Not a hermit

This year hasn't turned out the way I expected.  This is the year that all three girls are in high school, where my husband teaches.  Until now, he has stayed after school grading papers or preparing quizzes or doing other chemistry-teacher stuff.  My oldest daughter stayed with him, of course, since she isn't old enough to drive and we live a bit far for public transit.  So I expected this year would follow the same pattern, which would leave me alone in the evenings until well after dinner, often until bedtime.  Instead, perhaps because three girls waiting to go home exerts more pressure than just one, he brings work home to take care of here, and they are all home for dinner every night!

I had planned to spend time in prayer, reading the Liturgy of the Hours, reflecting and writing. I thought I would develop spiritually as an individual, a stand-alone person, able to ponder what God might be asking me to do, to become.  I looked forward to watching nature, seeing and loving creation, finding God in all things.  I imagined myself, I see now, being a hermit.

But I am not a hermit, I am a mom. And this year turns out to be very much a year with family, all of us together after work or school, Mom making dinner and Dad helping with homework, each girl coming in at different times to talk or tease or cuddle before bed.  Reading and writing, and prayers, have to fit themselves in to the odd moments, in the kitchen while stirring something, or in the morning after the rest have left for school and I have a few minutes to myself before leaving to catch the train. I say the rosary as I walk to the station, which is a happy five decades away.  My walk crosses a creek and I get my "nature fix" in a short pause on the bridge observing the water level and state of the the vegetation.

I have been drawn out of myself kicking and shouting.  I told God I wanted to do what He wants me to do.  He obviously wants me to be part of my family.  Not an action hero, not a hermit.  Thank you God for giving me a task which is so pleasant, please help me see You in this!

On Celibacy for Religous, and the Commitment of Marriage

I have always thought of celibacy as a sacrifice, giving something up and making an emptiness in one's life.  Secular society reinforces that idea because (recreational, non-reproductive) sexuality has become the most significant part of one's life, therefore renouncing sex is renouncing the entirety of one's self.  But another perspective occurred to me today, as I listened to a Catholic radio host answer a question about the Roman Catholic rite's policy barring priests from marrying:

God creates every one of us, not as toys or entertainment, but with a purpose.  We all have a unique role in the ongoing Creation of the universe, we have a vocation.

The best analogy for vocation that I can think of is being a musical instrument:  something created to play a particular sound and even a particular melody within a larger piece of music.  Playing a different melody may be possible but it won't sound as easy or as good, and might even require painful contortions of oneself in order to make sounds that are meant for a different instrument.

Marriage is one vocation.  Being truly married, in the sense meant by the Church, means being open to having children, and making the family the first priority for both husband and wife.  Being a wife and mother is the foundation of my being, it is the primary ingredient of who I am, more even than my height or age. Even though I am also an individual I am a part of a whole unit.  To return to the musical instrument analogy, I am something like a key on a piano or a string on a harp.  Or, at times perhaps, one drum in a drumset.

The religous life is another vocation.  Each religous order has a charism,  which is "a distinct spirit that animates a religious community and gives it a particular character."  To be a religous is to accept a specific aspect of the religious vocation.  The Franciscan friar is a very different religious man than a Trappist monk.  But both men have the same complete recognition of what they are and acceptance of that identify in God's creation.

Now the math.  The Church teaches that marital relations are for the purpose of having children and thus are only appropriate between a man and woman married to each other, who are open to having children if God should will it.  (Discussion of that sentence is a whole book in itself which I will skip.)  Therefore, those vocations, such as the Roman Catholic priesthood, which do not include children require celibacy.  The man who recognizes a vocation to be a Roman Catholic priest also recognizes a call to celibacy as part of that vocation.

But what about a man who feels truly called to the priesthood and married life together?  The Roman Church is not the only Church with priests.  It is not even the only Catholic Church.  Within the Catholic Church are over a dozen different Rites, such as the Byzantine, Melkite, Marionite, or Ruthenian rites, who do have married priests.  So the Roman Catholic priesthood is a very specific priestly vocation, and not the only option for a man discerning a calling to the priesthood.

What then does this make celibacy? Instead of sacrificing one's whole being, accepting a vocation that includes celibacy means recognizing and embracing a more complete, a truer understanding of oneself as a uniquely created child of God.  It means setting aside the cardboard facsimile of self that the world creates and becoming a full and multidimensional human being.

