Grace in the Moment

January 18, 2017 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

The Call to Love, Right Where We Are

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, January 7, 2017

I spent a nice, low-key last day of 2016. Ran a few errands. Mailed two packages. Share a leisurely lunch with a good friend who came back to my place for a few last Christmas cookies and conversation. As I write and wait for midnight, I hear one of my daughters and friend laughing in the living room, here for a few hours before heading out to a party. A nice, homey, New Year’s Eve.

I admit to looking forward to 2017 with some trepidation, more aware than usual of the uncertainties we face at home and around the world. The issues are not new, but carry an increased sense of urgency: civil rights, immigration, poverty, global warming, terrorism, war.

Over the holidays, a friend shared with me the trauma she is experiencing after returning from working on a documentary in the Holy Land. While she heard lots of talk of Bethlehem as Christmas approached, and the strains of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” filled the air, she was overcome by the suffering she witnessed in the modern occupied city of Bethlehem.

“Both Palestinians and Jewish Israelis, say, ‘There is no such thing as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder here because there is no Post, just traumatic stress disorder’,” she said.

Her experience of one small part of the world speaks to the fear and uncertainty of so many in the global “neighborhood.”

How do we move forward into this new year? As followers of the Christ, how do we bring the love and peace of God’s kingdom into the world? How do we live with hope?

Yesterday, I read the next-to-the-last-last chapter of the Rule of Saint Benedict which spoke of the “good zeal” of monastics: to show respect for the other, to seek what is better for others, to support one another, and to show patience and love. Above all, to love God.

In the face of great challenges, loving those we live with and encounter in our daily lives seems trivial. What difference can such small actions make?

In commentary following the passage from the Rule, Benedictine Joan Chittister speaks to Benedict’s insistence on listening for God’s voice in one another and in the present moment. She recounts a wisdom story from another tradition: A seeker asks the teacher how to reach Enlightenment. The answer is deceptively simple: No special time or place is required. No special way of listening or unique places to look. Being present to the moment, to the people around you, to the place where you are is what is needed. Enlightenment happens there.

painting: The Good van Gogh Samaritan, by Vincent

The Good Samaritan by Vincent van Gogh

Jesus in the gospels tells his followers that the Kingdom of God is now, in the moment, as well as coming. He said whatever we do for the least among us, we do for him. He invited us to live as he lived, present in the moment to his relationship with God and with neighbor. And Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan, clearly shows who that neighbor is—everyone.

Why is hearing God’s voice and experiencing God in the moment and in others so difficult? Why is “Practicing the Presence of God,” as the 17th century Carmelite, Brother Lawrence taught, such a challenge? Reading his work of the same title, we realize being truly present to God in ordinary life is a human struggle, not unique to our time.

The temptation is to imagine, like the seeker in Joan’s story, that God is found in extraordinary places. That to participate in transforming the world with Divine Love requires dramatic action, and that only a few exceptionally “holy ones” are called to do so.

As we enter 2017, the temptation is to be overwhelmed and think our lives too small, our actions too insignificant to make a difference. Jesus tells us “not so.” The temptation is to look to others, more powerful, more “important” to do the work. Jesus turns that upside down, too. He called poor fisherman, women, and people on the fringes of society ordinary people, not the religious or political big-wigs of his day to bring Love into the world.

And Jesus assured us that we don’t act alone. Joined with the Source of all that is, our acts of love are part of the Divine Act of Love that confronts darkness and is not overcome. Here is the hope we carry into the new year. Be present. Be aware of God-with-us right where we are. And trust in the power of the Love that flows through us to transform the world.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, civil rights, compassion, Grace in the Moment, hope, inclusion, love, present to the moment

December 8, 2016 By Mary van Balen 8 Comments

Drawing All into the Circle of Love

Advent wreath with taper and glass candelabra surroounded by shells, arrowhead, driftwood, and a feather.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times December 11,2016

After a lovely and unusual Thanksgiving weekend spent with my two sisters and their husbands, I was caught unawares by Advent. Oh, in a vague sort of way I knew it was coming, but I was busy with work, publishing a book, and cleaning the house for my company.

When they left on Saturday afternoon, I ran errands and fell asleep, stretched out on the couch. Then suddenly it was Sunday, and I had not prepared a wreath. Resisting the urge to run out and buy candles, I decided to use what was already around the house.

Over the years, my wreath has evolved into something decidedly untraditional. Forty years ago, inspired by Black Elk (a Lakota holy man who, I later learned, became a Catholic catechist), I sewed and beaded four tiny red leather pouches filled with a mixture of sage and sweet grass symbolic of kinnikinnick used by some Native Americans in their great peace pipes and in other rituals.

