Shine

Sr. Tonette handed me the note just before dinner last night. It looked serious, like an official memo – 12 point font, Times New Roman, 8 and a half by 11, bullet points beginning about halfway down the page. But this was no ordinary business memo.

“Dear Sisters Therese, Elisabeth, and Michelle,” it began. I had to smile as I started to read, wondering what on earth we were about to get ourselves into now. In the past months we Sisters have found ourselves in all kinds of strange situations and unlikely tasks as we have engaged in this once in a lifetime (I hope!) mountain-moving project and have come to the rescue in all manner of situations that have gone awry in the process.

This current project was, as Sr. Tonette put it, “a good convent cleaning” of some stainless steel and galvanized kitchen equipment that will soon be transported from our current kitchen to our new one. The various pieces of equipment are all probably at least half a century old and our task was to make them look as if they had just been born out of the stainless steel cabbage patch. After all, they are going to a brand spanking new kitchen and we want them to be their best shiny selves when placed against shiny new walls.

So after supper last night, joined by Sr. Regina and armed with scouring pads, soft cloths, and basins of water, we got to work. We turned tables upside down. We took apart drawer casings. We dismantled shelves.  We lay on our backs and peered upward at the undersides of cabinets and stood on stepstools to gaze down from on high.

At one point, I looked up from the galvanized table leg that I was scrubbing to a polished shine. I saw the other four Sisters arrayed throughout the kitchen, silently intent on their tasks and poised in unique, nearly-impossible stances, like a tableau of elite gymnasts.

But a more apt image would be that we looked like a family, each doing her part in the work of keeping our home clean and bright, and each pitching in in her own unique way to the common work of the household, sometimes stretching to heroic bounds.

On the eve of the Feast of the Holy Family, I looked at my dear Sisters like the family that they are to me, arrayed like a tableau of beloved  kinfolk, each struggling through the strange situations and unlikely tasks of life, and each helping the others in their struggle  But each was also arrayed like the stainless steel tables and shelves, giving herself to the purifying action of the Holy Spirit and the purification that comes through life in monastic community as together we seek to be a holy family, shining for the glory of God.

Pa rum pum pum pum

The lyrics of “The Little Drummer Boy” caught my attention in a new way this year and have served as a kind of drumbeat in the background of my Advent activities and my preparations for Christmas, almost as a kind of lectio undergirding my monastic labora. In preparing the sacristy, rehearsing music, polishing brass and silver, ironing chapel linens, and so on it’s as if I’ve been playing my drum for Him.

On this Christmas Eve day, I spent much of the morning working in the sacristy and chapel, each task a tap on my drum as I worked with Sr. Magdalena, Sr. Michelle, Sr. Sara Aiden, Sr. Therese, Sr. Lynn Marie, and others.

Later in the day, a problem with the walk-in freezer drew me to labor for an hour or so with Sisters Tonette and Mary Adrian in the freezing cold, each of us dressed as if we were ready to head for the North Pole. That effort, too, was a tap on my drum, trying to play my best for Him. And then over supper, some good-natured humor left those at my table nearly crying with laughter. That, too, a beat on my drum.

Like the drummer boy, I feel the gifts I bring are poor and inadequate. And I don't always play well.  Sometimes I even forget to play when I am supposed to be playing.  Nevertheless, I offer all that I do as a gift, seeking to ‘play my best for Him’ as I tap out a rhythm of work and prayer, of prayer and praise, of praise and thanksgiving, 'so to honor Him.'

And now, as these last, silent hours of Christmas Eve tick by, the air is still, the monastery quiet, the corridors dim. It is the calm before the joy of the Mass of Midnight.  The pa rum pum pum pum of praise has fallen into the silence of anticipation and awe as we quietly, humbly, patiently wait, a newborn King to see.  Pa rum pum pum pum. 

A paler shade of joy

As I neared Cullman County last night following a visit with family in the Carolinas, I turned off Hwy 231 onto a narrow country road that serves as my shortcut to Hwy 278. After a few rises and falls, the road crested and hugged a ridgeline the rest of the way into Holly Pond, just east of Cullman.

It was nearing 8:00 PM, and winter darkness had long settled onto the hills and into the hollows of north Alabama. But looking from the ridgeline out toward the distant west, a pale streak of daylight hovered like an afterthought on the far horizon. It wasn’t the usual pink or orange of a proper sunset. It wasn’t even a glow. It was just a grey-white streak of pale, the barest reminder of the day that had been, and of the day that was to be.

This morning I awakened to steady rain and a colorless sky that bore no hint of the joy of Gaudete Sunday or the color of rose that would brighten our liturgy or the Mass readings that would exhort us to rejoice. I stared out the window at the blanched vista that seemed drained of life even as it drained the heavens of moisture.  The sky looked like a line from the old song "a whiter shade of pale."

The steady rain has continued all day and now into the evening. The sky is both dreary and weary. Our mood is subdued as we grieve the tragedy in Connecticut, as well as violence closer to home. A bucket is catching a percussive leak in the Retreat Center office.  Everything looks grey, grim, and damp.  But Sisters Therese and Michelle baked cookies this afternoon. Sr. Lynn Marie prepared a special treat for our tree-decorating party. The schola gathered to practice after dinner. And we gathered as a community tonight to decorate our dining room Christmas tree, sing for a bit, and yes, rejoice over the Daybreak that even now hovers on the horizon.