No it isn't easy. Neither is playing the clarinet, whether in the pep band or as a soloist at Carnegie Hall.  But it is the only truly fulfilling thing there is: to be one's self.

Days of Awe

Shanah Tovah.  It is now Yamim Nora'im, the High Holy Days in Judaism.

YAMIM NORA'IM (Heb. יָמִים נוֹרָאִים; "Days of Awe"), a term applied to the period from the first day of *Rosh Ha-Shanah until the *Day of Atonement and more particularly to these two festivals. This period is more commonly referred to as the *Ten Days of Penitence.

One part of the observation of Yom Kipur is something like an "general examine of conscionce" that Catholics undertake as part of the Rite of Reconciliation. The Jewish practice is "Teshuva," something more than just recognition and regret, yet still without the absolution that is the last part of Reconciliation.

To me, absolution is the most awe-instilling and numinous aspect of Catholicism: my mistakes, my sins,all that I have done wrong or failed to do rightly, all not just forgiven but forgotten, erased from existence thanks to my own repentance and the mystery of Christ acting in the person of a priest. I worried at times about people, particularly my father, who didn't have access to this incredible gift.

Then my father shared something with me. At the time, he had metastasized cancer and was fighting what he knew was a losing battle. He told me that he had decided, that year, to really, fully, practice "Teshuva." He made a list of all his regrets, taking time to think through his life and dig down deep into his soul. He wrote all these things down, to make a thorough chesbon hanefesh, "taking the measure of our souls."

The question is, what to do next? A Catholic takes the list to confession and lays it before God (in the person of a priest) and receives absolution. What was my father, a Jew, to do instead?

As my father pondered this question, during Yom Kipor, a large dumpster was placed on the street in front of the house next door, which was being renovated.  And on the dumpster was the name of the construction company: "Elohim Construction."  My dad reminded me that Elohim means "Lord" and is what an observant Jew says in place of the name of God when he comes across it when reciting scripture. So, my father contemplated this dumpster for a few days. And then he took his list and gave it to God by way of the vehicle clearly provided for that purpose.

The dumpster was still there when I visited him a few weeks later, so I was able to see it myself. During that week it was removed, along with my father's regrets.

I don't worry for my father's salvation anymore. Clearly God has His ways of taking care of all of us.

My father died last year.  יהי זכרו לברכה: may his memory be for a blessing.

Humor, family, religion

Sister told me today I have a dry sense of humor.  I hope that means I don't offend her!  If so, I will undoubtedly have many penances to perform in the future, because my sense of humor gets the better of me regularly.  At least I have learned how to hold my tongue in public.

I do hope the Sisters appreciate the same things that make me laugh. They seem like very nice people, and I would like to grow close to them because I love the spirituality they bring to their work. I have worked with many different personalities over the years, and can get along with almost anyone in the workplace. But I keep in contact with very few of my former coworkers, and even fewer of my former classmates, and the ones I still connect with are those who share my sense of humor.

Even within my family there are those who just shake their head at me.  Fortunately my husband and children are in the same boat, and we keep each other chuckling. I know I am home and the world is right when the one daughter sitting on the sofa tells the other daughter who is sitting at the table about something she has found online, and both my husband and I join the laughter.

I don't use "sense of humor" as a selection criteria for close relationships. Rather, the mutual amusement is a sign, an attribute of less-tangible things that we have in common: shared standards of value, shared principles, shared interests.  We laugh together at jokes about religious orders because we share an interest in and therefore have studied Catholicism and the most visible representatives of our faith, namely those religious who still still wear the "uniform" of their traditions, showing the secular world they move through that there is something beyond the pursuits of money, power, fame.

Such jokes depend on knowledge of religious traditions, the particular spiritualities and even the stereotypes of different orders.  When someone laughs with me, I know they share my knowledge of these things.  When they respond with another joke of a similar format, I know we may become closer friends than before.

Of course, most people do not share my sense of humor, and I can live with that.  The few I have already found are a treasure already.

And so, here's some fun for the family:

During a Eucharistic Congress, a number of priests from different orders are gathered in a church for Vespers. While they are praying, a fuse blows and all the lights go out.

The Benedictines continue praying from memory, without missing a beat.

The Jesuits begin to discuss whether the blown fuse means they are dispensed from the obligation to pray Vespers.

The Franciscans compose a song of praise for God’s gift of darkness.

