A Poem about Pope Francis

Hello All. If the Olympics gave medals for blogging the least number of times each year, I'd probably win the gold. Why? Because I took several weeks off in December and early January. Now, it’s Thursday again and I find myself unable to find the three hours I generally spend crafting the memoir story that serves as my posting. This week’s been hectic with the illness of a friend who needed help and with my own problems with Meniere’s. So I also haven’t been able to read any of your blogs.

         I’m hoping that next week life will permit me to get back to a routine that includes reading/commenting on blogs and writing a story for this blog. For now, I simply want to share two things.

1)         As you know, Time magazine chose Pope Francis as their person of the year. Below is a poem about the pope. A friend of mine, whom I’ve known for sixty years, wrote it. The two of us attended college together and we both entered Mount Saint Scholastica Monastery. I left; she stayed and I’m so thankful that she’s been able to pursue her love of writing there.

Pope Francis

He looked out at our world

and saw that it was good,

not wicked or lurking in alleys,

waiting to pounce on prey,

but wounded and scarred from battlefields

of controversy, dissention, and mistrust.

He calls for the Church to be

a “field hospital” doing triage

to stop the hemorrhaging, to bandage

the broken, to comfort the mournful,

not condemning or alienating.

Open-armed and open-hearted

Francis embraces those teetering

on the brink of poverty, trampled

by war and greed, lost

in disillusionment and darkness.

Throwing off the ermine and silk

and red shoes, abandoning

the papal palace, he reaches out

to ordinary folk with candor

and common language.

He makes the gospel speak

again to all those hungering

for the simple bread of compassion

and understanding, yearning

for a place to call home.

Barbara Mayer, OSB

October 2013

This is the second poem of Barb’s that I’ve shared with you. The first was one about the return of a number of ex-nuns, myself included, to the Mount in May 2013 to celebrate the monastery’s sesquicentennial. Click here if you’d like to read that poem.

2)         On January 26, I posted for the first time in fourteen weeks on my Sunday writing blog: Word-Crafting: a Writer’s Blog. For that posting, I reviewed Return to Canterbury, written by a fellow blogger. It is a sequel to her first book, The Christmas Village. If you have time, I hope you’ll visit my Sunday blog and read the review. Melissa Goodwin’s novel for 10-to-14-year-olds is so well written that it appeals not only to young readers, but also to those of us who’ve enjoyed a lengthy number of years!

         If all goes well with the weather and the barometer and my friend, whose health is not so good right now, I’ll return next Monday to reading blogs and next Thursday to sharing with you another convent story. Peace.

Sister Barbara: An Ever-Present Blessing in My Life

The convent itself has changed greatly since I lived there between June 1958 and December 1966. But I suspect that human nature changes ever so slowly over years, decades, centuries, and millenniums. The limbic system, which controls our basic emotions, remains part of our brains.

         So nuns living in community still find themselves human in their response to what can be the tedium of the day and the intractable personalities of other nuns. After all, the convent is a small universe populated by women who do not slough off their flaws, strengths, foibles, and gifts when they enter.

         I’ve written about some of those foibles before. Today I’d like to write about Sister Barbara, who epitomized for me what living the five Benedictine vows could mean.

         With the vow “conversion of morals,” a nun challenges herself to smooth the sharp edges of her own being. She commits herself to embracing the wholeness of human personality. She champions the Gospel mandate to love even when loving demands patience and perseverance.         

         Most of the nuns with whom I lived tried hard to live that vow, no one more so than Sister Barbara who oversaw the laundry. Each week for the first eighteen months I spent in the convent I got to work under her patient supervision.

         She was, as the saying goes, as old as dirt. She had seen countless postulants and novices come and go. She knew that often we were lonely for our families. That learning to live in community was difficult. That trying to still the rebellious voice within ourselves took years of self-tolerance.

         Deep wrinkles scored her face, mapping the peace that came from centering her life in hope and gratitude. Her voice, cracked with age and gentled by prayer, accepted everyone who crossed her path, whether we be fickle or devout, silly or serious. Her eyes were as freshly blue as the first rain shower. Her smile reflected the still voice of Oneness that dwelt in the deep center of her being.

         There was in her a gleeful joy, a simplicity, a peace that had no axe to grind, no complaint to lament, no sorrow or shame to glower the day.