The pouches rested on four direction points of the wreath: North, East, South, and West. A feather, shells, and a small buffalo cut from leather also decorated the pine boughs, a reminder that God is the Creator of all things, and that all things are made holy by the Incarnation.

Eventually, allergies and bronchitis set off by aromatic resin and the mold that clung to the freshly cut pine necessitated its removal. I thought about artificial greenery but decided against it.

four vigil candles arranged on linen surrounded by tiny read leather pouches, feeather, shell, and other items for Advent wreathit

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Instead, I used beeswax vigil candles arranged on a round linen doily or tray covered with a deep blue napkin. The little pouches, feather, shells, and buffalo remained. A stone from the shores of the Sea of Galilee, gift of a friend, became a regular addition. Once I added a bird’s nest and soft, dried pampas grass plumes. Everything belongs in this circle. We stand on holy ground.

This year, I found tucked in a drawer some beeswax candles from Burton Parish, the colonial Episcopalian church in Williamsburg, VA. The tapers would just fit into the two simple glass candelabra that my parents had used to decorate the table at their wedding reception.

I washed and dried the candle holders, remembering an old photo of my parents, their families, and friends gathered around a long table in Dad’s family home for the celebration. The candelabra would gather my family and the human family into the circle of my “wreath.”

Along with the usual items, a wooden frog from Thailand, a fossil scallop picked up along the York River under Super Moon’s shine, a smooth piece of chert from a Paris walkway, and an arrowhead found on a Cape Cod beach joined the circle.

All the earth sits with me as I light the candles and remember the mystery of Jesus walking with us. Each night my parents and ancestors sit with me as do the people who were here first and who struggle still to protect the land and water that sustain us all. I am reminded of the ages and ages of this earth, of the creatures that filled it. The plants and animals, the birds and the sea creatures. We are a small part of an unimaginably huge cosmos. God loves it all and entered into our little corner to show us just how much.

The words of Isaiah that appear throughout our Advent liturgies overflow with images of nature. Crooked paths made straight. Parched land exulting. Steppes rejoicing and blooming with abundant flowers. Enemies, the lion and the lamb, lying down together. An old stump that looks dead sprouts a green shoot. Things are not always what they appear to be.

Isaiah says God will not judge by appearance. God stands with the poor and stands for justice.

Glorious words.

Four beeswax vigil candles in glass holders, surrounded by birds nest and other natural objects used as an Advent wreath

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I sit at my dining room table, looking at my “wreath” and longing for such a time. Advent tells me that time is already here. We celebrate Emanuel, God-with-us. Jesus draws the circle that encompasses all and invites us to join the work. He showed us how to live our lives, a part of God’s own, so the circle continues to grow in our time and place.

I sit at my dining room table, watching candle flames push away early morning darkness, and I have hope.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Advent, Advent wreath, creation, God-with-us, grace, hope, Incarnation, inclusion, love, Native Americans

November 11, 2016 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

Seeing Everything Shining Like the Sun

Originally published in The Catholic Times, November 12, 2016 issue

Liturgically speaking, November begins with celebrating the holy ones who have gone before and who live among us: the saints and the saints-becoming. Canonized or not, they are those who open our eyes to both the presence of God-with-Us and to the responsibility to reverence that Presence in how we live our lives.

What if we looked at this month through the eyes of the saints? Would we see things we usually overlook? Would we be moved to act in ways out of our ordinary routines?

Trees blazing with color will soon drop their leaves and stand starkly against winter skies. On some days, snow will cling to their branches and cover the ground. Beauty has many faces. Growth often happens deep within, out of sight. While autumn’s riot of color shouts, winter’s muted palette speaks in whispers. Silence guards the life that has withdrawn to the center, content to wait and gather strength.

The great contemplatives speak of encountering God within, spending silent time resting in the Sacred Presence. Often, though, in the midst of contemplative practice, nothing much seems to be going on other than distractions. When tempted to wonder where God is in those times, we can remember the winter trees and landscape where the mystery of life deepens unseen.

The saintly scientists invite us to encounter God in the ordinary and spectacular realities of the universe. St. Hildegard of Bingen living in the 12^th century, wrote about ecology, natural science, and medicine. St. Albert the Great, whose feast we celebrate next week, was a philosopher and scholar recognized for his knowledge and writing not only about theology but also about the sciences including physics, and astronomy.

Watching the super moon rise on November 14 or gazing at the dance of the moon and planets can be worship.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit priest born in the late nineteenth century was a mystic and accomplished geologist and paleontologist. His vision of the evolutionary nature not only of matter but of spirit and his understanding of the Cosmic Christ continues to inspire today.

Looking with these saints helps us see not only the magnificence of creation, but also the connectedness of all things. We are a small part of a universe beyond imagining. From the perspective of such immensity we become aware of our place in the world, participants in Infinite Life. What happens to one affects us all.