The Dominicans revisit their ongoing debate on light as a signification of the transmission of divine knowledge.

The Carmelites fall into silence and slow, steady breathing.

The parish priest, who is hosting the others, goes to the basement and replaces the fuse.

Discernment

Sister Serra is a late vocation, and yesterday she described her discernment process.  Sister Roberta called it shopping:  "When she arrived, we said, 'Here comes a shopper!' "

Sister Serra spent a long time visiting different orders.  She felt certain she had a vocation to the religious life, but couldn't find an order that matched her spirituality.  In my words, some were too modern, without a clear structure and tradition, and others were too traditional, using their traditions to avoid a confrontation with the modern world.  She said eventually she made a list of the things she was looking for, and she recognized the order that fit once she encountered it.

I too had to make a list, but I didn't realize it was part of discernment.  Mine listed the attributes of the man I wanted to marry. I spent my late teens and early twenties in one relationship after another, until in my last summer of college I was emotionally exhausted and in despair.  Only then did I seriously consider what I wanted, and realized that yes, I did want a permanent relationship, I did want to get married. And I thought out carefully what I wanted in my future husband.

Only after listening to Sr. Serra's story have I recognized that I had actually discerned a vocation to the married life before I made my list.  I never had any doubts that I wanted, needed, to be in a relationship to be complete. For a long time I simply assumed that everyone felt this way as part of the human condition.  Recently I have begun to think I had basic emotional damage and flaws that caused me to experience the sense of incompleteness I felt when alone.

Suddenly, only now after spending twenty-five years in the married state, I see that this is indeed part of God's plan for me, that even in my blind struggle to become an adult He moved my life in the direction He had mapped out for me.  I think the pain and loneliness would still be part of the process, but I probably would have found comfort in the midst of it had I had an understanding of and trust in His providence.  Yet here I am, in the same place.

A voice said, "Look me in the stars,
O men of earth,
And say if all the mind and body scars
Were not too high a price to pay for birth."
--Robert Frost

Sweet Jesus, grant them rest

Here here is a link to the inspiration for this post, which itself originates from a video here here of a beautiful rendition of "Pie Jesu," which is sung at funerals (the singing starts about a minute in). In his post, Father Allen mentions the translation of the Latin phrase "donna eis requiem" which is "grant them rest." The translation provided in our modern liturgy is "peace," which is technically incorrect since the Latin for "peace" is "pacem."  Now on to my thoughts:

I am struck by the words "rest" and "peace."  The Pie Jesu is a funeral song, an intrinsic part of a liturgy focused on death, judgement, and our hope for Heaven. In this context the Church asks that the deceased be granted eternal rest.

The full richness and depth of rest can only be known by those who have labored long, and hard. To the truly weary, the bone-tired, rest is more than just an end to work. It fills all the senses, like water soaking down into dry soil. It has flavor, fragrance, texture, color. It has silence that is more than the absence of noise, it has silence like music.*

Peace is also a desirable state, and has complexity similar to rest. But peace is a contrast ultimately to conflict, and thus its deeper qualities are most appreciated by those who have experienced violence: victims and warriors. In a sense peace is the correction of an erroneous reality. If the world were in its right order, we would all experience peace.

But even in the most peaceful world, work still needs to be done. "The good man and his good wife with their good beasts on their good farm," to quote C.S. Lewis, will still need to labor for their sustenance. When we have no enemies to overcome, we still have nature, and the work may be even more laborious. We all are called to work, in ways as different from and similar to each other as stars are from suns. Yet even in the midst of work we have moments in which we can put down our work for a time, we can rest.

Thus we can know the reward of rest, its sweetness and its fullness. It cannot be achieved when sought for, yet it is not a mere by-product of the cessation of labor. True rest, deep rest, is given as a grace to the laborer. In this life, we rest, and once rested we can begin again. At the end, we may rest eternally. What richness that will seem!

*borrowed from Mary Stewart in "Madame, Will You Talk?"

Dis-syncronicity

Summer downtime has ended.  The great quiet between school years has terminated, rather corruptly. Last week we had sixty Sisters at a silent retreat, and my family was at home engaged in leisure activities.  Today a Catholic high school has a leadership retreat here, and the students are shouting and laughing in the library next to my desk.  My husband and oldest daughter are at school registering for her senior year of high school, and tomorrow the twins register for their freshman year.

