The Best Christmas Present

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“Boy 7.”

“Girl 4.” 

“Boy 6.”

“Girl 12.”   
                  
Soon this Christmas ritual would be over. I took the package without opening it. A woman appeared almost out of nowhere: "Open your present, honey, let's see your gift!"

Some of the other kids gathered round. I could see Benny on the fringe. As I opened the package, I felt crimson rush up my neck. Tears welled in my eyes...Before I could hide the contents, the woman took the gift holding it high for all to see...

THE GIFT: Seven pairs of panties with the days of the week on them!!!

Mortified, I was paralyzed. “Isn’t that nice?” and she was on to the next child.   

I slipped away, running outside without a coat to my favorite hiding place at the orphanage. It was a little nook in the wall by a giant oak tree. My silent tears mixed with the falling snow.  
I didn't hear him come. 

He didn't say a word.

Benny stood before me. 

I looked at him, and he looked at me.

We both knew. We knew what it was like to be anonymous.

We just stood there. Then, he took off his sweater and gave it to me.

All of a sudden, in one movement, he bent to kiss me on my cheek and his shock of red hair blurred as he turned heel and ran.

Benny, kissed me.

My hand turned white hot as I rubbed across the place where he left his innocent and tender kiss. 

Whatever else Christmas is, Jesus came so no one would be anonymous. Benny gave me the best Christmas present. We were no longer anonymous. We were more than “Girl 12” and “Boy 13.”  We were Benny and Pat.

Pat Pickett, OblSB

Thoughts on the Reception of Grace

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Great care and concern are to be shown in receiving poor people and pilgrims, because in them more particularly Christ is received. 

Rule of Benedict 23:15

Some years ago, my husband and I were on a bus in Tennessee, gadding around like tourists. We told the bus driver we were on our way to an authentic Mexican restaurant, one where no one speaks English.

“That sounds really good,” the man across the aisle said. He was on his way to Walmart, he told us, to look for work.

His face was sun cragged, his blond hair slightly graying. He looked about 40. His build, his age, the shape of his face, even his clothes—clean blue jeans and a white, well-worn but clean shirt—reminded me of my brother.

My husband looked at me with an unspoken question in his eyes. Yes? I knew his mind and nodded. Yes. He asked if the man across the aisle would like to join us for lunch. Our treat.

The man accepted, then bowed his head and wept. “God is so good,” he said.

Over tortillas, rice and beans, we learned where he slept: In a tent in the woods. And where he bathed: In the Stones River. Sometimes he saw cottonmouths—poisonous snakes—swimming there. Sometimes he had to break a crust of ice before he plunged in. Once on a winter morning, he woke in his tent to find a skunk sleeping on his feet. He waited an hour or longer, still as death. Eventually, the critter, who was only, after all, seeking some warmth, moseyed on.

We learned his name. Larry had been looking for work for years. Every week for an entire day, he took the bus and went around town putting in applications. None of us said what we all knew, that no one gives a job to a guy with pink-rimmed eyes and the trembling hands of an addict.

Dozens of people had tried to help him get sober, he told us. It never took. His brother died when he was 18. Cancer. It was a terrible death. While telling us about what happened more than 20 years ago, he cried like he had on the bus, with his head bowed as if he was praying. And again he said, “God is so good to me.”

We asked if there was anything else we could do for him. No, we’d done plenty, he said, and he thanked us. He packed up half of his six-dollar meal to take with him, so he wouldn’t have to dumpster diver for his supper. He bought a can of beer. We walked him to his bus and he let us pay his fare. As the bus disappeared around the corner, we saw through its rear window that he was waving and waving like a child off to school. I felt profoundly sad and confused, helplessly and eternally connected to him. Even now, years later, especially on cold winter nights, when I think of Larry in his tent in Tennessee and wonder if he is warm enough and whether he is still living, my throat aches as if I’ve swallowed shards of alabaster.

There is a peculiar kind of waking that happens in the painful recognition that we are connected to all of life, that everyone we meet is in need of some warmth, and that we are essentially helpless to fix the wounds of injustice caused by humanity’s intractable problems. It is like waking to find a skunk sleeping on your feet. It subdues and stills us.

But it is in stillness that we sometimes see what Larry taught me to look for always—grace made visible, like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight.

It is through sharing—our food and our stories—that the very air we breathe is lit with mercy.

Tracy Rittmueller, OblSB

Essential Oils

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The topic of Essential Oils has been trending for some time now. It is even made mention of back in biblical times but then, why wouldn’t it be found there? That’s where most important things are found. It actually comes up in the very first book.

