Join Me for a Journaling Retreat
August 26, 2014 By Leave a Comment

Join Me for a Journaling Retreat

mkvbh-210-Journal_from_jeJournaling has long been a way of prayer for me. Writing can help me be present to the moment, aware of Grace in ordinary experiences. It also helps me reflect on life as it unfolds. Sometimes it’s a book or movie that touches my spirit. Sometimes a passage from Scripture or a photo, or a conversation. It might be current events or listening to YoYo Ma.

What begins as thoughts and feelings scribbled across pages becomes prayer: Lament, thanksgiving, plea for help, or simple amazement. My journals are my books of prayer.

Come join me on Sept. 13 at Corpus Christi Center of Peace and begin to create your own. We will spend the day exploring different approaches to journaling. Whether you are new to the practice or an experienced journaler, you’ll find something new to take home with you.

Journaling the Journey flyer for Corpus Christi CoP 2014-1

 

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Prayer: When Words Fail
July 24, 2014 By Leave a Comment

Prayer: When Words Fail

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

 

Let me seek, then, the gift of silence, and poverty, and solitude, where everything I touch is turned into prayer: where the sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is in all.

Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude
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Reentry
July 19, 2014 By 2 Comments

Reentry

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Reentry is always a challenge whether one is returning to work or school from vacation, rejoining estranged groups of family or friends, adjusting to changing seasons, or for a select few, taking the bumpy ride back into earth’s atmosphere from a stint in outer space. When we “enter again” we are not the same people we were when we left. If they do what is intended, vacations change us into more relaxed and revitalized versions of ourselves. Engaging again with people who have caused us hurt or pain or whom we have hurt and avoided requires growth and maturity, an open heart and a bit of courage. I can’t imagine the change in perspective that affects those human beings who have had the privilege of seeing the earth from outer space. (A stunning book of photographs and reflections of astronauts from around the world give a glimpse into that experience: The Home Planet by Kevin W. Kelley ed. with a forward by Jacques-Yves Cousteau. I am not sure it is available to purchase, but you might find a used copy or one in a library.)

Wherever we are coming from and going to, retuning to life’s routines after a time away presents opportunities. Can I return to work without allowing the pace, atmosphere, and demands overwhelm me? If it’s a job I don’t like, can I keep a positive attitude and look for what is good in it? Am I able to let go of anger and the urge to see just one point of view, mine, when attempting to reconnect with those I’ve been avoiding?

I’m experiencing a reentry myself. After a ten day residency for a two-year spiritual guidance program, I’m doing laundry and preparing to return to work, writing, and family connections. It’s not easy. While the schedule was full of presentations, reflections, and hard work, it also provided a silent sabbath of retreat for a couple of days. The class had gathered from around the country and new and deep friendships were begun.

For ten days I didn’t have to prepare food or wash dishes. I could wander around the fifty-acre spiritual center in Maryland listening to birds and watching deer, foxes, and fireflies. On the night of the Perigee Moon (Super Moon) I found a comfortable place to sit and kept vigil with binoculars and a camera, fueled by a homemade chocolate chip cookie and cup of tea.

Part of the gift of the residency was the opportunity to cultivate a quiet, listening heart, sharing silence as well as conversation and presentations as a group. We focused on the Divine Presence in our lives and in the lives of those we serve. We held in prayer those dear to us, those hurting in our world torn by violence, and creation that offers solace and grace even while reeling from effects of 7 billion people living on the planet.

The night before we would all return home, our class had a party. Spontaneous. Food showed up on tables. People pitched in to arrange the space. Lots of talk. Lots of laughter. I walked over to add some snacks to my plate and laughed when I saw what a couple of clever folks had added to the offerings: From Trader Joes: Inner Peas. From Brewer’s Art in Maryland: Resurrection Beer.

Two things to remember as I ease back into life at home: Take time to be still and to cultivate the sense of living in the Divine Presence.  Have faith that God brings good from all things and invites us to be part of bringing Grace into the world, into our time and place and to rest in the Spirit that blows where it will.