We are called to rejoice - sometimes against all evidence, and sometimes against all odds. Yet if we can climb the ridgeline and look to the horizon, we can find a hint of the sunlight that has been, and the Light that is to come.   And we can rejoice - even if it is a paler shade of joy.

Postscript:  For a previous post on Gaudete Sunday, including an explanation of Gaudete, please see the December 12, 2010 post in the archive above left ("We interrupt this color...") .

Instruction manual

Yesterday I picked up a old iron as I packed up an area of Annunciata Hall. Its heavy weight and fabric-coated cord suggested it was perhaps of 1960’s vintage. Next to the iron was the instruction manual which had accompanied the iron through the decades.

A consistent pattern I’ve noticed over these weeks of helping pack up and move various areas of the monastery is the presence of an instruction manual accompanying nearly any kind of device or appliance. It doesn’t matter the type of equipment or the age of the device. It could be a space heater, or a DVD player, or a microwave oven, or an iron, or even a sick call set from the early years of our community. If it is electric or must be assembled or has controls of some sort, an instruction or assembly manual is sure to be nearby.

If I had found just an occasional manual, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it because we keep them in low profile. But as I packed, their ubiquity became noticeable. It’s not that we aren’t able to figure out how to turn things on and off or how to operate a toaster oven. We don’t even necessarily use the manuals; many are still snug in their original plastic sleeves. But somehow, saving them just seems an appropriate way to be orderly and careful with the goods entrusted to our care, and to be considerate to those who may use them in the future.

I find something touching and tender in the presence of all these manuals, and after encountering them over and over I began to view them with a kind of reverence. I think their presence speaks to the way in which we’ve absorbed Benedict’s instruction to treat “all goods of the monastery as if they were sacred vessels of the altar.” I think it’s also a way to express care for one another, including those who will come after us who maybe, just maybe, will need to know how to replace the thing-a-ma-jig on the such-in-such. The manual will be at the ready to tell them how.

I think it is testament, too, to the ongoing quality of our life as a monastic community, with our current generation seamlessly integrated with those who came before us and those who are yet to come. We know that the various goods of the monastery came from the hard work and generosity of those who preceded us, and what we leave behind we want to bequeath in good condition.

All of this is witness to how we’ve absorbed the most ubiquitous and most important of all the instruction manuals here in the monastery – the Rule of St. Benedict. Daily we listen together to a reading from this ancient manual.  It teaches us that our reverence for God gets expressed in the daily interactions of life, including the reverent use of created goods, and reverence for one another. It is an instruction manual that for centuries upon centuries has never become obsolete.

 

Postscript: The photograph above was taken as we were moving out of Ottilia Hall prior to renovation.  The air conditioner was headed for our yard sale, but it went complete with its instruction manual! 

The Mayflower

The great migration of Sisters back into Ottilia Hall is now complete. I was one of the last scheduled to go. When I finally made my move yesterday after nearly two years in Joseph Hall, I felt as if I were stepping onto Plymouth Rock after a long voyage at sea, or as if I were Christopher Columbus finally dropping anchor in a Caribbean bay. We have been on this voyage for what has felt like a very long time, and we have eagerly anticipated stepping back onto the shores of Ottilia.

Last night, having unpacked and settled in, I leaned deeply into my rocker and looked out the eastward-facing window into the darkening sky. It was good to be back and be at rest in the room assigned to me by our Prioress. But even though I feel as if I have dropped anchor and set foot on shore, this room is really more Mayflower than Plymouth Rock, more Niña, Pinta and Santa Maria than a Caribbean bay. This is a room, a chair, a space in which I will set sail in a continual journey with God and with this monastic community, keeping my sails hoisted and my compass set, voyaging ever-deeper into the heart of our Lord.

Like a hand at rest

On Saturday, the color of violet spread silently though the monastery as we readied ourselves for the season of Advent. It spread like a hand unfolding into rest.

In the sacristy, I made the usual preparations of exchanging green vestments for violet and readying the lectionaries of the new liturgical year. Sr. Kathleen arranged the Advent wreath and candles in the chapel, and Sr. Priscilla prepared them for the dining room. Sisters Therese and Lynn Marie removed last year’s Missalettes from the pews and replaced them with the new. Sr. Magdalena placed her Advent music and liturgy files at the ready.  Sr. Brigid posted the annual reminder about our Advent collection for Catholic Relief Services.  Hardly a word was exchanged. Everyone just settled into doing what they knew needed to be done.

Advent is one of my favorite seasons and I think this year it will be particularly so. In the midst of this unusual time of transition for our community, the pensive quiet of this beautiful season will be especially welcome. Familiar hymns, familiar patterns, the familiar turning of the liturgical calendar…I think all will help us settle deeply into this season, these days that unfold like a hand at rest – quiet and still in wordless waiting, yet ready to light the lamp and spread the table as we watch for the coming of the Lord.

The story of the week

A Sister asked whether I would be writing a blog post about some of the “challenges” (read: semi-calamities) that we had last week at the monastery. I demurred, saying I wouldn’t dare try to describe the indescribable. But here I go…

If you can imagine a cross between an “I Love Lucy” episode, a Jackson Pollock painting, and a Special Effects seminar all set against the backdrop of Noccalula Falls…well, then you can imagine last Wednesday and Thursday. But that’s about the best I can do because I don’t think I can really describe the smoke that billowed from a toilet bowl as water sprayed over the rim like a really bad chemistry prank gone awry. Nor can I accurately portray the water that arced into the air from an open wall pipe as Sr. Regina and a monastery staff member tried with all their might to stop the flow by plugging their fingers in the wall. Nor can I describe carpet so saturated that water began spewing from a puncture at the top of the giant garbage bag that was holding it. It poured steadily and confidently, as if it thought itself the Tivoli Fountain. And I could never find the words to describe the drama of trying to get that bag outside without spilling a drop.

