Data cable

When I needed a data cable earlier this evening, I knew just where to go – to the shelves next to a shower. Probably in no other setting would this make any kind of sense. But in a monastery the time frame is one of generations, and the use of rooms and furnishings unfolds and refolds over decades. The gradual juxtaposition of seemingly incongruous objects makes a strange kind of sense here.

When I first entered the monastery (11 years ago yesterday), I was told that the laundry soap was in the mail room. I accepted this strange fact with equanimity. But then I learned that the bananas were kept in the laundry room, along with the pecans and our old computers. At this, the other eyebrow got raised.

There were also some seeming misnomers in monastery place names – the cookie room that contained no cookies (shucks!)…the flower room with no flowers, but that did have a closet full of seasonal decorations…the Blue Room in which nothing was blue except the chair fabric…the pealing porch that was, O silly me, actually the peeling porch for peeling vegetables, not the place for handbell practice…the kitchen carts that were called “sparkies” although no one currently living had any clue why...and, well, you get the picture.

After a while, I got the hang of what was where and the place names soon shifted from odd to endearing. I learned about Sr. Mary Ann, a baker, and the shelves that she used to fill with cookies…about the Schaffer sisters and the flower arrangements they created in the deep sinks of what became known as the flower room, and which still contained of much of our dining room decor...about the temperature and humidity in the laundry that was perfect for bananas at certain times of the year...and, well, you get the picture. I learned that this was a life lived in generations, over decades that fold and refold over themselves forming a kind of spiritual strata of work and prayer in a kind of spiritual geology of place, and of home. As the stability that is a hallmark of Benedictine life forms us as individuals and as a community, we, too, form the place. We form it into a monastic home in which our desire for God can flourish.

With our big renovation project of a few years ago, some of our endearing place names got lost in the shuffle. But we still have some, and when I went to the shelves next to a shower to get a data cable, I couldn’t help but smile with gratitude over the new strata continually forming as decades of work and prayer fold and unfold and refold in this endearing and enduring place that is our monastic home.

A loaves and fishes kind of day

For three of us in our monastic community, the Visitation is our Feast Day. You might think that a feast divided by three would diminish the cumulative individual ‘feast-ness’ of the day. But somehow, with three of us, the feast-ness multiplies exponentially such that the festivity quotient is far higher than it would have been with just one single individual celebrating her solitary feast.

It is really kind of a marvel. One divided by three becomes one multiplied by three and then “pressed down, shaken together, running over…” (cf. Lk 6:38)...three multiplied exponentially to the nth power by the shared joy of sisterly camaraderie.

It brings to mind loaves and fishes, blossoming deserts, and the kind of fecundity that comes from the capacity to share, to make room for the other, to let go of what you have and let it become more than it is.

Land of Next / Land of Now

Perhaps, if you are anything like me, you have some moments in which you are absent from the present because you are present to what is absent, already handling the next thing on your agenda instead of dwelling in the one precious amazing moment that is here right now before you. You have stepped out of the Land of Now and straight on into the Land of Next even as the present moment is tugging at your sleeve for some attention.

It happened to me again (for at least the gagillionth time) during Lauds this morning. I happened to be the one whose turn it was to lead our closing prayers. But as I got to the oh-so-familiar, no-notes-needed closing lines, I could not find the words because my mind had already moved on. I had left the Land of Now. I was in the Land of Next. A prompt from a Sister was required to bring me back to the present moment and the present words.

Today, the Feast of the Visitation of the Virgin Mary, is a good time to remember to be present to the precious and amazing moment that is the present moment. Somewhere, somehow, God is in this moment, a visitation from on High over which we can leap with joy, or which we can leap straight over with distraction, or ambition, or frustration, or anticipation, or whatever beckons us away from the place and time and person and task or no-task which is before us.

Whatever comes next will come soon enough. But for now, I pray I can be present to the Dawn from on High that shines upon me in this very moment.

The Visitation

This morning’s Benedictus antiphon: This is the day the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it!

The Lord gives us this day, and we rejoice. But isn’t there also a sense in which God gives us to this day? Does the day rejoice in our presence in it? Does the day say something like, “This is the person the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in this one created by the Lord!”?

The Lord made this day. The Lord made each of us. May our words and deeds, our silence and prayer, give the day cause to rejoice, just as the gift of the day leads us to rejoice. May we be a blessing to the day as the day is a blessing to us. May it be like a Visitation, like an embrace, two of God’s creations – this day and us – rejoicing in each other, and together giving glory to our Creator.

This is us

Tonight I stepped outside for the simplest of errands - to take a bit of cardboard to our recycle bin.