I feel tired and cranky and unmotivated.  And I have a headache.  Why can't I get excited about the coming year? I don't have even a vague sense of enthusiasm.

Days like this require discipline. I don't need feelings, enthusiasm or excitement or even happiness, to get the job done, I just need to go through the list and do what needs to be done.  And as I work, eventually, my mood will change and I will begin to see some brightness in life.  If not today, perhaps tomorrow, or the next.  Meanwhile, work will have been done: guests will be registered, greeted, seen to their rooms.  The world will continue to move forward and someone else somewhere will be spared from crankiness and tiredness, because I didn't get in their way.

Sometimes the only good I can contribute to the world is to not spoil it for someone else.  That itself is an accomplishment I am willing to achieve.

Have a good day, you!

Ministry

A newly assigned Benedictine priest asked my help today with some bills, just to make sure the amounts paid matched the amounts due.  Apparently "back home" in the monastery such things were handled by a central office, which until recently would have been staffed by monks.  I've never considered it, but it makes sense that such things are most efficiently handled in one office, or in a community house, by one person or group.  I thought for a moment of one person handling the individual bills for a community of religious, giving each monk an extra hour or more a month to spend in prayer or work.

"So, I suppose in that case managing the expenses and paying the bills is a ministry of sorts?"

"Absolutely," Father confirmed.

It's nice to know that even the mundane work I do is in some way supporting a more glamorous vocation.

A Year

A year ago, August 2012, I got motivated, inspired, what-have-you, and took over the corner computer desk in the living room.  I got rid of the children's desktop computer and the clutter of an unused study space, dusted and scrubbed, set up my laptop with the external monitor/keyboard/mouse, arranged my theology and liturgy textbooks on one side and important reference books (Lord of the Rings, Strunk and White, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Canticle for Liebowitz) on the other, and declared myself ready to unleash my creativity.

My creativity, however, is too used to a lifetime of captivity, and it just raised one eyelid, thumped its tail at my enthusiasm, and settled back into the warm comfort of daily life.  While I sat chirping at it encouragingly, Life snuck up behind me and smacked me up one side and down another, completely distracting me for the next ten months.

I'm looking ahead to the end of the month, when school starts and everyone gets up and leaves by six in the morning. Last year I planned to record myself reading the Daily Office, or at least Morning Prayer. Now I think I will try Dawn prayer - which is actually the last of the "little hours" of night time: the hours of midnight, the nightwatch, and dawn.

I've just ordered a webcam, we'll see if I can muster the discipline to make this happen.  More to come, with hope.

Militarized Clerics

I'm watching Dr. Who, the renewed program, specifically the 11th Doctor.  The episode at the moment is The Time of Angels/Flesh and Stone. In it the Doctor is working against the Weeping Angels with soldiers who are members of the Church in the future.  The platoon leader is a bishop, the soldiers are clerics.

Somehow this appeals to me.  The combination of strong faith fighting against spiritual evil, and strong men fighting against physical evil, makes me feel calm, secure, hopeful. In our real world there are both types of men, and both give me courage.  I don't mean to ignore women, I'll get to them in another post. Right now I'm thinking through the idea of men, religious and military: trained in combat, dedicated to something bigger than themselves, outside of themselves.  I don't need them, right at this moment, sitting here in the midst of a peaceful time.  Though perhaps the peace is thanks to the prayers of the religious men, and by the efforts of the military men in the past.

So, I thank them both and all, for the safety in which I can sit here and watch a fictional show about religious warriors who are fighting monsters, and be entertained instead of frightened.

More on the garden

The seeds I planted in my tiny (four feet square) garden are sprouting.  I have parsley and beets, and pansies and nasturtiums and white morning glories.  I already had rosemary and oregano and basil in pots, and I added thyme, sweet marjoram and winter savory.  In researching medieval monastery garden plants, I discovered that many things I planted years ago for decorative purposes were cultivated by monks for medicinal or culinary purposes: violets, irises, and roses, and even the grasses that sprout from spilled birdseed.  The Internet has proven a rich source of knowledge and I am absorbing more information than I would have ever been able to before.

In a sense, this research itself is a "monastic activity." Much of the information about these plants was recorded in the Middle Ages by European monks, who gathered and tended them for use in the monastery kitchens, sick rooms, sacristies. They collected those plants that grew naturally around their monasteries and cultivated others to fill the gaps. They traded with other monasteries, sharing both plants and information about their uses.  In this way many herbs native to the Mediterranean were spread north and west, as far as the British Isles.