And, when I forget, I just might pick up a bag of Inner Peas, wash them down with some Resurrection Beer and move into prayerful silence.

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Grace Overflowing
May 10, 2014 By Leave a Comment

Grace Overflowing

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, May 11 2014 issue

 

Despite working until close at Macy’s on Holy Saturday night and arriving home around ten-thirty pm, I had energy and decided to bake hot cross buns. Well, I had energy until they were ready to rise the second time. Dragging, by three in the morning, I was savoring the warm, cinnamony-sweet results and cleaning the kitchen.

When the alarm sounded at 7:45, I wasn’t sure I could pry myself out of bed. “I could go to 11:30,” I thought. No. Nine o’clock was the mass I wanted to attend, sleepy or not. After a shower and a strong cup of tea, I headed out to St. Thomas the Apostle where the parish family was gathering to celebrate Easter.

The church was packed, and even though my usual place was taken, I found a seat next to a lovely older woman wearing an amazing hat. Remember Easter hats? As young girls, my sisters and I had new hats each Easter. Hats. Dresses. White gloves. Part of the ritual.

The altar was surrounded with flowers and on the ledge at the bottom of each stained glass window sat a potted spring bulb flower: hyacinths, tulips, daffodils. The tight buds were beginning to loosen, and hints of color were peeking out. A quite murmur rested in the church as people wished one another “Happy Easter” and caught up on the week before. Then the music began.

One of the many things I love about Saint Thomas is the spirited singing accompanied by a variety of instruments. Organ, piano, guitar, flute, drums, tambourine, trumpet, and on Easter I think I heard a trombone. Someone can set me straight if I’m wrong. It doesn’t matter really. What matters is that people are welcome to share their talents and that so many do!

I don’t remember all the songs we sang that morning, but I remember the joy with which they were sung, the clapping to the rhythm, the harmonies. A favorite “sprinkling” ritual at that parish is the procession up the center aisle to a large earthenware bowl that holds baptismal water. Pews empty out one by one, and when each person reaches the bowl, they dip their hand into the water, turn, and make the sign of the cross on the forehead of the person behind them, all the while belting out Marty Haugen’s song, “Up from the Waters.”

“Up from the waters, God has claimed you, Up from the waters, O child of Light. Praise to the One who called and named you, Up from the waters into life…”

Choir members brought up the end of the line, the last two keeping time with their instruments. The tall gentleman who played the tambourine was last. Having no one behind him to bless with the water, he turned, raised his hands and shook the tambourine making a large sign of the cross: He blessed us all, and we applauded our “amen.”

The responsorial song was sung with a strong voice and a bright smile.

And so it went. The celebrant chose to read the Gospel from the Easter Vigil Mass where the two Marys, having been told that Jesus had risen ran “overjoyed” to tell the disciples. They saw Jesus on their way.

The theme of joy ran through his homily, and with a child’s abandon, a young member of the congregation punctuated one of Fr. Denis’s comments with a heartfelt, “Yeah!”

It fit.

A sung Eucharist Prayer, shared peace, shared communion. The wine was sweet. Sun poured into the windows, waking the flowers as we sang our Alleluias and closing hymn. No one was in a hurry to leave. I told the lady next to me how much I liked her hat, then found some friends who had been across the aisle and exchanged Easter greetings.

I lingered, soaking in the Mystery and Grace, and then made my way across the parking lot. Coming out from the common room in the basement, a few people were carrying boxes of candy-filled plastic eggs to scatter for the Easter egg hunt that would follow the later Mass.

Waiting for the traffic light at the corner to change, I looked at the green grass beside the rectory and church. It was absolutely covered with colored eggs. An abundance. I hadn’t kept Lent particularly well, yet there it was, God’s gift of Self overflowing. A never ending Fountain Fullness as a Franciscan friend says. I put down the car window, waved, and took a deep breath, glad I had pulled myself out of bed for nine o’clock Mass.

A joyful Easter Season to you all.