A certain number of renovation malfunctions and oddities can be expected. But Wednesday was one for the record books. It was enough to make you wonder if it was a full moon…except that it was mid-day.

But that’s only a small part of what went on. The main story of this week is that our life breath kept flowing, borne aloft on the wind of the Holy Spirit. Our hearts kept surging, marking time in the rhythm of eternity. The skies were bright and clear. The earth kept spinning underneath our feet. We sat in monastic silence at prayers and enjoyed conversation over meals. We prayed. We worked. We rested from our labor. We trusted in God. We leaned on each other. Peace prevailed.

As we prayed Psalm 112 together late in the week, I thought of the events that had transpired. The various dramas brought some quick reactions, hard work, and plenty of frustration. But still, we trusted in our merciful God. No matter what happens, God’s mercy and love is the real story of the week.

They shall not fear an ill report; their hearts are steadfast, trusting the Lord. Ps 112:7

World's Fair

The ingenious and sometimes complex adaptations that have been made over the years to our beloved structures on this beloved spot of land have sometimes confounded even the most seasoned of craftsmen. Yesterday I saw two workmen peering at some Annunciata Hall plumbing as if they were looking into an abyss. One of them said in wonderment: “I’ve been to two World’s Fairs and I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Indeed.

I’ve enjoyed overhearing comments of workmen as the construction has unfolded, and this comment was one of the best. It is testimony to the complexity of a 110 year old original structure, with adjacent structures subsequently added, and many of these structures adapted to various uses over the years – all of it done on a shoestring budget but with good materials and , if not done by professionals, then by very resourceful employees.

The various creative adaptations are sometimes ingenious, sometimes simply clever, and sometimes head-scratchingly perplexing. I think the workman yesterday encountered all three in one fell swoop.

The expressions of the men, not to mention the quote, reminded me of the mystery that each of us is to one another. Here in the monastery, we live in close proximity and see each other at close range day in and day out. Even though we live a life in common, we each approach this life with a unique personality and a distinctive manner of being. This variety can be beautiful, but there are times when another’s approach to something can be head-scratchingly perplexing and we ponder the mystery of their actions or ideas as if staring blankly into an abyss. We’ve “never seen anything like this before,” and it can be confounding, perhaps even frustrating.

The encounter with the mystery of the other is part of what is at times lovely and at times challenging about monastic life. We each bring to this common life our whole complex self – gifts, weaknesses, temperaments, unique ways of being, adaptations we’ve made over the years – and yes, our brokenness. Our challenge is to gaze at the mystery of the other not with judgment but with compassion and wonder, knowing that we, too, are a mystery that others may find perplexing, and perhaps even frustrating.

There is a kind of “World’s Fair” quality to community life – all of us gathered together from different places and with various backgrounds and each of us a unique, wondrous sight to behold. For each one of my Sisters it is true that “I’ve never seen anyone like this before.” I pray that I can see them with eyes open to the wonder of their being, ingeniously created, formed, and cherished by God.

Postscript: Some of the interesting non-construction-related items uncovered in the course of renovation were classroom chalk boards that had been covered over by subsequent walls.  We've seen the remains of old Latin lessons, directions to a rerouted Algebra class, and other such finds.  Above is a chalk board drawing of more recent vintage but which nevertheless had been relegated to an unseen corner of the basement - that is, until we cleaned the basement out.  It was drawn by Sr. Therese for a retreat group about ten or so years ago. 

For a previous blog post about the creative genius of some of our employees, see the September 2, 2012 "Wonderland" entry in the archives above left.

"We just keep on living..."

When one of our Sisters was recently asked how we were coping with living in the middle of a construction zone, she replied, “We just keep on living…” She shrugged her shoulders as she spoke, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to have a masonry saw screaming outside one dining room window and welding sparks flying outside another while quietly eating a monastery lunch on a paper plate because another unmarked water line just got hit and there is no water with which to wash dishes.

Through it all we just keep on living. Our liturgy hasn’t missed a beat. We have never ceased welcoming guests. We say the same mealtime prayers at the same mealtimes. Our vocation program continues to welcome newcomers into our life. Sr. Kathleen keeps tending the plants. Sr. Regina keeps watering the gingko seedlings. Sr. Jane keeps gathering pecans from the lawn and shelling them with Sr. Emilie. Sr. Magdalena keeps doting over Kitty B, with the rest of us not far behind her in our level of affection for our dear little cat. Sr. Brigid keeps bringing in the mail each day. Sr. Bernadette keeps picking up the morning paper. Sr. Kathleen Christa keeps us all up to date with prayer requests that are sent to us. We greet the ever-present workmen as we pass them in the corridors or on the grounds. We direct guests toward the latest iteration of the monastery entrance. And on and on.

Indeed, we just keep on living. We pray a lot. We laugh a lot. We pray some more. We express our gratitude for what is unfolding before us and for those who are making it possible even as jack hammers hammer away and phone systems get turned inside out and another unmarked water line gets hit and routes get re-routed and then re-routed again as the construction zone subtly shifts over time like an inchworm slowly making its way toward paradise. In the midst of whatever the current challenges happen to be, the big picture remains before us, along with the knowledge that these inconveniences and disruptions are so minor compared with the tragedies and disruptions and violence of all sorts occurring around the globe.