I love the connections to the past, and to religious communities. Though I don't expect to make my own medicines, I can at least use my herbs in cooking. And though I have used store-bought herbs for years and have plenty on my shelf, the fresh ones will surely taste better!

Cloister Gardening

I'm nurturing my garden this summer. I only have a short strip, about four feet by fifteen feet, without much sun, which limits the possibilities.  I planted most of it with shade-tolerant ornamentals when we moved in: cyclamen, pansies, fuscia, azelea, gardenia, violets, iris, Lenten Rose. Since then I've done little more than water and fertilize, and the survivors have spread out and mixed with the volunteer grass species sown by the bird feeder.
My inner gardener has picked up a lot of references to monastery gardens this year, finally motivating me to convert the compost section by the backyard gate into a monastic herb garden. I enclosed the four foot space with curved brinks to make a low circular bed, moved my containers of cooking herbs onto brick liners, and planted a few more pots to round out the medicinal plants for teas.

My patio garden gives me more than an extension of living space or fresh ingredients for the table. Monastery walls protect a peaceful space from the wilderness outside, they also establish boundaries within which the religous community follows an ordered life directed towards God. My own small space offers me a resting place set apart from city life, a constant reminder of God's amazing creativity, and a still place in which to contemplate Him.

A Retiring Temperament at Adoration

The monastery across the street from where I work has Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament daily.  I went over today for my lunch, and knelt in contemplation until the noon Angelus bells.  I had the public side of the chapel to myself, with the monstrance up in a special opening above the alter.

Whenever I spend time before the Blessed Sacrament, I struggle to have the appropriate thoughts or feelings or attitude.  I try to make myself feel prayerfully aware that God, in the Person of Jesus, is there before me.  It seldom works. For one thing, I have difficulty simply conceptualizing One God With Three Persons.  He became man and told us directly who He is; clearly He knows how difficult it is to understand all this! Then, in an incredible, fourth-dimension sort of way, He made bread and wine into Himself, and that's Him there before me. No, I can't know it, not the way He made us to know Him originally.

I have found a few works that help me get closer to knowing, though.  C.S. Lewis, for one.  But today St. Francis de Sales had the right words.  In "Introduction to the Devout Life" he advises one keep in mind that the Lord is present always, and provides the image of a great lord's huge hall, with the full court present.  The lord may not address himself to a particular person the whole of the day, but that person is none-the-less aware of the noble presence.

Were I in such a place, I mused today, I would not want to be sitting in front of the throne, or even within a direct line of sight.  I am more comfortable behind the great ones, better yet standing on the sidelines.

I then looked at the monstrance and thought of it as "facing" the other side of the chapel, where the sisters sit.  That helped.  He is always here, but at that moment I was sitting behind Him, a little to the right.

I remember when I was very young my parents would have grownup parties, with people talking and eating and drinking.  Nothing untoward, just grownups.  Perhaps with records playing.  I learned that if I sat in a corner, down low and out of the way, I could remain for well past my bedtime.  I had a perfect spot, just inside the door to the living room, where I could sit on a heater vent, partially hidden by a low chair. Sometimes a guest would notice me, but as long as I was quiet I could remain.  If I ever spoke, the spell was broken and my parents would realize I was there and send me to bed.

So today, I thought of our Lord present at the front of the chapel, facing away from me. If it were a party at my parents' house, I thought, He would of course be one of the guests, one would hope even the Guest of Honor.  He would move around, talking to people, sharing food, telling stories.  And occasionally He would glance down, and a little to the right, and make eye contact.  Maybe wink. But that would be it - He would understand me, recognize me, and even while aware of me protect my presence with His silence.


Thank you, Lord, for helping me understand a little better.

Vocations

Bishop stayed with us last week.  I had the opportunity to chat with him between sessions one morning.  I've been thinking about vocations versus careers lately, and asked him about discernment.

I've heard priests say they didn't set out to be priests, some even struggled against it, yet ultimately they gave in. In America today we tell our children to follow their hearts, pursue a career, do something they love.  We take aptitude tests to determine what career fields match our abilities, or what fields we would be happiest in.  My oldest daughter is preparing for college, deciding on a major and anticipating a career, so I am immersed in the world of modern discernment.


And "vocation" as we use it is never mentioned.