© 2014 Mary van Balen

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Ah! Ordinary Time
February 6, 2014 By Leave a Comment

Ah! Ordinary Time

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

First published in The Catholic Times, February 9, 2014

Having grown up in a Catholic family, I’m steeped in ritual and the liturgical calendar. I love Advent, its wreath and candles and anticipation, Christmas with its joy and light in the dark winter. Lent with its weeks of refocusing and preparing to embrace the paschal mystery that ends in the glory of Easter is a part of moving into spring each year. Still, I have to admit to having a particular fondness for ordinary time, the liturgical “season” we are presently observing.

It provides a different type of spiritual journey that requires no particular practices, no gifts to buy, no rituals. Some years, when Lent comes quickly on the heels of Epiphany, I feel uneasy. Last year, two weeks of February hadn’t passed before Ash Wednesday arrived, too soon for me. I prefer a longer stretch of time between putting away Christmas ornaments and getting out the purple cloth that drapes over a small prayer table in the dining room.

It’s not that there’s nothing special about daily routines and happenings. It’s just the opposite. When focus is not on an upcoming holiday or celebration, we can celebrate the ordinary and simple things and discover anew just how full of grace they are. That’s often difficult since the familiar or unassuming can go unnoticed.

Thornton Wilder immortalized just how difficult recognizing the wonder of life is in his play, “Our Town,” when Emily asks the stage manager if anyone ever realizes life while they are living it. The stage manager answers, “No,” and then adds “Saints and poets maybe…they do some.”

Saints and poets. They both take time to be present to the glory of the moment, as simple as it may appear. They recognize the Sacred when the rest of us are hurrying by, preoccupied.

Jesus has a preference for the ordinary. He told stories full of seeds sprouting or not, of wedding feasts and wineskins. He wasn’t impressed by pretentious prayer practices and held up for our emulation the poor widow who gave her small coins rather than the wealthy who gave much more. He worked miracles with what was at hand: water and wine, loves and fishes, dirt and spit.

In Sunday’s gospel reading, Jesus compares his disciples to salt and light, two things so common that we often don’t give them much thought. Salt, a humble presence on the shelf that includes more exciting and exotic spices, adds zest and brings out flavors in food we eat every day. Light from a lamp is nothing spectacular. The lamp is small enough to fit under a basket! Jesus didn’t tell his followers that they should be like a blazing bonfire. A simple flame will do.

In fact, what we celebrate in the “big” liturgical seasons is really the infusion of Divine Presence into every aspect of life, no matter how simple. Each day we are called to “salt” life with the Love God has shared with us. We are called to shine the Light that dwells within us on those we meet each day. We are called to recognize the Holy Presence in the poor and oppressed and in those we encounter. We are called to embrace suffering as well as joy.

A young man takes a broom from the restaurant where he works and cleans snow from the car of an elderly couple he sees in the parking lot. A woman invites a homeless man in for lunch and coffee after paying him for weeding her garden. A retired teacher helps immigrants learn English. A poet rises early to write each day before heading into his “day job.” A daughter holds her elderly father’s hand as they sit, quietly in the nursing home, not saying a word. Someone does the grocery shopping. Someone cooks the meals. Someone notices the way the sun shines on the snow. Someone provides shelter for abused women. Someone listens. Someone holds. Someone visits prisons. Someone reads to a child.

The Holy One is recognized in the moment and in others. God is “born” into the world with every act of love and compassion. Jesus transforms the world with each “death” we embrace, and with every new step in life we are courageous enough to take. Ah. Ordinary Time.

© 2014 Mary van Balen

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You Do Not Recognize
January 2, 2014 By Leave a Comment

You Do Not Recognize

people-painting“…but there is one among you whom you do not recognize...”  Today’s gospel reading  Jn 1, 26b

God among us, and we don’t notice: God who wanders in the streets looking for a homeless shelter on this snowy day. Who huddles lonely and forgotten in nursing homes. Who wanders into our stores to buy or just to be around other people, looking for a kind word or listening ear. Who lives next door but we don’t talk.

God among us, and we don’t notice: God who fills our classrooms. Who removes our garbage. Who cares for us. Who needs our help. Who’s our best friend. Our nemesis.