The great challenges of our time require such a universal view. Pope Francis has emphasized our moral obligation to respond to protect the earth. He also calls us to be merciful and to create a culture of encounter with one another.

How many stories are told of saints who lived their lives serving the poor and marginalized, the sick and suffering? Elizabeth of Hungary, whose feast is also celebrated next week, was a queen and mother who gave herself so whole-heartedly to sharing her fortune with the poor and nursing the sick, that, when her husband died on the way to battle, she was thrown out into the street by his parents who were offended by her discipline of prayer and good works!

Monument to the Immigrant in New Orleans. A statue depicting a female muse whose flowing gown leads to family of four immigrants. By Franco Alessandrini (1944), American sculptor of New Orleans

Monument to the Immigrant. 1995 New Orleans by Franco Alessandrini (1944), American sculptor of New Orleans.
Dedicated to the courageous men and women who left their homeland seeking freedom, opportunity, and a better life in a new country.
Photo: Mary van Balen

Martin de Porres entered a Dominican monastery as a lowly lay helper, but spent much of his life using gifts for healing not only tending the monks, but also the poorest in his city of Lima, Peru.

Today as millions of refugees leave their homelands destroyed by wars and violence, looking for a safer place to live and raise their families, we do well to remember how these saints saw every person. St. Benedict instructed his monks to greet every stranger who came to the monastery door as Christ. Mother Teresa saw the face of Jesus in every dying person she lifted from the street. How do we see these people, fleeing for their lives? How do we welcome them when they arrive at our shores?

The Trappist monk Thomas Merton wondered at God dwelling within every person he saw at a busy intersection in Louisville, Kentucky: “…There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun!”

When we are able to see the hand of God in every speck of earth or distant star, to recognize the Holy Presence in others, or to trust the Indwelling in ourselves, we can pray for Grace so, like the holy ones who have gone before us, we will reverence the Sacred that is in our midst or knocking on our doors.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, Albert the Great, civil rights, creation, Elizabeth of Hungary, grace, hope, immigrants, inclusion, Mother Teresa, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Pope Francis, spirituality, St Martin de Porres, St. Benedict, St. Hildegard of Bingen, Thomas Merton

October 14, 2016 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Where Grace is Found and Given Away

Originally published in The Catholic Times, October 16, 2016

Yesterday I came home from work and picked the five remaining stems of tall, pink snapdragons and one red geranium. They fit perfectly into a vase purchased from a shop near the Pine Ridge Reservation, South Dakota. The dark green matte outer layer had been etched down to the pale terra cotta, creating the stair-step design that symbolizes the Black Hills, Paha Sapa, a holy place of the Lakota.

The Lakota came to mind, and the other Native Americans and supporters who gather with them in prayer and presence, again striving to protect their land, this time by protesting the construction of the Dakota pipeline.

Their struggle was one reason I needed flowers on my table last night and why I’ve stopped perusing New York Times headlines as part of my morning routine. The violence and suffering in the news is overwhelming.

Hatred, stoked by fear and ignorance, fills our national election politics. The voices of the marginalized around the world—the poor, women, LGBT people, children, refugees, and others—are rarely heard. Glacial ice-melts and extreme weather patterns call for action to address global warming, but the will to pursue alternative energy sources and lifestyle changes is lacking. My heart was worn out.

So, I picked flowers. I brewed tea and poured it into a favorite mug made by Joan Lederman, who lives in Woods Hole, creating glazes with sediment collected from the ocean floor. My mug is part of her Earth Crust/Space Dust series, and a band of its glaze contains asteroid-laden dust from 65 million years ago. I rubbed the blue sea glass that fills the thumb well on the handle, sipped Lady Grey, and let my heart soak up beauty.

Next I pulled my guitar case out from under the bed where it’s rested undisturbed for a year. A thin stack of papers lay beneath the instrument. Old and yellowed, they were covered with song lyrics and chord notations written in my hand during the 60s and 70s. I remembered them all, and my fingers quickly found their places on the strings. I played and sang, listening to my younger self celebrating the glories of an October day or a patient, hopeful love.

I heard my weary heart calling for Grace and comfort from the wind, sun, and rain after learning of the sudden death of a college friend. Many of my songs danced with Divine Mystery found “within and without, above and below,” or gave melody to psalms. Singing for an hour, I sank my heart-roots deep into that Holy Presence.

When my unpracticed fingertips became sore, I returned the guitar to its case and picked up a friend’s newly released memoir, Harnessing Courage. Despite its serious topic (Laura Bratton was diagnosed with a retinal disease at the age of 9 that eventually took her sight.), the first pages made me laugh out loud, picturing her confident, three-year-old self remembering every ballet step and leading the other, stage struck toddlers through their first dance recital.