Genesis 37 asks, “Is there no balm in Gilead?”

The balm they are referring to is a healing substance produced by a plant which grew around the area of Gilead. In Genesis, as in Ezra, as in Jeremiah, it is described as a medicinal substance which was often used as a gift to be given those who needed healing. 

Personally, I like gifts, and these claims as to what the Balm of Gilead was good for are many. Apparently it had the ability to reduce inflammation, protect the immune system, while eliminating pain. It sped up the healing process, soothed the stomach and detoxified the body. These claims are not unlike those of the essential oils industry today. Many find them soothing for some of the same purposes.

Even poets made this connection as they wrote about heart matters that mattered. In the poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, he refers to a substance that can heal a broken heart. He writes, “Is there—is there balm in Gilead? –tell me—tell me—I implore!”

“Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?” Jeremiah refers to a broad-spectrum spiritual healing which could bring restoration.

Is there balm in Gilead and beyond? I vote yes, and let me tell you why.

You see, deep healing can happen…not only on the physical but on the emotional and spiritual levels as well. However, it takes time. Time is an essential ingredient. In order for balm to soak into wounds to bring about the healing needed, it must be given time.

So how does one know which balm is needed and for what purpose? I don’t have all of the answers, but I do know which balm can be used to heal the heart. And, if I were to write a prescription, it would essentially read as follows:

1. Sit before Him in prayer. This is the first essential balm. I’ve heard it said that the only way to pray…is to pray. He will lead. Open His Word and let Him speak as you are held.
2. Let Him take it from you. He so desires to carry. Allow Him. He’s much stronger.
3. Cycle round and repeat the top two often. “Speak Lord, Your servant is listening” (1 Samuel). It does not read, “Listen Lord, Your servant is speaking.” Be still.
4. As He unclogs the heart valves via confession…your reception becomes clearer. Allow His love to move into those areas that have now become unclogged and receive.
5. Hear Him tell you how deeply you are loved. Allow yourself to hear His still small voice echo throughout the chambers. “You are loved…deeply loved.” I heard it said recently that sin is merely us forgetting how much we are loved. Remembering how deeply He truly loves us is essential. But here’s the thing…if we don’t remember…He doesn’t love us any less. His desire is that you know that He does. It’s not about a list of do’s and don’ts. It’s about knowing that we are worthy only because He is worthy.
6. Let Him enfold and hold you as you cycle through these.
7. Rest…in knowing that He is God and you need not be. Allow Him to love you and “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8).

“Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful” (Hebrews 10:23). As He holds fast, He becomes our balm of Gilead. There is nothing that His grace cannot cover. NO THING…NOTHING. Amen.

Kathleen Kjolhaug, OblSB

This blog was first published on Theology in the Trenches, written and maintained by Oblate Kathleen Kjolhaug. Reposted with permission.

Always We Begin Anew

Snowy courtyard, taken by Amanda Hackett

"Always we begin anew." – Saint Benedict

When you read this, we will be in the midst of the season of Advent in which we prepare our hearts and souls for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. It is the beginning of the church year. It is intentionally a quiet season and very contrary to the holiday rush and noise we are exposed to. We are given a decided choice.

The holiday rush speeds, crowds and busies our lives. Advent gives us an alternative. It is a time of beginnings. Each time the earth circles the sun, as Benedict says, “Always we begin anew.” Webster defines “anew” as “in a new or different and typically more positive way.” If we listen to John the Baptist, we hear that whoever we are it is a time for conversion, or as Benedict tells us in the Rule, conversatio, a conversion of life.

The other day I listened to the director of the University of Minnesota’s School of Nursing on public radio. She was responding to a question about how to be healthy during this rush time before Christmas. She responded in terms of what she does during this time: she seeks solitude and quiet. She takes a walk where she can be close to nature. She takes the time to write notes to friends and family. Of course my ears perked up. That is what we are called to do in Advent. Curious. Health found in quietness. I see something similar whenever I enter the St. Cloud Hospital: “Silence heals.”
Traditionally we are given 12 days, beginning with Christmas Day itself, to whoop it up. But this time of expectancy that we call Advent is a time to begin anew. “Always we begin anew.”