So we just keep on living. And we keep on living like Benedictines, seeking God by living under a Rule and a Prioress in the midst of all circumstances, even the circumstances of a real live bona fide living color surround sound construction zone. But I think the things that keep us grounded the most are our spirit of gratitude, the fact that we are going through this together and are able to help one another through challenging times, and the knowledge that this is no ordinary construction zone. It is the house of the Lord, and we are so grateful to witness, and yes experience, the much-needed improvements that we trust will bring glory to God.

No matter what the construction process brings for us on any given day, the sun still rises and the sun still sets, its golden glow casting a paradisiacal sheen on mortar and brick, on sheetrock and steel. Even with dust and disarray and unexpected hits on yet another water line, the construction zone is already a strange kind of paradise as we watch the skill of architects and workmen unite with the prayers of the Sisters and the generosity of benefactors as we just keep on living

this Benedictine life of ora et labora, prayer and work, all under the beneficient gaze of our Lord.


Postscript: One can never really anticipate what a day will bring, and some days bring some very unwelcome surprises. Today was one of them. It’s all too long, too multi-faceted, and way too complicated to explain – but I can assure you the word “paradise” was not on anyone’s lips today. The big picture does help though, but what helps the most is our support of one another as we inch our way there.  Good leadership also helps us keep it all in perspective and keeps us organized, on track, and our monastic life intact as we work our way through all these transitions.  Thanks be to God for our Prioress and her team!

Photo at top: Sr. Kathleen has kept the planters planted throughout, even at the edge of the construction zone.

Middle photo: View from our dining room a few months ago.  This building (new kitchen and Retreat Center dining) now has its second story and is nearing completion.

Photo at bottom: A portion of our back yard at dusk.  Our carport at right has co-existed with the construction zone at left and the construction trailers in the distance. 

Dominion

Here in the South, I suspect that the spiral strands of our DNA must surely be shaped like the spiraling of a football through the autumn skies because everything here seems to revolve around the sport, especially the college variety, and especially here in Alabama, and especially on the day of the Iron Bowl, the annual game between Auburn and Alabama. This past Saturday, our entire state collectively paused for The Game, which is less a sporting event than a kind of secular Holy Day of Obligation with its own ritual colors and ceremonial customs. During these few hours, Alabama shops are nearly empty, streets are bereft of traffic, living rooms are filled with family and friends, and nearly everyone who is not actually at the game is at least within earshot of the broadcast.

Even in the monastery the game captures our attention, complete with team colors, chips and dip, and a small, stuffed Aubie Tiger that was subjected to a good-natured “kidnapping” during halftime on Saturday. But when it is time for prayers, we turn off the TV and proceed to the chapel, no matter what is happening in the game.

The game this year fell on the vigil of the Solemnity of Christ the King, a victor who wears not a championship ring nor a wreath of laurels but a crown of thorns.  As sacristan of the community, I prepared for the liturgies of the day along with Sr. Michelle and Sr. Brigid. We swapped out candlesticks, spread a festive altar cloth, made ready a beautiful white vestment for the priest, and made other special preparations for the liturgical celebration.

The preparations were not burdensome, and did not take a long time. They certainly didn’t compare to the immense energy and resources expended to both play and view the sporting events that were occurring all across the nation among arch rivals seeking domination on the field of play.

What does compare, though, is the immense effort each of us must expend to continually keep the Lord enthroned in our lives. Even as we celebrate Christ’s kingship with beauty and solemnity in our liturgies, in our individual lives it can be a hard, daily struggle to let the Lord have dominion over our hearts. It seems that internally a kind of Iron Bowl is always being played as trials and temptations beset us on the road to eternal life and we fumble the ball, or drop the pass, or draw a penalty flag as our “arch rival” seeks to dethrone the Lord in our hearts.

Struggles with sin beset all of us and we need constant vigilance against the enemy. We also need one another, working together like teammates, forgiving and encouraging one another with the good zeal and fervent love of which St. Benedict speaks (RB 72:3).

The zeal and fervor of viewing a sporting contest can be enjoyable, and a perfect, spiral pass settling into the hands of a receiver on an autumn Saturday in Alabama can be beautiful to behold.  But incomparably more beautiful is the love and zeal with which we uphold one another, and God's grace which upholds us all, as we "run on the path of God's commandments (RB Prol)" - sometimes fumbling the ball and sometimes making the perfect play - but always seeking to let His love have dominion in our hearts.

Giving thanks in the gap

I have recently been reflecting on Abraham Lincoln’s famous Thanksgiving Proclamation of 1863. It is a beautiful, noble, evocative – even tender – acknowledgement of the blessings that do not stop falling from the heavens and coursing through the land even as crushing tribulations rend bodies and souls.

Lincoln wrote in time of war, but even trials less rending than those of combat offer us their particular pain, however small, like a garnish of suffering on a plate of plenty.

The co-mingling of pain with plenty that we all experience to varying degrees can leave us not only uncomfortably struggling through the contradictions and complexity of our humanity but also poised in the betwixt and between of what has been and what we hope will be.

Our Thanksgiving celebration here at the monastery has taken place in such a gap. We are part way through our move back into Ottilia Hall after a long, sometimes challenging, exodus away from our main monastery home. Most of us are now back in Ottilia. Some of us have yet to move. About half of our kitchen equipment is in our future kitchen. About half remains in the current one that now looks sadly shorn and forlorn. Our library is packed in boxes and our offices are still in transition. The Retreat Center move is yet to come. The dirt and disarray of construction that has accompanied us for over a year will be present for at least the year to come as we move from Phase II to Phase III of our project.