As night came, I remembered holy ones whose feasts fall on this week’s liturgical calendar, who persevered despite their world’s ills. With the courage to challenge the status quo, St. John XXIII threw open the windows of the Church to let in fresh air, trusting the Spirit to bring renewal.

St Teresa of Avila, the great Carmelite mystic, reformer and first woman to be declared a Doctor of the Church, struggled with illness, opposition, and an investigation by the Inquisition. She defined contemplative prayer simply as a close sharing between friends and frequent time spent alone with God who loves us.

And while Madeleine Delbrêl (born in France in 1904) isn’t declared a saint, Robert Ellsberg writes about her in Liturgical Press’s Give Us This Day reflection for October 13, the date of her death. She knew that holiness could be encountered in people’s everyday life. “Each tiny act is an extraordinary event, in which heaven is given to us, in which we are able to give heaven to others.”

That’s why surrounding myself with beauty, singing, and enjoying the gifts of others was just what I needed last night. It helped me descend to my center, resting in Healing Presence, finding Grace in the moment. God refreshes the heart and provides strength to be grateful for life that is given even in the midst of suffering. As John, Teresa, and Madeleine knew, we must trust and spend time with God in whatever ways deepen our relationship. Then we will have Spirit to share and can be part of the ongoing transformation of a wounded world.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, creation, Dakota pipeline, faith, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, Joan Lederman, Lakota, Laura Bratton, LGBT, Madeleine Delbrel, music, Pope John XXIII, prayer, Teresa of Avila

September 8, 2016 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

No One Can Say I Didn’t Sing

Photo of Carnegie Hall program for Florence Foster Jenkins

Carnegie Hall Program By Anonymous [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Originally published in The Catholic Times—September 10, 2016 issue

Inspiration comes from unexpected places, like a movie theater on a Saturday morning. The name Florence Foster Jenkins first came to my attention while listening to National Public Radio on WOSU. She was a wealthy woman, born in Pennsylvania in 1868, who loved music from an early age and who, in later life, embarked on a quest to become a professional singer. The catch was, well, she couldn’t sing.

Unsure what to expect, I settled into my seat and watched a most unusual story unfold. I was prepared to dislike Florence—a New York socialite who belonged to all the right clubs and moved in upper class social circles, someone who, I imagined could buy her way into anything she wanted. Indeed, she eventually did rent Carnegie Hall. To my surprise, something about Florence won my heart.

Avoiding movie details in case some of you plan to see it, I’ll share a few things I learned about her through a bit of research. She was born into a wealthy family but gave it all up to follow her passion. Her father wanted her to stay home, to become a wife and mother. She wanted to study piano in Europe. Disinherited, she held on to music through years of a failed marriage, illness, and other difficulties.

When her fortunes changed, she threw herself into New York society, music still central in her life. She was a great patron of the arts, contributing to many organizations, and the music club she founded benefited the Italian Red Cross, the Actors Fund, and Veterans Mountain Camp. Lavish operatic productions she sponsored provided well-paying jobs for young musicians at time when they were difficult to find.

Privileged, quirky, and flawed to be sure, some thought she was delusional. Florence lived in her own world, unaware of the discrepancy between the beautiful tones she heard when singing and what she sounded like to everyone else. Still, she was a woman who gave her all to what she loved and believed she was made to do: singing and promoting music. That’s the thought that stayed with me as I left the theater.

Maybe that’s what her fans loved and why they flocked to her concerts. Maybe that’s why today, only Judy Garland and the Beatles are the subject of an equal number of inquiries at Carnegie Hall. Here was a woman who remained true to herself, no matter the circumstances. She loved what she did and brought joy and pleasure to her fans while doing it.

The Magpie by Claude Monet 1869
PHOTO: Mary van Balen

As I scribbled notes in my journal, reflecting on her life, other thoughts appeared on the page. I noted the young boy in the gospel who offered up his few loaves and fishes when the huge crowd that had been listening to Jesus grew tired and hungry. Not much, but it with God’s blessing, it became enough. And what about the servants who invested the money they had been given by their master rather than burying it out of fear?

I wrote of artists with glorious talent whose paintings moved me to tears at the Musée d’Orsay and the simple string of paper cranes folded from scraps of wrapping paper and spaced by small pieces of a plastic drinking straw that hang in my office, made by an old woman in the streets of Thailand.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Paper cranes

Gifts seem unevenly given. Life is kinder to some than to others. Yet, every person, from the richest to the poorest, from those who appear most accomplished to those who, by society’s standards, have done little, holds a spark of Divinity to share. Our journey is to discover what that is and to give it away.

That’s all God asks of us: To do the best we can with what we have been given. Not to become overwhelmed by our flaws, deficiencies, or struggles, but to accept ourselves and our gifts and live life with energy, enthusiasm, and love. To the world’s surprise, the offered lives of those considered “least” often change it most profoundly.

