I began this Palm Sunday morning like I have begun the past eight Palm Sunday mornings, by sweeping magnolia leaves from the front chapel steps, readying the pathway for our procession with palms. We had a heavy rain last night and the dark, slick leaves were hard to brush from the sidewalk into the shade of the twin magnolias that flank the chapel doors. As I swept leaves and picked up a few small branches that had fallen with the rain I thought about the branches cut by those who met Jesus upon his entry into Jerusalem, and those who spread their cloaks across the road, readying the pathway for a procession.

Our trees here in the southland are different from those in Jerusalem, magnolia and dogwood rather than olive and palm, but still, we ready the pathway. And our cry is the same: Hosanna to the Son of David!

No matter where we are from, no matter how we ready the pathway, no matter what type of branches we cut, sweep, or carry, we who greet the Lord Jesus as King are kin to those who ages ago turned their eyes to the city gate and saw the King of Glory enter, clad in humility, riding on a colt. Their cry still echoes on our lips, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord, hosanna in the highest!”

A puddle of glory

Things have been a soggy mess around the monastery lately. For weeks, we’ve had rain, rain, and more rain. The ground is staying far too wet for completion of the drive to the covered entrance of the new Retreat Center meeting rooms. Scouting trips to plan the placement of new trees require rain boots and umbrellas. Smears of mud make their way far indoors, well beyond the dampened door mats.

But somehow all this mess gives me hope, especially in light of the Transfiguration narrative which we heard in yesterday’s Gospel reading. The puddle and muddle of my own life – sometimes as messy as mud, sometimes as tired as water collapsing into a puddle, sometimes like boot-prints tracked onto clean carpet – is ever in need of transformation in Christ. The puddles and muddles can be places in which we encounter His transfiguring presence.

The work of God is often hidden, as if in a cloud, and so we may not be aware on an experiential level of our on-going transformation into the likeness of Christ. Or even if we are aware, the mystery of God’s presence and action may simply render us silent, like the apostles on the mountain, or like Abraham looking at the numberless numbered stars and falling into the silence of obedience and faith.

More rain is expected tonight. Puddles will form. Rivulets will flow. Yet in the midst of the clouds, the glory of the Lord still shines forth. And it is good that we are here, standing in a puddle of glory on the mountain of transfiguration.

"And behold, the star..."

If you were a visitor from another planet, you might not recognize the broken glass in this picture. You might simply admire without interpretation the shiny gleam, the translucent shades of grey, the sharply hewn edges, and pieces so precisely crafted that they could be assembled like a puzzle and formed into a beautiful and useful shape. In other words, you might see it as something other than simply a broken drinking glass.

The glass pictured here is the first casualty in our new dining room. During the unpacking of our glassware last Thursday, the day of our move, this glass hit the floor. Later that day, during our first dinner in our beautiful new dining room, I looked around at the other diners, my Sisters. I saw a new dining room, but the same diners, the same motley crew that ate breakfast in the old dining room that morning. We were the same folk with the same struggles and troubles that go with being human and breakable…just like we were in our old dining room.

Our new dining room is gleaming, beautiful, finely wrought. And even with broken glass and spilled milk, so are the diners. And so are all God's children, each created in His image. But when we look at one another, sometimes we only see the troubles and miss the gleam, the beauty, the finely wrought edges, and the delicate pieces so finely hewn. We see the other, but do not behold.

“I am like a shattered dish,” wrote the Psalmist in Psalm 31, in an image that probably all of us can relate to. Yet beauty persists, because the transfiguring work of Christ lends beauty to even our failures and frailties.

On the eve of Epiphany, as I bring to Jesus my finest gifts, I want to also gather the shattered fragments of my life. These, too, are gifts to bring. And as I journey toward the east, as one from another land, I want to shed interpretation and simply behold the Christ child wherever He may be born, even in shattered places. I want to see the gleam that shines like the star in the east, leading toward the Christ who dwells in us in transfiguring love.

Postscript: If you haven't seen the photos of our new dining room and kitchen on our Community News web page, I encourage you to click on the link. It truly is a beautiful space, and yes, filled with Sisters who are beautiful, each in her own unique way.

Savoring the moment

It feels as if we have moved all of heaven and earth over the past couple of months so you’d think that moving our kitchen and dining room would be a piece of cake (pun intended). It seems simple enough:

• Move some tables and chairs from one large room to another large room.

• Load food and dishes onto a bunch of carts and roll them all from one pantry to another pantry.

• Move the final few pieces of kitchen equipment.

