Carpenter of light

This morning after Lauds, I lingered in the chapel to pray for a bit. As I departed, I noticed sunlight falling across the statue of St. Joseph, illuminating his solemn hands in a way that I’d not noticed before. I’ve been thinking about St. Joseph ever since, thinking about his hands of light, thinking that in life he could probably have constructed, made, built, designed, created, formed most anything worth making in wood. But he could not construct light. He could not form that which falls upon us as pure gift.

But then again, did he not abide with the Light of the world, and in his own way pass that light along through what he constructed, made, designed, created, formed?

With St. Joseph on my mind today, I’ve been noticing myself and my Sisters as we work. I’ve seen Sr. Magdalena at the organ, Sr. Janet Marie counseling a Sister, Sr. Kathleen at work in the kitchen, Sr. Treva returning from a meeting, Sr. Emilie preparing books for Mass, Sr. Therese assisting an elder, Sr. Sara Aiden coming home after a day of teaching school…and myself, diligent in my various undertakings. None of us created light today, yet Dawn fell on each of us, and abiding in that Light, we each sought to pass the Light along in our varied ways.

As sunlight illumines our mornings, the Light of the world comes to us as pure gift. We cannot create it. But we are each called to take the light that falls upon us and be a carpenter of light, helping make, design, build, form, create the kingdom of God, passing along the Light of the world through holy labor and ceaseless prayer.

Departure and Arrival

It seems that history - both of the world and of individuals - can be seen as the history of arrivals and departures. We turn a knob, step through a doorway, unpack our bags and say that we’re home, only to eventually depart toward another arrival. We are drawn to thresholds as to a magnet. We cross town, or cross seas. We go ‘round the bend, or ‘round the world. Whether near or far, we spend our lives hoisting sails even as we drop anchors. Arrival and departure are part of our story.

Today, on All Souls Day, we commemorated the faithful departed, those who sought the Lord in the midst of the many comings and goings of life. Here at the monastery, we had our traditional procession to the cemetery for Vespers. We read aloud the names of our departed Sisters whose fidelity to monastic life led them to drop an anchor for a lifetime here at Sacred Heart. Yet within the anchor of monastic fidelity, there is a continual crossing of thresholds. Our call to conversion of heart leads us ever onward, hoisting inner sails and crossing inward seas, always en route, even as we remain anchored in monastic fidelity and love of Christ. The Sisters in our cemetery are revered examples to us of both stability and conversion, of courageous departure and faithful arrival.

At the close of Vespers, we sang the Ultima, the traditional funeral hymn of monastics and many other religious. The Ultima speaks to both departure and arrival, of turning a knob, stepping inside, unpacking our bags, and knowing that we are home.




Ultima in mortis hora,
Filium pro nobis ora,
Bonam mortem impetra,
Virgo, Mater, Domina.


(At our life's last moment fleeting,
Thine own Son for us entreating,
May we Christ with thee embrace,
Virgin Mother, grant this grace!)

Everyday Saints

Yesterday, just in time for the Solemnity of All Saints, I returned to the monastery following my family visit. I drove for hours and hours across the Deep South along roads that flowed like a line of chant through cotton fields and woodlands, towns and cities. The towns formed a kind of litany along the way: Summerville, Bamberg, Denmark, Williston, Augusta, Madison, Atlanta, Bremen, Cedartown, Piedmont, Gadsden, Walnut Grove, Holly Pond, Cullman…

After a drive that felt endless, I pulled into the monastery parking lot just a few minutes before the Vigil of All Saints. Sister Dominica welcomed me as I entered, Sister Benita helped me carry my luggage up the final flight of stairs, and then I went straight to chapel. We chanted the Litany of the Saints, and as Sister Lynn Marie intoned the names of saint after saint, I thought about the litany of towns I had just driven through, places to live, of course, but also places in which to minister, to heal, to help, to love as Christ loved, to serve as the saints served.

We often think of saints as other-worldly, but they, too, lived and prayed and worked in towns and cities, on farms and in schools, in woodlands and in deserts. As we honor the saints today, let us follow their example, laboring within the vineyard of our own villages, towns, cities, and circumstances.