The only quote I could find from Florence Foster Jenkins was this: “Some may say that I couldn’t sing, but no one can say that I didn’t sing.”

She gave what she had to give. In the end, how it was received was less important than that it was given.

Note: This column marks 30 years of my writing for The Catholic Times. I thank the paper for providing space for me to share reflections on the Sacred that is present in everyday life. I thank you, my readers, and hope that in some small way, these columns have helped you celebrate that Presence in your own lives.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: enthusiasm, Florence Foster Jenkins, gifts, give what we have to share, grace, humility, indwelling, music, passion for life, self acceptance, Spirit, true to self

August 11, 2016 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Look at Me. Just Me.

Dome of Pantheon, with light streaming in.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Dome of Pantheon, Rome, Italy.

Originally published in The Catholic Times August 14, 2016 issue

While preparing to write this column, I read through the Mass readings for the week as I often do. Actually, I had a topic in mind, but the Spirit had another tucked into Sunday’s second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews. “Brothers and sisters:” it begins, “Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith.”

It was the phrase “keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus” that let me know clearly, this was the column. Here’s the back story. Last month, I sent an email to a good friend in Boston asking for prayers. We’d met during our first gathering for members of Shalem Institute’s Spiritual Guidance Program a couple of years ago and have stayed in touch ever since, continuing to share our journeys through letters, emails, and an occasional phone conversation.

When I wrote that email, life was feeling particularly overwhelming. Changes in family routine and a world where violence seemed more random and sinister than ever—though of course it’s always sinister and often random—were getting the best of me. My “worry gene” had kicked in, and I couldn’t quiet my mind or spirit for long. Falling asleep at night was difficult.

The email request for prayer wasn’t about this sense of turmoil, but as the Spirit would have it, my friend’s answer was.

It turned out he was on a challenging retreat. With the change of venue from a lovely new retreat house on the ocean (the building had fallen behind schedule and wasn’t ready) to a gloomy, old institutional building that once housed a seminary, and the discovery that the retreat was for spiritual directors giving the Ignatian Exercises (which he was not), the first few days were tough going.

He felt distant and agitated. Then, as he wrote: “I heard Christ telling me: ‘Look at me. Just at me.’ Finally, last night, I was able to settle a bit in prayer.”

I couldn’t get those words out of my mind. “Look at me. Just at me.” That night, I tried to do that, to keep my focus on Christ. Not on events swirling around me and pulling me with them into dis-ease and anxiety. I fixed the gaze of my heart on Jesus. The one who loves. The one who holds. The one who is always “with.”

It wasn’t easy. Nagging fears and a sense that the world was somehow careening out of control kept calling for my attention. Not being sucked into the chaos required a conscious choice again and again, to heed Christ’s words: “Look at me.”

Slowly, that choice to look at Love made a difference. The grip of events that were tempting me with illusions of the ability control them loosened. Instead of imagining control, I felt moved to surrender to trust instead. Not a trust that everything was going to go as I wanted it to or that evil didn’t exist, but a trust that everything didn’t depend on me and my constant attempts to figure it out. The chatter that filled my head started to fade until finally there was blessed quiet. Churning and turmoil was being replaced by stillness and calm.

I slept well that night, and many nights after. Whenever I felt worry taking hold or fear seeping in to my center, I repeated the Christ’s injunction: “Look at me. Just at me,” and turned the eyes of my heart to Love.

So today, when I came across the admonition in Hebrews to embrace the wisdom of the “cloud of witnesses” and let go of burdens and sin that cling to us, to go forward and meet whatever is ahead while keeping our eyes on Jesus, I remembered my friend’s words that have become a powerful prayer for me.

It’s not magic. Sleep sometimes eludes. Deep openness is still gift. I wake up knowing I have work to do. Transforming the world is everyone’s work. But we don’t do it ourselves. We do it by letting Love fill us until we can bring that Holy Mystery to every place and every person we meet. Somehow, we face the evil and craziness and unknown with the steadiness of Love. I’m not sure how it works. It has something to do with being present. It has something to do with trust. It has everything to do with Love.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: centering, faith, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, love, prayer, Presence, quiet prayer, spirituality, trust

June 22, 2016 By Mary van Balen 3 Comments

Lessons from Paris: Befriending Holy Leisure

Woman on a bench in a park writing in her journal

Photo: Mary van Balen
Writing in Jardin du Luxembourg

Originally published in The Catholic Times June 16, 2016

I’ve recently returned from a wonderful vacation of almost a month in Paris with two of my daughters, one of whom is doing research at the National Natural History Museum there—a perfect reason to visit. Spending so much time with adult daughters is a gift itself. Doing it in Paris? Well, that made it extraordinary.