         In her presence I felt that she’d come to the laundry after having sat under an apple tree with her God, drinking a mug of dark, hot coffee; munching on the crusty heel of bread still warm from the oven; and chuckling over the ups and downs of life.

         Together, they wondered about simple things—the pure voice of a postulant during choir practice, the blush of a winter sun setting, the laughter of children who lived just down the hill from the convent, the scent of beeswax candles in the sanctuary, the nourishing taste of prayer, the worrisome news of a nun whose cancer had been diagnosed the day before.

         For me, Sister Barbara walked in beauty. She had looked upon the face of Jesus and rested within the deep wellspring of his love. And so, whenever I returned to the Mount after being out on mission, I sought out Sister Barbara.                                                                                                                 I wanted to gaze upon her face because it held for me the promise that if I followed the mandate of Micah 6:8,  “ . . . to do right and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God,” I, too, would embrace my humanity and open my arms and my heart to the pain and joy that resides in each of us. She gave me hope that I, too, could become authentically human.   

The lyrics of John Denver’s Perhaps Love

always remind me of those convent days

when Sister Barbara’s love encouraged me to embrace my vows

and to walk, as she did, the trail of beauty.

Judgment in Seneca

It’s been six weeks since I last posted a story about the convent. Back on December 6, I wrote that in the fall of 1961, the mother superior of Mount Saint Scholastica Convent assigned me to the Seneca, Kansas, mission where I discovered “just how human nuns could be and were.”

         On that mission, even as I rebelled against a superior whom I was unable to respect, I castigated myself for being judgmental. Ultimately, I despised myself for my own flaws and left the convent. But that’s in the future. For now let’s spend some time in Seneca.

         As background, you need to know that at the Mount, or motherhouse, in Atchison, Kansas, I’d worked in the laundry each Monday and Tuesday. As novices and postulants, we young nuns not only washed the bed sheets but also the undergarments of the nuns. Each garment was labeled with the initials of the nun to whom it belonged. My initials were DR3. That is, I was the third living nun with the initials DR.

         Nuns wore two undergarments: a half-slip and a torso muslin. The voluminous blue or khaki cotton half-slip buttoned at the waistband. The one-piece, muslin torso garment went from shoulders to mid-thighs. It buttoned up the front and was separated at the bottom for easy use of the toilet. The garment was unbleached, loose-fitting, and short-sleeved. 

         On an enormous industrial mangle, four novices ironed the sheets. In another room, three novices worked at smaller, individual mangles or ironing boxes. Each lifted a five-feet-long, handled, rectangular cover; placed a half-slip on the padded ironing table; and then brought down the cover to press the slip.

         Thus, the nuns wore ironed slips. But the one-piece torso garment remained un-ironed and wrinkled. That garment was ironed only for the mother superior. Doing so was a sign of the respect in which the nuns held her.

         As the youngest scholastic in Seneca, I did the mission laundry. The first time I descended to the basement, the scholastic who’d done the laundry the year before followed me downstairs.

         “Sister Innocence,” she said, “be sure and iron Sister Mary—’s muslin.”

         “Why would I do that?” I asked.

         “She likes all her underwear ironed. So I did them for her last year.”

         “But that’s done only for Mother Alfred.”

         “Well, Sister Mary— wants her muslin ironed so you do it.”

         “No. I don’t.”

         My words flummoxed Sister Mary Jude. “But you have to. She expects it,” she stammered.

         “She not our mother superior and I’m not doing it.”

         In the weeks and months ahead, I discovered that the Seneca superior considered herself the grande dame of the convent. During recreation each evening as we all gathered around a large rectangular table, she sat at its end with two other nuns—one who taught English in high school and one who taught seventh and eighth grade. The superior seemed to think that these two matched her in intelligence and learning. They formed a formidable clique.

         The three of them spent recreation talking about books and history as the rest of us—I think there were about thirteen nuns at Seneca that year—chatted, crocheted, knitted, and played chess or tic-tac-toe. Periodically, when I’d hear one of the three laugh derisively, I’d glance toward the head of the table and note their condescending smiles and superior airs.        

         That’s when I really began to judge and that was truly the beginning of the end for even then I chastised myself. Yet I still continued to rebel. 

         Next week, we'll return to Seneca and I'll share the soft-boiled-egg battle-of-wills with you.