It is not war. It is not the fury of fire or storm. And our challenges are often even awash in a golden sheen of joy and anticipation as our long sought goal unfolds before us. Nevertheless, in our own small way, we are poised betwixt and between, neither fully here nor fully there, living in a gap between what was and what will be.

It is, of course, part of the human condition. Every day each of us puts one foot in front of the other, leaving behind the surety of former footfalls and stepping over a chasm of mystery into the uncertainly of the footfalls beyond.

Strangely, though, this gap between what was and what will be can sharpen our sense of what is – both the pain and the plenty. Lincoln conveyed this sharpened sensitivity as he beautifully articulated the many blessings bestowed upon the country even as the land was still draped in the chaos of battle.

I think our community has also experienced that sharpened sensitivity as with the rest of the country we paused for a day of Thanksgiving to the Lord for what has been, what is, and what will be. God’s goodness showers upon us daily – even in the midst of construction, which is itself a manifestation of God’s manifold blessings.

Characteristic of the Psalms of lamentation is that they incorporate a note of praise or thanksgiving. It seems odd, doesn’t it? But I think the Psalmist was writing from within the gap, poised between surety and uncertainty in a gap called faith, a faith that sees blessings falling from the heavens and coursing through the land even in the midst of tribulation - whether the rending of body and soul or simply a garnish of suffering on a plate of plenty.

Gratitude is not a feeling of happiness for good fortune. It is a stance of humility before the mystery of manna that falls ever gracefully across even the fields of our failures. And it is a stance of faith as we hover, even if fleetingly, across the chasm of mystery that lies between one footfall and the next.

Lincoln uses the word “acknowledged” to describe the act of giving thanks for the “gracious gifts of the Most High God.” Such acknowledgement is rooted in humility and in faith as we turn our gaze away from ourselves and toward God as the source of all “such singular deliverances and blessings”

For all the blessings that were, that are, and that will be, thanks be to God!

Postscript: Remembrances of those in Syria, Gaza, the Northeast U.S., and all those suffering in such dire and dangerous situations have not been far from our thoughts and prayers during this Thanksgiving weekend.  May peace prevail.

Send in the cavalry!

Imagine a phalanx of Sisters striding purposefully down the hallway, each pushing a wheeled conveyance topped high with teetering boxes. Then imagine that each Sister has a floor lamp or curtain rods or some other such contraption in her other hand as if it were a javelin ready for the throw, and well, you’ve got the picture of a cavalry charge. About all I can do in the face of such an onslaught is to press myself against the wall and hope for the best! Except that I’m just as likely to be part of the cavalry, trying hard to steer my “steed” and not knock over anything or anybody along the way.

When it comes to getting the contents of thirty-something bedrooms, three community rooms, numerous offices, several parlors, a dining room, an infirmary, and a conference room from one building to another, you can’t imagine the creativity of a bunch of Sisters and monastery staff as to how to get it there. We’ve used kitchen carts, little red wagons, a flat-bed cart pulled with an old knotted rope, an upright push cart, and a home-made plywood platform complete with rubberized edging nailed along the side. And then there’s my favorite – a Hoyer Lift from the infirmary that an employee converted into a flatbed handcart. It can be stacked high, higher, and highest with boxes of library books or blankets or book cases or coffee tables or whatever happens to be next on the list to move. And all that’s just the small stuff. For a few days we also had professional movers handling the big stuff.

It is times like this that renew my amazement at the strength, creativity, cooperation, and just plain ole’ determination and hard work of our Sisters. When something needs to be done, we somehow get it done. But if we need help we are not afraid to ask for it, and a project of this scope definitely requires help. Our monastery employees have been invaluable partners in getting us moved, not to mention the tremendous assistance we’ve had to get us to this point in the renovation project – benefactors, architects, contractors, carpenters, painters, and on and on all the way to the cement guys who have the job of sloshing around in wet cement wearing oversized boots and rubberized leggings and making me nervous as I watch and wonder what will happen if they stand still in the concrete for too long.

Between us all – whether professional contractor with clipboard and cell phone or generous benefactor or elderly Sister with a couple of boxes stacked on her walker – we are all the cavalry charging the hill to return us to our monastic home. It feels great! Like climbing an endless mountain and finally rounding the bend to see the most beautiful vista ever – this wonderful house planted on God’s green earth which holds us in its generous embrace.



Postscript: When not pulling a wagon, the conveyance of choice for most Sisters is a kitchen cart, which we call a “sparky.” No one here knows the origin of this mysterious term, not even our eldest Sisters. I once asked Sr. Mary Wilfred about it. She first come to Sacred Heart in the 1920’s as a very young boarding student and always knew everything about the background of such matters. Now deceased by several years, she was in her late 90’s at the time I asked her. But she didn’t know about this. “Well, it’s just always been a sparky,” was her matter-of-fact reply. It’s as if long ago the community took in a motherless word and gave it an orphan home in their kitchen. And years later, it still has a home.

(In)convenience

New telephones are being installed this week in Ottilia Hall, planted like row crops up and down the corridors. This will give us plenty more phones than we had before the renovation and will enable us to make and receive calls without the inconvenience of a long, long walk to answer a phone that is far, far away.