A Simple Litany for Everyday Saints in Everyday Places

O Holy Ones of Summerville, heal the sick.

Citizens of Denmark, clothe the poor.

Saints of Augusta, feed hungry ones.

Christians of Atlanta, support the weak.

Inhabitants of Bremen, free the bound.

People of Cedartown, touch deaf ears.

Holy Ones of Gadsden, heal blind eyes.

Saints of Cullman, be the love of God.

In all towns and cities, help the poor.

To the lonely and sorrowing, give comfort sure.

For the sick and dying, be the touch of Christ.

Among aliens and strangers, welcome all.

For peoples of the world, pray for peace.

In all times and places, serve the Lord.

In fields and forests, praise the Lord.

In all circumstances, thank the Lord.

With holy labor, bless the Lord.

With ceaseless prayer, seek the Lord.

With all creation, sing to the Lord.

Angels and archangels, pray for us.

All saints of the Lord, pray for us.

All citizens of heaven, pray for us.

Lord Jesus, hear our prayer...

Strangely familiar

Do you know the sensation of simply taking a breath or casting a gaze and being flooded with a sense of memory, as if the air itself, or a even a scattered leaf blowing within it, is familiar, is family, is somehow part of you? Yesterday morning, with sodden maple leaves underfoot and the air damp with laurel and rain, I had that sensation as I gazed across a Blue Ridge horizon. The atmosphere was heavy with a kind of high barometric pressure of familiarity and the memories of many a rainy Blue Ridge day.  It was an atmosphere that I knew, within a landscape that unfolded like an old family quilt. And then, yesterday afternoon, when I opened the car door to the salty, sulfur breeze of the Carolina low country, the same sensation swept over me.  Humid air, palmettos, wooden porch steps – everything felt familiar.

Each Sister has a family story. We have big brothers and little sisters and favorite aunts and uncles and treasured nieces and nephews. We have hometowns and favorite childhood haunts and landscapes that are etched within our very being. For each of us, certain places and people awaken a sense of home, of familiarity, of family, of memory. Certain vistas unfold like an old family quilt.

Each Sister also has a story of coming to Sacred Heart and somehow knowing that this, too, is familiar, as if monastic life is somehow part of her being.  It’s as if in entering a new life we are somehow returning to something already within us, like shaking out an old family quilt that we've never seen before, but that we recognize as ours.  The air just seems right. The vista unfolds like a memory. It’s all strangely familiar.

For some of us, it’s the rhythms and patterns of community life. For others, it’s the monastic liturgy. For most of us, it’s probably some combination of the two. For all of us, there is something about the Benedictine way of life that feels etched within our being. When each of us encountered the Rule of Benedict for the first time, it somehow felt strangely familiar.

At a recent Vocation Awareness event, a high school student asked me how I knew which religious order was right for me. I don’t recall my exact answer, but one way to express it would be that reading the Rule and experiencing my community for the first time was like unfolding a new landscape, yet recognizing it as something long known.  It felt as natural to me as autumn air full of mountain laurel and rain. It felt, and still feels, familiar. 


Postscript: When we enter monastic community, even though the nature of our commitment is unique and all-encompassing, we do not forget family.  Some of us are from Cullman and encounter family members regularly in the course of day-to-day life and ministry. Some of us are from much further afield and make one lengthy home visit a year. Some of us are somewhere in between and see family occasionally.

I am currently on a home visit in the Carolinas. For a sense of the many landscapes we call “home,” you may be interested in viewing our Meet the Community web page and seeing our various places of birth.

The sidewalk side

Care of the sick and the reception of guests are about the only reasons we don’t head to chapel at the sound of bells, so it was a strange sensation last evening to be standing outside as the final Vespers bell called the community to our evening prayer. Guests were expected though, and it was my charge to greet them, so I planned to pray Vespers at my desk in the Retreat Center office.

As the evening air absorbed the last reverberation of bells, I paused outside the office. Quiet chant began to flow from the open chapel windows and I suddenly realized I didn’t have sit at my desk for Vespers. I pulled a sidewalk chair within a viewing angle of the retreat entrance and grabbed my prayer book. With the retreat center to my right and the chapel to my left, I prayed the Psalms of Friday Vespers surrounded by climbing vines, a delicate breeze, slanting sunlight, and quiet lines of chant that streamed from the chapel windows.