“Who are you anyway?” they asked John the Baptist. Not the Christ. Not Elijah. Not the Prophet who is to come. So who? “The voice of one crying out in the desert, make straight the way of the Lord.”  

“There is one coming whose sandal strap I am not worthy to untie,” he said. 

An endless list. One person we likely won’t think of is ourselves. We look outward, sometimes finding Divine Presence in others. Sometimes not. But do we look inward and expect the Holy One dwelling there? We know ourselves too well…or perhaps not well at all, but we think we do.

Did John know that the One who was to come, who had indeed come already, had always been dwelling in his heart?

This year I will do better, I tell myself. I will look with different eyes at the people who fill my life. I will slow down more often, and look within. I will recognize the One who is among us and who dwells in my heart. Whose life is my own.

This year I will do better. With Grace. I tell myself.

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New Year’s Eve
January 2, 2014 By Leave a Comment

New Year’s Eve

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

2013 was coming to an end and I was spending a couple hours of it with Dominican sisters and their friends. We sat in the chapel facing toward the altar and the large glass windows behind it that looked out into a wooded area. Tree trunks and branches sprouted white lights shining bright against the darkness.

After a hymn stories were told of an woman whose son had shot a number of Amish children years ago before killing himself and the forgiveness she received from that community. Parent’s of murdered children had come to her son’s funeral, the first to greet her. Now, that mother takes her weekly turn caring for the most disabled of her son’s living victims. Forgiveness.

Another story. This one of Elie Weisel speaking of the moment he was finally able to forgive God for the holocaust, a moment when he realized God suffered as God’s children suffered at the hands of other members of God’s family. For fifty years, he had been unable to forgive.

Nelson Mandela’s  words were remembered: “Resentment is like drinking poison and then hoping it will kill your enemies.”

Peace, these sisters were reminding us, begins in our own hearts, in our ordinary choices. Peace begins with forgiveness, of others, of ourselves.

We sat in quiet for a long time, in the presence of one another and of God. I tired to lose myself in the infinite embrace of the divine. I practiced centering prayer. I breathed in and out, slowly. I felt my own hurt. I tried to feel it and to forgive those who put it there. I became aware of hurts I have caused and hoped someone, somewhere could forgive me, too.

I opened my eyes and looked around me. Movement outside caught my eye. Deer were walking through the glowing trees behind the altar. Not a sound anywhere. The rows of chairs were sparsely occupied by women mostly much older than me: Retired teachers, musicians, and  professors.  Artists. Women who had given their lives to God and to the church which, I am sure for  some anyway, was a cause of pain and hurt. But here they were , a small community, tucked away in some corner of Ohio, praying for peace. Trying to be peace. How many other corners of our country or our world were filled with people, sitting quietly, hoping to learn how to live peace and bring peace and honor God with it? Quiet convents and monasteries. Living rooms and bedrooms. Chapels and city streets. Hospital rooms and party rooms.

We sang the office and then shared snacks and conversation in the common dining room.

For the moment, the world was a more peaceful place.

 

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DEEPENING: 7 Moving into Quiet
November 19, 2013 By Leave a Comment

DEEPENING: 7 Moving into Quiet

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

By the time I get to lighting my candles and settling into quiet prayer, I’m fighting a losing battle. My mind is already racing, making mental to-do lists, beating myself up for what I haven’t done, and thinking of family, friends, typhoon victims, government disfunction…you name it.

I try desperately to empty my mind, but to no avail. Breathing in and out, slowly repeating my mantra word. Nothing. Then, this morning, I became aware of my cold feet resting on the wooden floor. “Why didn’t I put on socks?”  Suddenly, the thought came: “Just be present to your cold feet. To the moment.” I did.

After cold feet, the smoothness of the wood beneath caught my attention. I sat with that for a while. Then it was the stiffness of my new knee. I quit trying to still my mind and instead let it focus on the present. A slight bit or warmth on my cheek and a rosy glow visible through my closed eyelids alerted me to bright sunlight. I opened my eyes and saw the patterns it made as it poured through the mini-blinds and pushed around the wrought iron candelabrum by daughter had made.