We did the usual tourist things, visiting museums and landmarks, enjoying Parisian baguettes smeared with butter or jam, and drinking lots of café. A highlight was making the short trip to spend a day at Giverny and Monet’s garden, a lifelong dream of my youngest.

Standing in the oval rooms of Musee de l’Orangerie surrounded by the giant water lily canvasses was breathtaking. I don’t think it makes any difference which you do first, visit the garden or feast on Monet’s paintings, the experiences enrich one another. Musee d’Orsay, a favorite, required two visits.

Art and music are everywhere, not only in museums but in shops, cathedrals, and along the streets. Beauty heals, whether in a painting or in the care taken with displays of pastries and breads for sale. Once, on our way to an evening concert, we were surprised by a woman singing an aria. Speakers provided the music, and her powerful voice poured through the small street. A trio on military patrol, heart-stirred by the song like the rest of us, paused, and one lifted his iPhone to record the sound.

We became accustomed to hearing a classical pianist playing Chopin on Pont Saint-Louis near Notre Dame, someone playing accordion along a strip of small restaurants, or jazz groups entertaining on street corners. In every case, people stopped to listen, sometimes to dance. Always, music stirs the soul.

I was grateful for the length of our stay. A friend commented on one of my posts saying he was glad I had time to spend enjoying “holy leisure.” A sense of the importance of befriending “holy leisure” is wisdom that came home with me. The temptation, vacation or not, is to try to do too much. In Paris, there was always another amazing museum to visit or landmark to see. What would friends say when you returned if you told them you didn’t visit the Louvre?

We could pack every day, allowing vacation to become a check list. We chose otherwise. While our list of things to see and do was long enough, we gave ourselves days to do nothing special and simply be present to the gifts of the moment and each other.

My daughter made time to paint. Sometimes we walked to a park and she set up on a bench. Other days, the dining room table worked. I journaled, wrote blog posts, and finally figured out how to sketch the lovely green table umbrellas at Luxembourg Garden. We wended our way to our favorite street, Rue Mouffetard, sat in a café and enjoyed starting (or ending) a day slowly. Some of the best times were sitting or walking wherever, all three of us, enjoying each other’s company.

Back home, events and places are different, but schedules and expectations can be as demanding. There is work to do, family and friends to see, events to attend. But I returned determined to enjoy little things, listen to more music, and be attentive to Spirit movements in my heart.

One afternoon, after preparing dinners for the week to come and catching up on vacation laundry, I walked outside and tossed cans and jars into the recycling bin. The air was particularly clear after a rain, and as anyone in central Ohio with asthma knows, that is something to celebrate. Back in the kitchen, I started to wash up the dishes, then remembered Paris. “No,” I thought responding to the lift I had felt, “Enjoy.”

I poured a glass of iced tea and sat in the plastic lawn chair on my porch. That’s it. I sat and looked and breathed air that felt good in my lungs. A hummingbird buzzed in over my shoulders and headed toward a green patch of ground cover looking for blooms. A sparrow hopped out from underneath a bush with a huge piece of fuzzy fluff in its beak. The breeze picked up and leaves on the trees across the street danced.

A short prayer of thanksgiving. Some quiet moments of remembering that I live in God’s presence.

The truth that we meet God in the present is nothing new, but deceptively simple. In Paris, at home, anywhere.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Grace in the Moment, holy leisure, journaling, Paris, prayer, Presence, present to the moment, quiet prayer, spirituality

April 7, 2016 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

This Business of Being

yellow wild flowers and a rock near bay on Whidbey Island

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Whidbey Island

Originally published in The Catholic Times

A few weeks ago in Barnes & Noble, while browsing through the bookstore looking for an old book they didn’t have, I wandered into the poetry section and picked up a slim, hardback volume with “Felicity” and “Mary Oliver” writ large in white across the soft gray sky on the cover.

I stood and read a poem about St. Augustine. “Take heart,” it said to me. Augustine didn’t become himself overnight. There was one about a cricket, finding its way into a house in the fall.

I’ve been on a Mary Oliver jag ever since, pulling out books I already own, ordering Felicity and the second volume of “New and Selected Poems.” She’s a master of attention and mindful living. Her poems are prayer, savoring the Sacred in our midst, perhaps in an armful of peonies or a heron’s flight. “I want to make poems while thinking of/the bread of heaven and the/cup of astonishment… (from “Everything” in New and Selected Poems – Volume Two).

There is something about the grace of her poetry that anchors me when reports of violence, hatred, and fear threaten to overwhelm. The news we hear most often is bad, and while my daughter assures me that we live in a world with less, not more, violence than in centuries past (We just hear about more of it, she says), some days this planet seems a dangerous place careening towards disaster.