Catholics usually recognize the word as referring to the priesthood.  But every individual has a vocation: it means doing what God created you to do.  Priesthood or religious life is one vocation, but so is the married life, or the chaste single life.  A vocation can overlap with a specific career: my husband's vocation is to be a teacher as well as a father and husband.  He teaches chemistry now, but has always been teaching, even when he was trying very hard to be a doctor: God always placed him in situations with students needing instruction of one kind or another.

A vocation is difficult to discern because it is so contrary to our modern concept of self-actualization.  I've heard priests describe struggling with, even resisting, then finally surrendering to this thing.  A vocation seems often to be something un-desirable, perhaps even distasteful. And so I wondered how on earth does one recognize this thing, and come to accept it?

Fortunately God takes care of the first part.  He never stops, never gives up on us.  My husband did many things with moderate success, but once he decided to consider teaching doors were flung open before him.  So one part may be simply recognizing the unlikely opportunity and giving it consideration.

Very well, that helps identify the "career path" type of vocation: priesthood, teaching, nursing. Maybe even Captain of Industry.  But what then, if the vocation seems unpleasant or undesirable?  or simply too unfamiliar to make a rational or emotional evaluation?

I put that question to the Bishop, and he gave me a simple answer.  "I guess what it comes to is, what gives you a sense of peace." He remembered quite clearly when it came, after long effort and worry about his choice: he suddenly felt, simply, a profound sense of peace at the thought of being a priest.

Difficulties? Sorrows? Even simple aggravation? Yes, because those are part of every life.  But they are easier to accept when you know that you are doing what you are supposed to be doing.

I recognized an echo of what my mother-in-law had told me, a very wise saying, and I shared it with him.  She told me, "Marry the faults you can live with." And he laughed with me when I added, "of course she told me that after I was married!" 

Graduation time

The twins graduate from 8th grade at St. Joseph's tomorrow.  For the past 8 years I've had first three, then two girls to drive to and pickup from school. I've had Band and Christmas concerts and after school sports events to attend.  I've had school planners to sign every morning, and homework to hear about in the evenings.

All done after tomorrow.

It's a big change for them, going off to high school next fall.  The shock will be tempered by the presence of their older sister, who is a senior, and their father, who is a chemistry teacher.  They will suddenly need cloths, and shoes, and have the right to chose these themselves.  They will be in an incoming class of almost 1000 students, instead of a graduating class of 26.

Big changes changes for me too.  Everyone will be leaving the house together next year, earlier than this year.  The house will be empty. I'll leave by myself, and go straight to work. I can stay late at work instead of leaving at 4 to get the girls.

I sit here thinking about all this, sensing some pressure within but unable to take time to understand it. Tears? Terror? Music or poetry? I don't know and don't have time, even though I should have more time now than ever.

This is also the time of year for ordinations and professions, and vocation retreats.  We actually have a regional conference of Vocation Directors here at our retreat house this week.  They give me the idea that I, and moms in my position, need a Graduation Retreat.  Maybe just a day, but a weekend would be good too.  Maybe next year I can make one happen here.  When my own girls reach this milestone, I am absolutely giving them a retreat.

I just wish I had the time to do it myself.

Oh, the Irony!

I first realized I wanted children when we learned that our neighbors, who included a wonderful little boy and girl, were moving away. I felt an intense sense of loss and longing to have our own children, who would not be taken away.

It is now almost two decades later, and my oldest daughter is in high school, her siblings close on her heels. And guess what? even though they are still living at home, they have moved further and further away. They spend their time with friends, they don't seek me out to discuss anything, they definitely prefer to be left to their own devices. No matter what I say or how I say it, they think I am angry or upset and respond defensively. Dad is their preferred go-to parent and I am definitely an also-ran.

I don't know how to respond to this situation. I find myself doing and saying less all the time, and watching them adjust happily to my increasing reserve. I definitely feel invisible.

But the worst part is watching their heartaches. They are crashing into a world that doesn't know them and doesn't want to, and wouldn't care about them if it did. They are suffering, and it breaks my heart to sit helpless and watch.

I don't know how to make this transition smoothly, so I will just stumble on. Having no one to share all this with, I hold it out to God to see what happens. This morning I had a small epiphany:

God must feel the same way about us, His children. Here I sit suffering alone, with my back to Him, forgetting about him as I struggle through this wretched existence. And He's there next to me, invisible, aching to comfort me even if only by commiserating.