I became aware of the life-giving gift of the sun shining on our planet from the center of our solar system. Amazing. I sat, amazed, for while before the candle flame’s reflection, dancing on the votive’s clear glass caught my attention. I watched as it stretched and lengthened. Tow images from one flame. The bloom on top of the wick glowed orange and the beeswax smelled sweet.

My mind wasn’t racing.

I guess I can’t go cold turkey from crazy busy thoughts to stillness. Instead, being truly present to myself in this place and in this time slowed me down. God was there in the cold, the light, the flame, the moment, where the Divine always is.

And, for a moment, I moved into a graced moment of quiet gratitude.

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November 8, 2013 By Leave a Comment

DEEPENING: 5 Distractions

candle and labyrinthI followed the labyrinth path with the stylus. This time, I arrived at the center. Either luck or I am better at paying attention. Still, as I sit with the candle burning and quiet surrounding me, I struggle to just “be” with God. Distractions continue. Great lines for a blog or an article or a letter to a publisher. At least they seem great at the moment. Reluctantly, I let them go, trusting if they are that good they will return after prayer time. Schedule. Not as much there as in the past. Mostly keeping up therapy and doctor appointments. Those are easier to ignore…I know they are written in my appointment book.

Breathe in. Breathe out. “Pre…sence. Pre…sence.”

Remember sitting with a beloved, one with whom you have fallen in love, head over heels? Years ago, decades really, my roommate complained. When I was with my boyfriend, I was oblivious to everything and everyone else, and that included her. Of course, that absorption didn’t last forever, but I do remember it. Distractions weren’t a problem; bringing myself back to reality was!

I would like to sit with God that way. I have done so, now and then, in the past, but I’ve lost the ability. For now, I listen to the voices that intrude on time set aside for quiet prayer, and then let them go. The problem is, they seem to be waiting in an unending line: Adult children, finding a publisher, writing an article, disturbing news articles, glorious sunlight pouring in the windows (or rain pelting against them). “To dos.” “Wish I had dones.”  I listen then let them go.

When the allotted time has passed, I realize that of the half hour, I may have had a few moments of true silence and simply “being.” But I was there. In the chair. Giving it my best…

…Patient One, I take comfort in the knowledge that when you look at me, you see your daughter, taking time to be with you. You don’t count the minutes my mind wanters or struggles to simply be with you. Like a parent happy to see an adult child pull into the driveway and come through the door. No matter what the visit brings, there is joy at their coming. Their thinking of you. I’ll be back tomorrow, and I know you’ll be glad.   Amen

 

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Candle, Cookout, and Poetry
September 7, 2013 By Leave a Comment

Candle, Cookout, and Poetry

candlebeerandpoetry

“I have energy,” I thought as I drove home from work around 4pm. I noticed because lately, I haven’t. Maybe it was not using my CPAP machine regularly (no excuse for that) or that my shift was over before the sun set. Maybe it was the magnificent cool weather. Whatever, I had a spring in my step even after an hour of running errands. I decided to have a cookout.

I put brats in a pan of beer to precook and simmered canned baked beans with onion, mustard, and molasses. The grill was heating up and I tackled dishes left in the sink. Then, when I put the brats on, I placed a candle on the outside table and sat down to read some poetry and drink the Heineken I hadn’t used to cook the brats.

Pink clouds streaked the sky. Swallows dipped and soared. And Mary Oliver took me to dark summer ponds covered with lilies. (“The Ponds” in New and Selected Poems, p92-93.)

I plopped a couple of brats into whole wheat buns slathered with Dijon mustard, scooped baked beans into a little bowl and mounded the remaining space of my plate with some chips.

My neighbor has been sharing tomatoes, and even though the one I sliced was sweet, I sprinkled a little sugar on one slice to remember my mom and dinners around the table when I was a child. We always sprinkled tomatoes with sugar. Maybe it was a ploy to  convince the kids to eat their vegetables. I enjoyed the taste and the memories.

So, I sat, munching dinner under a darkening sky and reading “The Ponds,” marveling along with Mary Oliver at the light of countless lilies floating on dark summer ponds. [Read more…]

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