Charles Preble, OblSB

Swimming in Grace

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Eugene H. Peterson died on October 20, 2018, but he lives on in The Message, his inimitable rendition of the New Testament in contemporary language! The Message has been my daily reading of the Scriptures for many years. Peterson’s pastoral understanding of Jesus has formed me; besides, he uses words that matter, words that have power to get under my skin to convince me that I am—you are, we are—smothered with grace from the beginning of time, from our own specific beginnings, and that grace will continue to seep into every moment of time, whether we notice it or not! Grace does not pour itself out only at a requested time, he might say, but we are swimming in grace all the time and like a fish in water opening its fins, we need only open our minds, hearts, ears, to become conscious of such gentle, continuous Presence. 

We are graced, blessed, loved in every possible way, and continuously! It may be in the scene outside a window when we open it to watch the dawn arrive, or in the bubbles on the oatmeal we cook, or in the one who opens the car door to laughing children, backpacks in tow for another day at school. Grace could be the 9 black crows pecking at leftover grain in the field alongside your house or in the blue, blue December sky. Grace makes you smile when the phone rings and it’s your friend inviting you to lunch or to a bicycle ride down Lake Woebegon Trail on a sunny afternoon.

Grace is already present in the flat tire or the heavy snow needing a shovel or in a child’s failure in an exam or in your attempt to console the one who failed. Grace is everywhere—that’s the Message! You may wish to have a copy of it in your prayer corner or on your desk...especially if you are a respecter of language, a poet, or one who loves the way Eugene H. Peterson gets under your skin with Truth and metaphor. He would convince you, too, that everything is spiritual, that the words “God” or “Christianity” are too small or that we may be praying when it’s not our allotted time for prayer (e.g. from 6–7 a.m. or 9–10 p.m.). Like the fish in water, we are in God; we swim in grace; our fins are already working well!

Renée Domeier, OSB

Saying Goodbye

The monastery cemetery.

What is the most difficult goodbye you have ever experienced? Last spring, a friend who had cancer was moving into a facility to receive the hospice care she needed. I tried to imagine what it was like for her to say goodbye to her home of 50 years. So, I began imaging myself looking around the rooms and out the windows of my own childhood home, as if I was walking through the rooms one last time. The memories of childhood were returning; both challenging and life giving, these memories became a prayer of gratitude for a life lived within those walls. I returned to reflect upon her final goodbye, that of passing through the threshold of her front door, locking it behind her, knowing that she would never return. The thought was almost too much for me to ponder.

Considering that we learn through our experiences or those of another, I embraced this life lesson as it taught me to live fully each day as if were my last day. Remembering that one day I too will experience a final goodbye of what I know, to enter the mystery of what God has waiting for me. Remembering that each day is a gift, I thank God for my life and for my Benedictine vocation.

If you would like more information about Saint Benedict’s Monastery, please contact Sister Lisa Rose at lrose@csbsju.edu.

Lisa Rose, OSB

A Mary Experience

I dreamed of being chosen to crown Mary in May. I prayed, “Lovely Lady, dressed in blue, teach me how to pray…” Mary was someone our mothers and grandmothers preached we should emulate.

Somewhere in my teens, I dumped Mary. I didn’t want to be like Mary, expected to pray all day and all that blue and white—not me!

And then—

My 26th birthday, I was beyond sick. BUT! I had seven-month-old twins to feed and bathe.

Sitting in my doctor's office, I heard him say, “Pat, you’re pregnant.” WHAT? That couldn’t be! I had twins, still carpet crawlers! A new baby at Christmas?

Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving and we slid into Advent.

Advent. How did Mary experience pregnancy?

Magnificat.

This wasn’t some saccharine intercession by a blond in blue gauze. This was a gutsy young woman singing of anawim…

I was startled. Pressure grabbed my belly. It was time. St. Luke’s was close. I had to focus, to breathe.

That night as I held my baby, I remembered how Advent brought me to Mary, closer to the mystery of God’s love being clothed with the body of an infant. It was realization of how God waits with each of us until we can say “Yes.” Christ is born into the messiness of our lives when we are open to the profound reality that God is always there giving us this chance.

Twenty-five years later, standing in a kibbutz, Shira was in labor. Days leading up to this night were filled with laughter, sharing freshly picked dates, wading in the Sea of Galilee.

The midwife was there. Shira was ready. I held her hand. So young…this was Mary, Shira, me.

Shira’s last push.

A baby’s cry.

My heart remembered my baby’s heartbeat and mine melting into one drumming sound: tu-tum, pu-pum tu-tum, pu-pum tu-tum, pu-pum. Shira was smiling, her baby at her breast. I knew she could hear the drumming sound as Mary heard it before us.