Yet, in this same time and place there is hope. There is goodness and love that refuse to give in to despair. There is mercy and forgiveness. There are people who, little by little, replace darkness with light by simply living as best they can, showing kindness and compassion along the way. They speak the truth they know and go about the ordinary tasks of life. There is Spirit, shared with each of us, who draws us to goodness if we allow, and empower us to make life’s journey as partners with the One who is transforming the world.

Poets express in words (and the spaces between them) something of this mystery and their experience of it, inviting readers to participate. I suppose, now and again, a line or two, or even a complete poem moves quickly and effortlessly from heart to word, but that is a rare mercy—the inbreaking of Spirit to a practiced soul, aware and open to such things.

Poets I’ve known and my attempts at writing verse, have taught me that writing poetry is work. Ted Kooser, U.S. poet laureate 2004-06, once surprised my adult GED students by sharing his writerly routine (up early every morning for fifty years, writing an hour and a half before leaving the house) and the revelation that he had revised one of their favorite, very short poems 50 times.

The same daughter who assures me the human condition is actually improving can’t imagine why anyone would want to write—for her, it’s agony. But, as poet Maya Angelou’s quote on a postage stamp states, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”

Poets write because that is what is they are made to do, and they are faithful. A poem in “Felicity” moved me to remember that we all are made to be a particular reflection of God in the world and that we, the world, and the cosmos are better off when we’re faithful to it. Jesus is the perfect example of such authentic living: He is God’s own life, and he shares it with us.

The poem is “Roses.” Oliver writes of the quest to answer life’s “big questions” and decides to ask the wild roses if they know the answers and might share them with her. They don’t seem to have time for that. As they say, “…we are just now entirely busy being roses.”

How glorious if all humanity could know themselves as honestly and be themselves as genuinely as those roses. But we are wounded, and there is evil, and taking time to be still and listen to the Spirit within is difficult in the busyness of daily life.

The universe suffers from this disconnect. We see that in the eyes of the poor, marginalized, and war-weary. We see it in eyes reflecting anger, hatred, and fear that fuel violence. We hear it in the groaning of our planet with melting icecaps and water and air that poison its creatures

April is national poetry month. What better time to listen to the poets among us, past and present, who speak their truth and encourage us to do the same.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment, The Scallop Tagged With: being, being who we're made to be, compassion, creation, faithful, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, Mary Oliver, Maya Angelou, national poetry month, Spirit, Ted Kooser, truth

March 11, 2016 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Trading the Past for the Present

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Prairie Smoke St. John’s Arboretum

Frist published in the Catholic Times March 13, 2016

“Never before has anyone spoken like this man.” That’s what the guards said in response to the Pharisees’ questioning about why they hadn’t arrested Jesus and brought him in. Jesus held them spellbound by what he said and how he said it. Maybe they hadn’t gone to listen, but once they were in earshot, they couldn’t help it. There was something different, something new was afoot, and the man from Galilee was at the center of it.

I imagine many people heard the words, found them interesting, maybe even talked about them over dinner—but didn’t change their lives. They woke up the next morning and went about business as usual. Others, like the Pharisees, heard enough to make them fear for their power and position. Jesus was interesting, but dangerous.

Then there were others, like the guards, like the disciples who listened and were moved in ways they couldn’t understand. “Never before has anyone spoken like this man,” was the best they could do at the moment. Deep down, Jesus’ words and presence had stirred something within that defied explanation, but that was changing hearts and vision.

I thought of their words when I read the passage from Isaiah in this coming Sunday’s first reading. “Remember not the events of the past, / the things of long ago consider not, / see, I am doing something new! / Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

What keeps us from seeing something new or from appreciating it? What kept some people from hearing Jesus and allowing his words to fill their hearts, while others did, even if at the moment, they couldn’t tell you just what those words meant? Understanding would come later.

I think Isaiah’s insight is a good one even today: Sometimes, what keeps us from being aware of a new reality is preoccupation with the past. Our minds are so filled with “chatter” that we notice nothing. We are living in our heads, and God is in the present.

It’s easy to get lost in thought and worry over past hurts: rejections, injustices, and failures. Internal debates can consume hours: What was said or not said. What I could have done but didn’t. What I shouldn’t have done, but did. Perhaps we rehash decisions made and directions taken: How different my life might be if only…

Isaiah was right to warn about spending time remembering things of long ago. Not only can we do nothing to change the past, but letting it consume time and attention keeps us from noticing what new life is being offered in the moment. “See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

The prophet sounds incredulous: How could you NOT see it?

Not Difficult. We have much to think and worry about. Jesus spoke of love, of God’s indwelling, of compassion for others and for ourselves. He spoke of suffering and serving the least among us. Such faith, such a message changes the world, a person at a time. We hear those words in scripture. Pope Francis reminds us of them eloquently in his actions as well as in his speech as do others in our lives. Creation itself speaks to us of wholeness and interconnectedness if we are paying attention.