This is a good thing, I know. But as I watched workmen plant cords into jacks like seeds into earth, I found myself mourning the loss of that lengthy walk. It is one more example of the many ways in which inconvenience is disappearing from our culture. We shop at the click of a mouse, and a package soon arrives on the doorstep. A single, big-box store offers an endless inventory and the ease of one-stop shopping. Vegetables arrive pre-peeled and pre-sliced. It seems our entire consumer culture is oriented toward convenience.

I wonder whether the loss of inconvenience is part of what makes us thirst for that which no fast food soda fountain can ever provide: silence, wonder, and the sense of the passage of time that one feels when expending real effort and real minutes in the pursuit of something good. I also wonder how on earth we can cultivate the virtue of patience in a world marked by the tyranny of the urgent. And discernment becomes a lost art as nearly everything becomes possible, and easy.

The inconvenience of a back road, the long way home, the hand-written note, the home-cooked meal…each has value beyond itself. Moments (or hours!) of inconvenience are moments into which silence can slip in, unexpected encounters can enliven, frustration and failure can blossom into growth, and we can realize that our illusion of control is just an illusion. Inconvenience can also alert us to a greater sense of the real cost – in time and in effort – of what we are striving for, perhaps calling us to discern whether what we are seeking is truly worth being sought. You might say that inconvenience has the capacity to grace our lives with holy labor, holy leisure, and wisdom – if only we are open.

Each night, we preface Compline with a brief prayer to Our Lady of Prompt Succor. It includes the petition “hasten to help us.” For me, this is both a prayer and a way to reframe the sense of urgency that seems to dominate our culture. Is the 'ready at hand' a convenience that will bring succor, solace, beauty, goodness, and/or help? Or will it merely tempt us to jump into the stream of urgency that dominates our lives at the expense of silence, leisure, attention, and good honest labor?

The new crop of phones will make our steps more efficient and shave moments, sometimes minutes, off the task of answering phone calls. But this isn’t just about efficiency or urgency. It is a way of caring for those Sisters for whom a long walk down the corridor poses a challenge. It is also a way to greet callers with greater courtesy and respect. In both these cases, the new phones allow us to “hasten to help.”

I’m a back roads kind of person who typically prefers the slow lane. But I can certainly fall prey to haste and the prioritization of convenience.  When I do seek the convenient route, I pray that it not be under a false sense of urgency and importance, but rather in the service of beauty, goodness, and yes, prompt succor to those around me.

Election Day / Tuesday of the 31st Week in Ordinary Time

On Election Day, various ones of us pull up in front of City Hall off and on throughout the day. We generally go to the polls in twos, threes, and fours, trying to be economical with our trips.

In a town this size, we’re likely to see someone we know on any random trip out the door. Most of us know at least one or two of the poll workers and perhaps some of the other voters, so there is typically some friendly chatter as we show our ID’s and take our ballots. Or we may greet an acquaintance or two on the sidewalk in front of City Hall.

Before the big day, we’ve usually done plenty of reading on the issues and candidates, especially regarding the more obscure local races. We have copies of Faithful Citizenship and other statements from the Bishops’ Conference. If there are amendments on which we’ll be voting, Sr. Lynn Marie will give us the run down ahead of time on any obscure amendment language. In general, we are pretty well-informed voters. And faithful to our responsibility to vote.

A few Sisters are highly interested in the returns and will stay up late watching states turn blue or red or purple and balloons fly and bands play and pundits pundit. Others will go contently to bed at their usual hour and find out the next day (hopefully!) who won, what passed, and for whom we will be praying for the next four years.

No matter which category we fall into – early to bed or up late with the TV – we will all wake up tomorrow knowing we are lovingly held not in the arms of a President or Congress or Court, but in the arms of our dear Lord, whose glory fills the earth, to whom all praise is due, yet who “humbled himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross.”

Today’s first reading for Mass, the hymn from Philippians 2:5-11, is a paradigmatic reading for all Christians, including, and perhaps especially, those in leadership.  In fact, with the Gospel reading from Luke, both of today’s Mass readings are near-perfect Election Day texts. Together they form a picture of leadership and a vision of the Kingdom of God in which servent leaders invite all of God’s children to dine at the banquet – “…the poor and the crippled, the blind and the lame,” people from the “highways and hedgerows.”

Streaming through City Hall today is a cross-section of the citizens of Cullman, both the high-born and those of the “highways and hedgerows.” No matter where we are from or how we vote, we are all brothers and sisters, improbably called to dine in the Kingdom of God.

Today’s Responsorial Psalm refrain reads, “I will praise you, Lord, in the assembly of your people.” At City Hall, in the voting booth, at all times and in all places, let us remember the one who calls us to dine, and praise the name of the Lord our God.

All Saints

The Solemnity of All Saints is perhaps the best of all feasts to have in the midst of the happy but heavy upheaval of moving back into Ottilia Hall. As we rearrange furniture and equipment, toothpaste and soap, we know that the saints, too, would have had the ordinary struggles of life. They, too, would have had experiences of transition, uncertainty, and disarray, not to mention any number of struggles that come with an embodied life here in this tangible world of space and time, of out-of-place furniture and misplaced soap. I draw solace from knowing that the saints would have had struggles similar to mine, even as I draw inspiration from their holiness in the midst of struggle.

We look to the saints with veneration, but also as companions on the journey who knew the upheavals of life, and also knew the blessed hope that calls us to a life of beatitude and praise.


Postscript:  Despite the busy-ness of our move, we've been paying close attention to the impact of Sandy on our neighbors to the northeast.  May the prayers of the saints accompany those who are experiencing upheavals more daunting than I can imagine. 