Along the way I found a prayer book left in a windowsill by a Sister who I knew would soon miss it. I stepped into the kitchen and called her floor. “Oh, my,” she said. I got the book back to her.

I then stepped into a guest area to turn off some lights after the last-departing guest. I picked up the key left behind along with the note of gratitude left on the desk.

With the guest area empty, I experimented a bit with nightlights. Which type shines best in a darkened night-time hall?

I then stepped around to the back of Ottilia Hall – our home – and saw across the building a bank of lights like a sky of stars…a building awake and asleep with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived at work and at rest, at prayer and at play.

I know who lives in every room. One of the rooms is mine. The lights are darkened there now, but will soon be on, wakeful, and then at rest.

This is us. Awake, asleep. At work, at rest. Fully and joyfully alive with the inhalation and exhalation of a life lived to give glory to God through the simplest of gestures and the grandest of efforts and the most earnest fidelity in a most serious and sacred of intention.

This is us. A community brought together through the call of God, each sister a light plucked from the night sky and placed here to be a light in the darkness, to shine like a guide in a darkened night-time hall.

I finally made it to the recycle bin with my bit of cardboard, but not before having wandered through a hallway where I found a book, the kitchen where I made a call, a guest area where I picked up a key and adjusted some lights, and then the backyard, where my heart filled with gratitude for the community that we are, in our simplicity and our complexity, our inhalation and exhalation of effort and rest, the rhythms of prayer and work, of solitude and community...

This is us, living this monastic life. With fidelity. With joy.

Balm of Gilead

There is a thorny scrub tree that grows in the Middle East called the Commiphora. When a Commiphora tree is pierced with a gash that reaches all the way through the bark, the tree bleeds. It bleeds an aromatic resin that we call myrrh.

Frankincense is obtained in much the same way. A Boswellia tree is wounded, and it bleeds a fragrant resin that is referred to as ‘frankincense tears.’

Gold is brought forth from the broken earth, and with backbreaking labor. And thus the three gifts presented to the newborn babe in Bethlehem each came from a wound to a tree, or a gash in the earth. They came from a tear (to rhyme with bear). They came with tears (to rhyme with beers).

In bringing these particular gifts to the Christ Child – God incarnate – it is as if the wise ones were not merely offering a gift. They were also telling a story. They were saying, “This is what it is like to be human.” Being human glitters and glistens. And being human is painful. It is glorious. And there are tears and tears.

As with gold, frankincense, and myrrh – glimmering, aromatic, precious offerings – gifts can come forth from our wounds. A sweet aroma wafts in through the broken window. Shattered shards form a beautiful mosaic. Golden nuggets glisten within the underground seams of daily toil.

The shattered pieces of our lives can gleam because the transfiguring work of Christ lends beauty to even our failures and frailties. On the Feast of Epiphany, as I bring to Jesus my finest gifts, I want to also gather the shattered fragments of my life, because these, too, are gifts to bring. Like the gifts of old, the finest gifts are often born from tears and tears. Because that is what it is like to be human. And that is what it is like to have our brokenness transfigured in Christ, like a small, thorny tree, wounded, that bleeds a Balm of Gilead.

And so like the wise ones of old, I open my treasures and offer to the newborn babe my gifts of gold, of frankincense, of myrrh. And I offer the gift of myself, my humanity – with its shimmering glory, its tears and tears – offering it to the transfiguring work of Christ. I offer myself in the hope that in the thorny tree and rocky soil there will be a glimmer of gold, a fragrant aroma, the possibility of transfiguration because I see, like an epiphany, the presence of God in our midst, who sanctifies what it means to be human, who transfigures my tears and my tears.

In offering ourselves – fragments and all – our transfigured selves can become a continual offering, a pleasing fragrance, a Balm of Gilead in a thorny, broken world.

Images of the Blessed Mother in which she is depicted holding a rosary have always seemed to me somewhat anachronistic in that the rosary came centuries after, certainly not during, her lifetime.  So why is Mary sometimes depicted with rosary beads draped through her praying hands, I wondered?

But tonight, on the eve of the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception, I was contemplating just such an image when I realized that it is not anachronistic at all.  During Mary’s lifetime, the mysteries of the rosary were unfolding around her, within her, held in her hands, touched with her fingers, grasped and ungrasped ungraspingly as the life of her dear Son unfolded like light, like joy, like sorrow, like glory, bead after luminous sorrowful bead, her tears transformed into gems, the petals of her opening heart unfolding like a prayer, the words of the angel echoing within: Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…

The mysteries of the rosary were witnessed, pondered, prayed by Mary...and then left for us like a cairn, like a touchstone, like a prayer, to lead us to her dear Son.