The Gifts of Simplicity and Time

The last two months have been busy: I vacationed for two weeks, which always means, for me, about four weeks—an initial week of packing and planning, two weeks away, and then a week of recuperating. So there went November with no postings and no blogging.

         Then came December and a posting in which I gave you a brief glimpse into my convent life in Seneca, Kansas. The following week, flu visited. After it’s departure, I tried to live the expectation of Advent, but found myself instead caught up in the frenzy of Christmas.

         I say frenzy because that’s what the last week has felt like: shopping for gifts and groceries, baking cookies and quick bread for gifts, wrapping and boxing all the gifts for sending to friends elsewhere.

         Then, decorating the house and the tree and writing messages on Christmas cards.

. . . by Marcel Rieder, 1898

         Next, shopping for the ingredients for the Christmas Eve meal at my home and for the pies and salad I’ll take to the Christmas Day family gathering at my brother and sister-in-law’s home.

         And finally, getting ready for a guest who’s coming to spend a few day with me and the cats.

         Each year, those of us who celebrate Advent and Christmas must decide how we will embrace these two seasons. This year, the planning, shopping, decorating, gifting, and visiting have ensnared me.

         I started off with good intentions, but I’ve gotten lost in the maze of trying to do too much in too short a time. And that “too much” is mostly unnecessary if a person—like myself—would like to live the simplicity of Advent and of the age-old story that prompts the celebration of Christmas.

         It is a story of the birth of a child. Like Nelson Mandela, this child grew up and found himself interacting with those imprisoned by illness and need, ignorance and hatred, fear and greed.

         His response, like Mandela’s, inspires all of us. Both dedicated their lives to helping others. Both gave us the gift of their wisdom. Their lives were great gifts from and to the Universe.

. . . "The Magi Journeying" by James Tissot

         The giving of gifts at Christmas comes from the ancient story of the Magi visiting that child born long ago in a far-flung Roman province. These wise men brought with them gifts for the child and so, we, too, bear gifts for others during this season. A tapestry depicting this event would be sewn with multicolored threads—the pink-tinged joy of dawn and the golden contentment of sunset.

         This year, I have lost both in the flurry of gift giving. So yesterday I wrote myself a letter to be opened on the first Sunday of Advent in 2014. In that letter, I advise myself to enter the season of simplicity with a heart centered on the truths underlying the Christmas stories of a birth in Bethlehem, a visit by awe-struck shepherds to a manger, and a journey by three gift-bearing magi. Within these stories is a humanity I want to embrace. And that demands a simplicity I lost this year.

         But the season is not over. And so last evening, I decided to give myself the gift of time. Time away from feeling that I must do this or that or something else that in the arc of my life is a merest grain of sand.

         By giving myself the gift of time, I hope to enter into a simplicity that will bring forth the gratitude and wide-eyed wonder that for me is essential to the celebration of Christmas.

         And when I return to posting on January 9, 2014, and to reading and commenting on your blogs on January 6—the feast of the Three Kings—I will be able to truly respond to them because I won’t feel the frantic need to get “this” done so that I can move on to get “that” done.

         In your blogs, you share your lives with all of us. I am choosing to read those blogs when time permits me to respond thoughtfully and fully to the life you share. I trust fully that you understand this.

         May the remainder of Advent and the entire Christmas season bring you whatever your deepest heartwish is. Peace.

The paintings are from Wikipedia.

Flu's Visiting

Hello All, on this crisp morning in December. I meant to post another story about my life in the Seneca, Kansas, mission during the 1961-62 school year. But the flu bug conquers all!

I did get the flu shot as I've done each year for nearly two decades, but that yearly shot hasn't kept me from having flu three or four times a winter. I'm lucky that each bout lasts only a couple of days.

This one began with a headache that lasted ten hours, despite my taking some prescription medication. Once the headache vamoosed, flu ached in the muscles and nausea greeted my stomach. So I'm going to simply drink lots of fluids, munch on soda crackers, and eat applesauce for the next couple of days.

And sleep!

And visit the site where I'm enjoying the Jacquie Lawson Advent calendar this season. Here's a winter scene from a Dutch artist. It reminds me of the Edwardian-mansion scene on the calendar. Very Downton Abbey.

Take care. Keep warm. And keep your head covered when you go outside in the chill. Peace.