ON THE GROUND, AND IN THE AIR SMILE AS I WALK BY…”

October has arrived with the brilliance I have come to expect: bright blue skies, leaves kindled by afternoon sun or softened in evening light. Crisp air energizes me and announces colder temperatures to come. I look forward to throwing on a sweater or burrowing under blankets at night.

For years, our family spent a late October weekend in a rustic cement block “lodge” nestled between wooded ridges and streams. We roasted apples, played games, hiked, and kept a fire burning in the huge fireplace for three days. No one minded the absence of TV or telephones.

One frosty morning when I was twenty-something, I hopped onto my bicycle and peddled around neighborhood streets drinking in the glory of an October morning. When the beauty of it became overwhelming, I rode home, took out my guitar and turned the experience into a song, “October Days.”

I often kept vigil on September 30, waiting for the earth to slip into October and when it idid, I serenaded it with my song. My children remember staying up with me when they were young, eager to sing in the season. One or another of them still calls to share in welcoming the month.

“…The sun shining on the grass makes the dew look like ice;
and the wind on my face is cold.
It makes me want to smile and say to the world,
I’d say ‘Wake up world, and love this day.
It’s a gift you know, and it’s yours
If you only knew the way
to get lost in an October day…”

It’s raining. For those sitting in the stadium waiting for the big game to begin or for my daughter who rode her motorcycle over to join me for lunch, that is not such a good thing. But I don’t mind. Rain makes me want to find a good book, fix a cup of tea, and spend the day reading. My daughter called after work yesterday and said the weather on the east coast was grey and wet. “I want to go back to my apartment, put on my sweats, and just veg. Maybe read a book or watch a movie. If my friends want to get together we can sit around my place, mess and all.”

In a voice that exuded relief, one friend told me that he was scrapping his outdoor “to do list” and working on quieter, more reflective tasks inside.Rain provides permission to change plans to something we would rather be doing. I am not sure why that is true, but for me, it always has been. Waking up to the staccato sound of rain on the windows or the tin roof over my old study immediately filled my mind with alternatives to the day’s schedule: Instead of going to work, I could stay home and cook an amazing dinner or bake a batch of cookies. I could write the long overdue letter to my friend in California. I could take a walk if the rain were warm.

The older I get, the less often I follow the subversive rain whispers of abandoning “adult” responsibilities for spontaneous pursuits. But I am glad the rain hasn’t quit making the suggestions, and I am never sorry when I follow its advice.

My friend and I took a back way to Panera’s for breakfast, using a new road that zigged and zagged through an expanse of flat field before ending in a parking lot that wrapped around the strip mall from behind. Surprisingly, the sharp turns unsettled my sensitive inner ear and motion sickness set in with each bend.

“Why the turns?” I asked. No hills, rock outcroppings, streams, nothing necessitated the erratic course. The black asphalt looked as though someone had painted it with a fat brush and jerky hand across a huge, pale canvass of dying weeds. How much easier to lay two lanes straight and even.

“They’’ll probably fill this field with little shops and restaurants,” my friend replied.

The shops would have to be small, I thought. On the other hand, I don’t see the big picture. The road was like life, taking turns and changing direction for no apparent reason. By this time next year, no one will remember what the field around Panera’s looked like before our consumeristic lifestyle ate up one more parcel of rich farmland. Life takes longer, but eventually, I will look back and see how its crooked lines wrote straight, forget the motion sickness and confusion, and wonder why I couldn’t trust the sense of it all along.