Game day

In what feels like the World Series of Relocation, the Sisters are now up two games to zip after two official days of moving. Day Three, I mean Game Three, is now underway.

I find myself wishing that I could sit in the hallway of 1st Ottilia with a microphone and do a play-by-play commentary of the move. “Here comes Sr. Emilie charging down the first base line, her walker piled three feet high with boxes!” “Whoa! Look at Sr. Lynn Marie drive that cart into deep left field!” “That was an amazing catch by Sr. Tonette, diving into the stands to nab that stray box!” But I cannot comment because I am too busy moving.

Here’s how our transition is unfolding: Sr. Mary works with the professional movers at the site of each room to be moved, directing them as to what to take and where to take it. Sr. Mary Adrian meets them at the receiving end and directs placement of the furniture, working from pre-drawn diagrams. The rest of us are under holy obedience to Stay Out of the Way! – including (and especially!) the one whose room is currently being moved.

Meanwhile, some of us are busy working in areas not currently being moved – either packing, unpacking, cleaning, or carrying small stuff on wagons and carts. Our dining room has been set up with snacks, a jigsaw puzzle, newspapers, and other simple comforts to make the waiting easier when your area is being moved or when you just need a break. It’s kind of like a nun version of a stadium sky box – minus the luxury, but with  comfort enough.

The entire effort is flow-chart organized and clip-board efficient with the kind of detailed game plan that perhaps only nuns and ball coaches could draw up. Sr. Janet Marie and Sr. Tonette are directing the overall effort and overseeing a thousand details and sending the rest of us on errands large and small. Those with special spheres of responsibility, such as Sr. Bernadette in the infirmary, are coordinating those areas. Each elder Sister has a younger Sister assigned to help her as needed with packing, unpacking, and arranging.

But for all the planning and efficiency, it is the simple, unplanned moments that will linger in my memory. It’s like a ball game.  There is the necessary preparation and strategy, but the delight and wonder is in the serendipitous moments that come with human endeavor – the towering homerun from the littlest player, the spontaneous standing-ovation as the aging veteran comes to the plate…or in this context, the brief pause out back last evening as Sr. Bernadette and I looked up at the evening moon. The repeated laughter that Sr. Margaret Mary and I shared as I helped her unpack her new room. Breaking into a broad grin with Sr. Therese as she placed a sack of supplies on the 3rd Ottilia steps in a long-familiar gesture that made both us simultaneously realize that “We’re home.”  And so on.

Watching us settle back into our home is like watching a fly ball settle securely into the well-worn mitt of a favorite player. It is an amazing catch. And it makes me want to stand up and cheer!

Sabbath

On this beautiful Sunday morning I have been greeted by a harvest-hued palatte during an early morning walk, smiling retreat guests arriving for breakfast, golden ginkgo leaves blanketing the ground, the sharp crispness of the first really cool morning of fall...but the most beautiful experience of all was seeing lamplight glowing in various rooms of Ottilia Hall.

Ten Sisters are now living there, with the rest of us soon to follow.  Tomorrow, the moving will start back in earnest.  But for now we will enjoy a Sabbath rest.  Thanks be to God for His manifold goodness to us!

Beyond the image (broken into wholeness)

During these days of packing and moving, my life has felt like a cubist painting, full of odd angles and overlapping blocks of color and disjointed joints that somehow manage to form a coherent whole. One minute I am hanging shower curtains with Sr. Ursula and then I am hauling boxes with Sr. Michelle and then helping Sr. Emilie pack and then helping Sr. Margaret Mary unpack and then climbing ladders to dust upper cabinets and then ironing sacristy linens and then serving breakfast to a retreat group and on and on and on. These seemingly random blocks of activity with varying combinations of Sisters make the day resemble something only Picasso could concoct. But then again, maybe it’s more like the pointillism of Seurat or Pissarro with innumerable, individual dots of color coalescing to somehow form a recognizable, coherent image.

As I sat in prayer this morning, breathing the deep silence that lies within and beyond activity and form, I realized that these days are neither cubist nor pointillist nor any other description of color and image. Rather, the various fragments of my day are like bread that is broken, wine that is poured, my life fractured into innumerable, individual acts of work and prayer that are somehow gathered into a single image: a Benedictine Sister seeking to serve God and her community with a full and grateful heart.

In one sense, my labor and activity, my stillness and rest, are an experience and expression of brokenness. Yet the fragments lead me to the fullness and wholeness of life in Christ as my fractured, fragmented life is gathered up as an offering to Him who was broken for us. My work thus becomes for me a kind of icon, an image that leads me beyond the image itself to the One who dwells not in color or form, but in inexpressible light, “the image of the invisible God.” (Col. 1:15)

Postscript: These days have indeed been very busy. Far too busy for a monastic. But this is a unique and pivotal time in our community’s history and we are “all hands on deck” as we help each other through the hard work of transition. Besides, it is such an exciting time for us that I wouldn’t want to miss any opportunity to pitch in!  Sr. Michelle just stopped by the office and we talked about what a good day it has been. We both spent much of the day assisting our Sisters who live in the infirmary as they transitioned to their new rooms. They are now settled in and enjoying their first night back in Ottilia Hall.

We now have ten Sisters who have made the move - three yesterday and seven more today. Photos can be seen on our Community News page.