“Be it done to me according to your word.” Mary accepting Christ born of her body gave us permission to claim, “This is my body, this is my blood.”

Pat Pickett, OblSB

Gratitude is the Season

Just recently while chatting with several sisters during lunch, I realized how grateful I am to be working in the Archives. I was telling the sisters about transcribing letters and documents that sisters have stored in their personal papers file.

Some time ago, the director of Saint Benedict’s Archives became aware that researchers cannot read much of what is written in personal folders. Many of these documents are written in cursive and sometimes even in pencil. Because many schools determined that teaching cursive writing was no longer necessary, the present generation often cannot decipher a document written in cursive. Personally, I was aware of this strange phenomenon because as I was leaving the classroom, many students were telling me they could not read my comments. Thus, it has become a time-consuming job in the Archives to be transcribing letters and personal papers. We also transcribe oral histories sisters have taped with Sister Renée Domeier or in the past, Sister Etienne Flaherty. When completed, both oral and written forms of a sister’s history/story are stored.

But working in the Archives can mean several different things. Some people collect articles from news sources which highlight particular sisters. These news articles are placed in the sister’s file.

Another staff member sorts through all the artifacts, articles, pictures and papers that each sister has turned over to the Archives. This sorting happens only after a sister has gone to Heaven.

A tech person makes digital copies of all the pictures and documents about each sister and stores them in a digital file.
When requests are received from relatives of sisters or someone doing research, a staff person is assigned the task of responding to the request. Sometimes it requires pictures be sent, but other times, locating the information is perfect as an answer.

Community business is also saved and stored in the Archives. When any member wants to know some event historically, a file or record is sure to have the information. Chapter Minutes have been kept over the 160 years of Saint Ben’s existence. Federation business is also part of the archival holdings.

Because I have been transcribing many personal letters and papers of a variety of sisters, my knowledge of the community has grown. For example, I was fortunate to transcribe Sister Juana Raasch’s collection of letters and papers. She was a prolific letter writer, and her correspondence was so fascinating. Even if she died about 10 years before I joined the community, I know a lot about her research and her work on “Purity of Heart.”

Another letter writer was Sister Alfreda Zierden. Her letters were just wonderful, but she slipped into German in almost every letter she wrote. She sometimes asked why that happened, but it was amusing to say the least. We are now attempting to have these letters translated.

Archival holdings absolutely fascinate me because of the richness they hold in stories alone. I believe there is a power in stories. Therefore, the Archives is a powerhouse!

Mary Jane Berger, OSB

It Was All A Bit Foreign

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Years back, I had just returned home after living out of country when a family in town invited me into their home. You see, they had a foreign exchange student and wanted me to “bridge the gap” so to speak. As I had acquired new language skills, I thought I might be of some help.

I was conversing with their exchange student in his native language while mom sat nearby cheering me on. As she’d not seen me for two years, she hung onto every word I said when she blurted out, “I just love hearing you speak!”

Dad, he was having his own conversation with someone else in the house. You see, dad didn’t need to cheer me on. He knew that I could do it and that I would do it. He was more matter-of-fact because after all, I’d been in a Spanish speaking country for two years, so why wouldn’t I be able to communicate as such?

Dad’s quiet expectations were duly noted. Mom’s expression of reconnecting were also noted as I was her daughter whom she loved.

Looking at my own parenting style and reflecting upon it, I see that I often times mimic my mom’s style of persistent cheerleading. Yet, at the same time, I clearly see that the solid ground from which our children have launched is because of the quiet expectations set forth from their father. Odd it is that we mamas put so much energy into cheering on our soldiers as they march through life…while a father’s expectations often quietly speak louder.

I suppose that’s how our Heavenly Father does it. He sets the standard and the boundaries.  He’s there…all solid like…just waiting for us to respond. And when we do, it’s no surprise because after all He’d been expecting us to fulfill that which was laid out so long ago.

The character of my earthly father often matched up with that of my Heavenly Father. I don’t suppose all earthly fathers do, but as our Heavenly Father never leaves us nor forsakes us, I know that we can always count on His character to never fail if our earthly fathers fall short.

One of the character traits about our Father is that He is unchanging.

Back in Malachi 3:6 He affirms this. “I am the Lord, and I do not change.”

Hebrews 13:8 reinforces it. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” 

Finally, there is Psalm 136. “I give thanks because He is good. His love endures forever.”
That doesn’t seem so foreign now, does it? Not one bit foreign at all.  Amen.