I'm sorry Lord for forgetting you, my Father. Please be with me now even if that's all that can be done right now.

Lenten Retreat - Mom-style

Retreats are a time away from your daily life, an opportunity to put down or away everything you normally do and spend that "free" time with the Lord.  That's more or less a Catholic view of the thing at least.  Lent is a popular time for retreats, as the Church walks with Jesus through the days leading up to His great sacrifice and our own redemption. He sets His face toward Jerusalem and makes his way up to Zion.  It sounds very spiritual, almost cozy.

At the moment, my opinion is warped by a bad head cold, which happened to strike me way back toward the beginning of Lent. Yes, I have suffered throbbing sinus, a wracking cough, muffled hearing and a general wish to sleep and never wake up, for the past 40 days.  Though I did start Ratzinger's "Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week" with the intention of a contemplative Lent, I haven't had the energy to get past the first half (though trust me even that is an enriching spiritual activity).

I have suffered constant misery this Lent. And tried to unite my unglamorous suffering with Our Lord's. Not at all the way I would wish to assist Him in His great mission! I would prefer to suffer great hunger or spend hours on my knees in prayer, or go out and do good works for many, perhaps work in a soup kitchen or something.

Instead I have had endure petty misery and a lack of energy, and a constant grumpiness at my family who have the nerve to be slightly less sick than I am. Definitely not the type of suffering I think of as redemptive.  Lord, how on earth does this help You in any way with Your work?

But I have faith, even against my own opinion, that in some way even this miserable miserableness can help Him, if I close my eyes and say along with Him, "not my will but Yours be done."

Monastery Rythms in a Mom's Life

Monasteries have ancient rhythms.  Daily fixed-hour prayer has been one of the most prominent features of monastic life since its beginning.  The "hours" noted in the Gospels, the first, third, and sixth, refer to specific times of prayer in ancient Judaism.  Further, St. Luke in the Acts of the Disciples refers to the disciples going to the Temple to pray at set times, showing the integration of this tradition into the beginning rituals of Christianity.


Although the current Roman Breviary contains only Morning, Evening, and Night Prayer (Lauds, Vespers, and Compline), I have set my phone alarm with a Church Bell ringtone to toll at the "little hours" of the day: 9:00am, noon, 3:00pm and 6:00pm.  At noon and six I recite the Angelus, the prayers commemorating the Annunciation.  Three is the Hour of Mercy, when Jesus died, and nine is a reminder to me to offer my workday to God.

Communal fixed-hour prayer "is the sanctification of time." In different words: we are told that we are the Church, one body, with Jesus as our head.  That means all of us, those who are alive now, those who lived before us, those who will live after us. When any two or more of us are praying together, saying the same prayers, in a mysterious way we who are inside Time connect the body with Him our head who is in Eternity, and we bring our "time" into that "sacred Now."

When our children were little we always recited certain family prayers together:  grace before sitting down to dinner; the "Our Father" followed by "God bless. . ." with a fixed litany of people starting with immediate family members and extending out to godparents, ending with "and God bless EVERYbody." But as the kids enter high school our schedules, including bedtimes, diverge and I found we very seldom prayed together.  So now I try to bring my whole family together at night to recite Compline, "bedtime prayers," before the first person goes off to bed, nowadays usually me!

Cloistered Mom

 For those of you who wonder about now-archaic words, "Cloistered (or claustral) life is also another name for the life of a monk or nun in the enclosed religious orders." Enclosed religious (another term for cloistered nun/monk) spend their days in prayer, mostly, and do not leave the enclosed place where they leave.  There are actually physical barriers such as walls and gates between them and the world outside.

Other words that may confuse in this particular vocabulary are "Convent" vrs. "Monastery."  Both have religious women who live in them, in "community" as we say.  The difference is that a convent is home to sisters who minister "in the world," in schools or hospitals or anywhere their particular order is engaged.  A monastery houses a religious community of men or women whose ministry is that of contemplation and prayer.

Across the street from where I work is a monastery of cloistered Dominican nuns.  The buildings are over 100 years old, and typical of traditional monastic architecture.  The chapel is divided in half, with a wall behind the alter that has openings which can be closed off with large wooden doors. Once a Sister takes her final monastic vows, she enters the monastery never to leave again.  Even after she dies, her body is displayed on the enclosed side of the chapel grill, and she is laid to rest in a crypt under the Monastery itself.