The photos at top are from the central stairwell between first and second floor, looking up toward second and third floors. The pressed tin ceilling around the light fixture is original to the building, as are the banisters, balusters, and newel posts. The top baluster rail has been reworked and refitted to its original state.  The bottom photo is the wonderful and welcome sight of Ottilia Hall lights on at dawn - evidence of occupation! 

A cleansing touch

During my first two years in the monastery, one of my routine labora assignments was to clean the chapel weekly. For statues and windows it was a stand-up job on ladders and stepstools. It became a kneel-down job when I got to the baseboards, choir stalls, and kneelers. Through this assignment I began to realize that you don’t really know a place until you have cleaned it, no matter how much time you may spend there.

In our current post-renovation, pre-move phase in Ottilia Hall, professional crews have come in to clean out the major construction dust and debris.  But we have followed along afterward with our own dust rags and mops. Last night, Sister Tonette and I took pails of sudsy water and some wash rags up to 3rd floor and spent the evening going room to room carefully tending to baseboards, the insides of cabinets and closets, behind bathroom fixtures, and generally wiping down any trace of dust or stray fingerprint we could find. As we methodically went from room to room, with me on the east side and Sister Tonette on the west, I began to realize that I wasn’t just cleaning, I was learning. In investigating every nook and cranny and corner and crevice of this new space I was getting to know the building in a much more detailed, even visceral, way than from merely looking.

Likewise, we each have our own interior nooks and crannies. The nightly Examination of Conscience is a good way to expose the dust and debris of our hearts and seek cleansing and healing from our merciful Lord. But no matter how much we reflect we can never know ourselves as well as the One who, in the words of Psalm 51, is able to “wash away all my guilt, and from my sin cleanse me.”

In Psalm 139, the Psalmist writes, “Lord, you have probed me, you know me: you know when I sit and stand…” The Lord, indeed, knows us better than we know ourselves, no matter how much time we may spend in self-examination. Let us be humble and grateful in our dear Lord’s loving presence as we seek His healing, cleansing touch.

“Probe me, God, know my heart; try me know my concerns. See if my way is crooked, then lead me in the ancient paths.” Ps 139:23-24

“Cleanse me with hyssop, that I may be pure; wash me, make me whiter than snow.” Ps 51:10

Postscript: Tonight we’ll be back at it again, still cleaning – and getting to know – our renewed monastic home.

A seven year wave

A giant wave is crashing onto the shores of Ottilia Hall this week as we begin to move back into our newly-renovated main monastery building. This single, giant swell comes after a process so slow that at times one could barely discern that a wave was even forming. But now, after seven years of slowly building up to a crest, it is suddenly spilling onto the shore.

Over seven years ago, after informal discussion and preparation, our community began a formal process to ready ourselves to update our aging facilities. However our first call was not to an architect or structural engineer. Rather, our leaders called the community together to delve deeply into our monastic charism and to discuss what sort of physical environment we needed to support our Benedictine life. We dove into the Rule of St. Benedict together. We read Michael Casey, Charles Cummings, and other monastic writers. We talked and prayed together as a community – for well over two years. Then, and only then, did we call in architects, engineers, and other experts to help us assess our options and make the necessary decisions. We wanted our plans to grow from the depths of our monastic charism and not be dictated solely by the particularities of the structures themselves.

Once the experts had weighed in and plans were in place, we slowly evacuated Ottilia in a carefully planned sequence of moves that took place over many months. We tucked ourselves here and there into every possible nook and cranny across our various buildings. Then on February 10, 2011 – the Feast of St. Scholastica – Sister Lynn Marie and I were the last to vacate the building.

During the long slow cresting of this seven year wave, we’ve had one tornado, one auction, two mega-yard sales, and as many meetings as there are stars in the sky. Three new Sisters have entered. Five Sisters have died. Eight steps have separated the dining room from the building where most of us have resided, steps laboriously but faithfully navigated by even those with walkers. We’ve rounded the liturgical cycles again and again, hosted thousands of guests, and watched in awe as a parade of workmen has passed before us, each contributing some sort of little (or big!) miracle to Ottilia. And tomorrow, after seven long years of preparation and labor and nearly two years of 'exile,' we will begin the return to our home.

The sequence of moving back in is just as carefully planned as our move out, but it will happen nearly all at once over just a few days in a tremendous wave of energy and effort. There are a few of us who will linger just a bit longer in our temporary quarters, but not much longer. 

Waves originate not near the shore, but out in the far reaches of the ocean. They draw their energy from the wind. Our seven year wave originated from the depths of our desire to seek God within monastic community – and to do that as good stewards of what God has entrusted to us. The wind that has drawn us toward the shore has been the breath of the Holy Spirit as we have sought inspiration though prayer, study, and seeking God together.

The coming days will be filled with the challenge and hard work of transition. But our hearts are full of great thanksgiving and joy! Please rejoice with us and pray for us as we joyfully spill back onto the shore of our beloved home.


Postscript: Phases II and III of our project are still swells that are making their way toward shore. The completion of Phase II is not too far away and we anticipate 'landfall' sometime very early in the new year. Phase III, new Retreat Center overnight accomodations, will follow Phase II. As you rejoice with us over our return to our home, please keep these next phases, and the Capital Campaign, in your prayers.

The top two images are of the 3rd floor Community Room. The beautiful pine floors are original to the structure and were uncovered and restored as part of the renovation.  The bottom image is sunlight shining wave-like through the blinds onto the wall of Sr. Mary Vincent's room.  More images will follow here on the weblog, as well as on the Community News and Monastery Moments pages.