Kathleen Kjolhaug, OblSB

This blog was first published on Theology in the Trenches, written and maintained by Oblate Kathleen Kjolhaug. Reposted with permission.

Listening in Silence

Photo: Nancy Bauer, OSB

“On account of the importance of silence, let permission to speak seldom be granted even to perfect disciples.” Rule of Saint Benedict

I first visited a Benedictine monastery in 1954. What struck me most was the gentle and relaxed silence of that place. There were designated times and spaces where one did not speak. There was nothing unnatural or spooky about it. I soon was accustomed to it and I began to relax.

I had come home. In Saint Benedict’s Rule, he writes, “On account of the importance of silence, let permission to speak seldom be granted even to perfect disciples.” Wow! Even to “perfect disciples.” Benedict knew that one of the needs for community is time when we do not speak.

My wife, Jana, and I do not live in a monastery, but silent love is the foundation of our life. Of course we have plenty of time to converse, but it is godly silence that binds us. It is silence that binds us in a very human relationship and holds our words. Benedict writes, “Listen, my child, to the precepts of the master, and incline the ear of your heart.” This wonderful, astounding word, “Listen.” We cannot truly listen without the gift of silence. We cannot hear God except in silence. We cannot truly hear another person unless we have learned to listen. One of the most loving things we can do is to learn to live in silence so that we may listen with love. Benedict knew this so well. Even the perfect disciple needs silence to listen. I know if community is to abound, we need silence. Only with God’s silence can we hear one another.

Charles Preble, OblSB

Greatness

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Have you also wondered how and when we began to become so polarized, so divided, as a people in our so-called United States? Or how our Statue of Liberty’s message is no longer true of our country’s emphasis? We seem more and more given to reject rather than accept refugees, immigrants, the tired, the poor, the huddled masses at our shores: values, words and action we so proudly proclaimed, prior to this last decade.

If, in rejecting those huddled masses at our shore, what if we have silenced a Beethoven or a Mozart among the diverse peoples that seek entrance here? Or what if a poet laureate, a Nobel Peace Prize recipient were among those deported? Or a chess champion who may have drowned close to our shores?

Is it that we continue to think that “they” will deplete our funds, our jobs, our possessions? Might we imagine, at least imagine, how some whom we are rejecting could be the very ones to “make us great again”?

We don’t know where greatness will come from. It seems to me that we deny our own freedom and possibilities when we deny freedom and possibilities to others. Actually we need diversity! Nationalism is debilitating! Refugees and immigrants—throughout our history—have been the answer to establishing new directions in our country.

We create the world we want by the choices we make and the stories we live by. When will we learn that truth again?

Renée Domeier, OSB

Predictability

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Predictability. It’s a good word. The small town in which I grew up offers all of that and more. My best guess is that your small town offers the likes of this, too. When things are predictable, life offers stability, and with stability foundations are built. When foundations can be trusted then our comfort is secure…and when we feel secure we can offer predictability to others around us.

Little things…as little as views out a window can be something that is predictable. I recently read about someone who’d taken pictures of lilacs in full bloom. They noted that it was a reminder of the view they’d had out their window while growing up. It was the scent of lilacs outside this window that greeted and brought comfort. There was the element of the familiar, the stable, the predicable.

I recall a predictable scene from my childhood. Each night from my second story window, I peered out upon the lamp lit street after dusk. The scene before me brought comfort. Mid-summer air conditioning was not a force to be reckoned with back then, and the quietude offered via the slight breeze was predictable. Recognizable was Duke’s gray tank like car parked curbside across from our house, and next to it was Mamie’s house where there was a large concrete wall which held back her neatly mowed yard. Just up from that was the brick church we attended as a family, and if one followed the sidewalk on up the path, one would eventually come to the school, the library…parts of the community offered to all who lived among us.

Today, the brown bricked church remains steadfast continuing to point the way for many a pilgrim. It is predictable when I enter because although some forty years have passed, Glenna still prays in pew. She remains steadfast. Shari’s smile greets announcing all is well. Alisha reaches hand out to grasp, and the baptismal font stabilizes many as does His Word spoken this day. Many a church bell rings inviting all who hear to the table of grace. It’s predictable.

A drive through town turns up a friend walking briskly with husband. Recognizable they are as their family owned the local grocery for many a decade. The store remains the hub of predictability. Although the market is no longer operated by them, the location is the same and so I enter…just because it’s not really a visit home unless you enter the hometown grocers.