Our chapel is arranged in traditional monastic fashion with the choir divided into two facing sides. We informally refer to the two as ‘St. Scholastica side’ and ‘St. Benedict side’ based on the statues that anchor the apse. Last night, with the breeze dancing and the Psalms of Vespers flowing, I sat on the ‘sidewalk side,’ yet united as one in prayer with the community in the chapel above me.

Yes, a guest did arrive as I prayed. I put my book aside to greet her, and together we carried her bags down the long sloping sidewalk that led to her room. I walked back up the hilld through the breeze, the sunlight, the fading colors of fall, striding along the tree-shaded walk, ever alert to the presence of God in the beauty of the late afternoon, in the voices of my Sisters, and in the presence of our arriving guests. And that, too, is prayer.


All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ...
Rule of St. Benedict 53:1

Gladness of heart

One morning this week, a slip-o’-the-fingers fumble was followed by an semi-athletic and somewhat comic search-and-recovery effort that I won’t even try to describe because it falls into the “you had to be there” category. Suffice it to say, we had some gentle laughter with our toast and coffee. Admiring the athletic retrieval effort, someone joked about the "morning calisthenics."

Here in the monastery, humorous situations unfold with regularity. It seems that putting a group of people to live, pray, and work together is an invitation for humor. Sometimes it’s the intentional humor of telling a good story. Often it’s simply the joy of being together. But sometimes it’s the comical situations that seem to naturally arise in the course of day to day life. As some of us often say to each other, “you can’t make this stuff up.” It seems that a bit of comedy is simply woven into the warp and weft of community life.  Always, it is rooted in gladness of heart and love for our Sisters in monastic community.

We often remind each other that a good sense of humor is essential, especially in community. Healthy humor is kind of like calisthenics for the soul. Being able to laugh well and good-naturedly helps to work out kinks, smooth over misunderstandings, and keep community life, and our individual spirits, healthy and limber and strong. A good, healthy laugh that flows from gladness of heart and Christian charity is often just the right “exercise” to help us pursue this very serious monastic endeavor with the perfect blend of faithfulness, fervor, and joy. It’s worth searching for, even when we look pretty funny doing it.

The Benedictine Express

We recently hosted a small gathering of Benedictines from around the country.  On the morning of their departure, a few envelopes began to appear on a table near the morning coffee.  As departing Sisters sipped coffee, cleared their meeting room, or passed by with their bags, they invariably stopped to look through the envelopes, many taking one or two with them.  When Benedictines encounter envelopes such as this, no explanatory announcement is needed. We know what to do. The Benedictine Express is second nature.

We Benedictines have our own mail system.  It is one of the many ways we keep alive the monastic connections that we forge over the years through various Benedictine meetings, conferences, etc.  When a Sister travels to another monastery, she becomes part of the Express, bringing greetings that flow between Benedictines from different parts of the country (or world).  Yes, we e-mail. We Facebook. Some of us Skype or text. But none of these beats the Benedictine Express. 

Central to the tradition is written acknowledgement of the kindness of the one who bears the message, an expression of gratitude that is characteristic of the Benedictine Express. We appreciate the greeting itself – a handwritten message, hand delivered from a distant locale.  But we also appreciate the kindness that accompanies it. Cell towers and wireless connections can get a message from here to there, but it is kindness that actually connects us to one another.

The simple acknowlegement of gratitude for the kindness of the messenger is not mere politeness.  It is a stance of humble gratitude.  And it reminds us that through kindness we can become bearers of the message of God's love.

To show kindness, no explanation is needed. We know what to do. May it be for us second nature.  And may we always express gratitude for the many kindnesses shown to us.


Postscript:  Not to spoil a good line, but I should point out that the phrase "Benedictine Express" doesn't really exist in actual usage.  It's just a phrase that came to me in order to describe a messenging process that, in practice, is way too informal and second nature to need a descriptive title.  It's something we just do, without a need to name it.  May our kindness be the same, borne so naturally within our being that it doesn't even need a name.