But words of wisdom, ancient or not, must enter our hearts and take root there before they become transformative. Only when we notice and respond can something new spring forth. Are we listening? Are we open and welcoming despite the uncertainty of change? The Spirit within each of us is doing something new. Can we see it? Are we, like the guards, unable to pull ourselves away, not understanding, but knowing that some new way of being is offered if we have courage to follow? Do we trust that the same Spirit who stirs our hearts will provide strength to move forward? Do we trust others to do the same?

As we draw nearer to Holy Week and Easter, I wonder about Jesus and the stirrings in his heart. How carefully he listened as he grew and moved into his public ministry. How completely one he was with the Holy Mystery. How deep his trust not only in God, but also in the rest of us—his disciples, those guards, the generations of people to come. Jesus trusted us all to notice, to be transformed, and to carry on the work of salvation he had begun.

It is forever new. “Now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?”

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: aware, creation, Grace in the Moment, hope, lent, notice, past, Pope Francis, present to the moment

February 12, 2016 By Mary van Balen 3 Comments

Lent: Come As You Are

small table with purple cloth, candle, cross, shells, feather, for Lent

Photo: Mary van Balen

Lent comes quickly this year. “That’s why I’m not ready,” I tell myself as I sit quietly and ponder this column. I wanted to be more centered. I wanted my office to be straightened up, desk uncluttered to better concentrate. I wanted to have prayed more, read more, been still more. But, here I am, on the brink of Lent, behind in lots of things, and not prepared for the season at all.

Or maybe, that’s how we are meant to greet this liturgical season: No big preparations. No cultural hoopla like the marketing blitz that accompanies the coming of Christmas. This is a “come-as-you-are” event, and usually, this is how I am.

I’m pulled in many directions, full of good intentions and forgotten resolutions. Jesus has words for me in this Saturday’s gospel. When the Pharisees ask him why he’s hanging out with the sinners and riff-raff, he seems a bit surprised. Why wouldn’t he? After all, he says, those who are healthy don’t need a physician; the sick do.

So as Lent approaches, I console myself with the thought that I fit right in. Jesus isn’t expecting my office table to be clear of papers, bills, and books. He knows me too well. I think he’d feel right at home at my dining room table. It hasn’t had a tablecloth on it since Christmas. Instead, it’s been home to my daughter’s 3-D printer that arrived during her stay as she recuperated from a broken foot.

And he wouldn’t mind eating leftovers or a hastily prepared meal after I return from a long day at work. No, as I read through the Mass readings before and after Ash Wednesday, I began to relax. If I’m willing to slow down and sit with Jesus at my table and in my heart, no matter the mess, then I’m ready for Lent.

Last week, a group of friends and I shared dinner, conversation, and prayer. One woman played a song, Pilgrim, by Enya, and this line caught my attention: “All days come from one day/That much you must know/You cannot change what’s over/But only where you go.”

All days come from one day. “That day is this day,” I thought. The present day, the only one we have. Paul says something like that in Ash Wednesday’s second reading: “In an acceptable time I heard you, and on the day of salvation I helped you. Behold, now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation.”

Now, this moment, is the acceptable time. This day. And then the day that follows. And the day that follows that. One day at a time is the day of salvation. The anonymous author of The Cloud of Unknowing puts it this way: “Therefore, be attentive to time and the way you spend it. Nothing is more precious…God gives only the present, moment by moment…”

The thing is, I’m often not there. Not following Enya’s wisdom, I’m tempted to rethink the past, allowing regrets and sorrow from yesterday’s pain to capture my attention. Or I can spend time speculating about future scenarios for family, friends, and our world.

What grace to have this liturgical season to remind us how important it is to embrace each day along with its joys and sorrows; to trust that “this day” has something good for us, or at least that some opportunity to grow, something good can come from it.

What blessing to have the wisdom of those who have gone before us. It’s a mixed-up crowd we walk with, this “communion of saints,” canonized or not, living or dead, who recommend ancient disciplines of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving for our journey through Lent.

There are as many ways to observe these directives as there are people who follow them. One may do well to abstain from food, another from “screen time.” One may need to give herself permission to celebrate who she is, while focusing on others might be the call for someone else. Maybe we give time, money, or talents. Perhaps the grace is in receiving what is offered.

But, what it comes down to is spending these forty-days shedding what gets in the way of attending to God-with-us. It’s about nurturing ways of being that help us listen to the Holy One within and believe the amazing truth that God loves us, calls us to share Love in this world, and will help us do it. It’s about choosing to live as fully as we can, trusting that all days will come from the one day lived well.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptable time, Ash Wednesday, communion of saints, compassion, Enya, grace, humility, lent, love, pilgrim, present to the moment