• Look admiringly at all we’ve accomplished.

• Phone for pizza delivery and then call it a day.

But it will not be that simple, and one of the reasons it won’t be simple is because of the sheer importance of mealtime here at the monastery. First, there’s the important practical effort of keeping all of us fed and nourished. That in itself is a logistical feat, especially when you add in retreat guests that sometimes number into the 50’s or 60's and beyond. So we have alot of equipment. 

Then there’s the practical issue of 40-something of us learning our way around a large, new kitchen. Where are the crackers? And where is the milk? What’s the best route to take out the trash? And by the way, where are the trash bags? Where will Sister Mary Cookie Monster find her cookies? Where are the bowls? The plates? The napkins? The recycling? The orange juice? The oranges? The stirring spoons? The pots? The pans? And for heaven’s sake, the cookies? We have been told to expect “chaos…utter chaos.” But knowing us, there will be an underlying orderliness that will get us through, even if we wind up looking like bumper cars for a while as we learn to navigate this new space.

But that’s just the practical side of things. For us monastics, a meal is never solely about physical nourishment. Gathering to break bread as a community holds a sacramental dimension that transcends the merely practical aspects of a meal. The place where this happens day after day eventually takes on a unique character and comes to hold a special place in the heart of the community. Next to the chapel, the dining room would surely be considered the most prominent interior symbol of our common life.

The building that houses our current kitchen and dining room was constructed in 1912. It has been added on to many times, giving it a roof line that has confounded architects and planners. Over the years it has served not only the monastic community but also countless students, retreatants, family members, and other guests. It is a special building that symbolizes more than the sum of its parts and encompasses more than its ever-spreading roofline.  This "more" is what makes this such a momentous move.

Each of us has readily adapted to our new bedrooms  and community rooms even though it required a herculean effort to get us all moved. But tomorrow's move is arguably the most complex move of all – both practically and emotionally. In this room we have celebrated, mourned, and given thanks. We have sung hymns and recited prayers. We have laughed until we cried.  We have decorated Christmas trees and set the tables for Mardi Gras. We have eaten in monastic silence and chatted endlessly about the concerns of the day. We have baked bread and chopped vegetables and snapped beans - for years upon years upon years.  Memorial candles for deceased Sisters are kept here, as is our portrait of Our Lady of Prompt Succor, whose protection we implore each night. 

The center table, usually decorated for the liturgical season, is barren tonight, and if all goes on schedule tomorrow, tonight’s dinner was the last dinner we will share here. There is a feeling of wistfulness, but we are so grateful for the beautiful new dining room and kitchen we will inhabit tomorrow. We’ll take our candles and crucifix with us, our statues and sacred art, our celebrations and our sorrows, our paring knives and stirring spoons. And although we may not be able to find the milk and cookies right away, I don’t think there will really be chaos. Because on this once-in-a-lifetime day, we will still be living our ordinary monastic lives, dwelling together in the peace of Christ as we savor the moment on this momentous day.

Postscript:  Thanks be to God for this beautiful transformation of our former auditorium. For those acquainted with this space you will recognize the familiar arch of the stage.  Our serving line is in what was formerly the stage area.  The new kitchen is through the door at the rear of the serving area, and the new Retreat Center dining room is on the far side of the kitchen.  By the way, we do plan to order pizza tomorrow night and let Friday breakfast be our first cooked meal in the new kitchen. But I don't think we'll be able to simply call it a day.  After all, it will be a momentous day! 

Today, on the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, I've been paying particular attention to the many small, unexpected twists and turns of an average day.  I had an impromptu visit with Sisters Margaret Mary and Kathleen Christa.  I dove into a gift basket of tea that turned out to be a gift basket of coffee.  An unexpected question from Sr. Bertha led me to about 20 minutes of lending a hand and assisting her with a guest.  I later spent about 20 minutes giving away coffee.  And so on.

I've noticed these small things in light of Mary, Mother of God, on this her solemnity.  We usually focus, and rightly so, on Mary's motherhood, her Annunciation, and other major events and aspects of her life that are celebrated liturgically.  But today I thought alot about her flight to Egypt with Joseph and her newborn son.  An unexpected twist and turn in a life full of unexpected twists and turns. 

I do not know what unexpected twists and turns may come in this new year.  I pray that I will greet them with the trust and equipoise of Mary.  And I pray that I will greet  them with the words of praise that form her Magnificat - "My soul glorifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior."

No matter the twists and turns, may we, with Mary, give glory to the Lord in this new year of grace. 

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.