I make my way to dad’s house. He is there. Within his favorite chair he sits…waving one finger in the air. It’s a familiar greeting. I like it. It comforts. It is predictable. When dad would drive down the highway of life, he’d greet the oncoming cars in similar fashion. They could never hear his predictable greeting, but I did. “Hey buddy,” he would say all friendly like.

Hometowns are like this. Each has their mainstays along main and for the most part, they are predictable.

However, there is One who is more predictable. There is One who never changes in an ever changing world. He is the One who will never leave us nor forsake us (Heb. 13:5). He is ever present (Ps. 46:1). He is the beginning and the end, the Alpha and the Omega (Rev. 22:13). He is who He says He is and there is none like Him (Is. 46:9). And, it just doesn’t get any more predictable than that.

He not only stabilizes, but He anchors (Heb. 6:19). As He anchors as the Rock…I appreciate His predictability. As Heb. 13:8 says, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Amen.

Kathleen Kjolhaug, OblSB

This blog was first published on Theology in the Trenches, written and maintained by Oblate Kathleen Kjolhaug. Reposted with permission.

See You Later

Sister Lois Wedl (right) hugging a friend.

My aunt, Virgie, never liked to say goodbye; she preferred to say, “See you later.” Her reason was that goodbye was too defining for her, yet the greeting “I’ll see you later” left things open, even anticipating our next encounter. I have grown to appreciate her piece of wisdom over the years. By replacing a goodbye with a good night, enjoy the rest of your day or see you later. For this reason, I can anticipate our next visit with a sense of hope and gratitude for our relationship. I appreciate this open-ended greeting because it gives me positive energy believing that yes, our paths will cross again.

As I reflected more upon the words “See you later,” I was reminded that even in death we can depend upon our Christian belief and faith in the Resurrection that we will see our loved ones again. Another way I enjoy hearing these words is when guests leave the monastery after having celebrated the Eucharist with us. We encourage our guests to come back and worship with us again week after week as we say, “Please come again.”

If you would like more information about Saint Benedict’s Monastery, please contact Sister Lisa Rose at lrose@csbsju.edu.

Lisa Rose, OSB

Do You Have A Jim in Your Life?

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I pray that you do…have a Jim in your life, that is.

Jim was his name. Inspiration was his point. Inspire was the gear he shifted into throughout all of life. Teacher by trade, he was, and teacher is what he lived. Example setter, dad, husband, and infuser of possibilities is what his smile resonated when he looked upon others.

He lived a full life according to the words printed on paper. His obituary was solid enough, but if you knew him at all…it was in 3-D that you saw those words which all but jumped off the page. You see, his life was more alive than the words in print and truth-be-told, it wasn’t even about Jim. Rather, it was what Jim knew within the Word he read that made him who he was.

I met Jim after he’d retired from teaching, and long after he’d traveled abroad to faraway places. By this time, his family was mostly grown, yet they remained central in his life. When I first saw Jim, he was behind a kitchen serving line, serving with a smile that resonated hope at a Bible Camp which could have easily been named after him, Inspiration Point. With his wife, Ellie, of many years, they were an inseparable team. They worked as one welcoming the stranger.

With a strong embrace of a handshake or a nod of the head, he encouraged campers, staff, and all whom he served…while smiling. Funny thing is I don’t remember him speaking much but rather, faithfully living love. It was as if he was girded with a strength far deeper than the eye could see.

His white hair hadn’t always been that color, you know…but symbolic it was. Like salt pouring out of the shaker, he touched tens of thousands in ways everlasting. You see, he knew well the legacy he was leaving on this earth and that none of it was about him. No, it was not about him. Rather, it was about his desire to lift up and inspire others to live for the very same Jesus who not only shed light in this world but who shed His very blood.

What could Jim possibly live that hadn’t already been lived through the love of our Lord, Jesus Christ? There was nothing more Jim could live out, and he knew it. He could not add one more ounce of anything to what had been done on that cross. Therein was the secret to his smile, and the point of his passionate desire to inspire.

Jim’s secret was not to replace anything that had been done, but rather to confidently resonate that which the Lord Jesus Christ was living through him. He knew his source. Jim knew from where his strength came. He did not lean onto his own understanding, but in all his ways acknowledged Him so He would direct Jim’s path (Prov. 3:6).  

Grateful Jim was as he made his plans and allowed the Lord to direct his footsteps (Prov. 16:9).

Jim was a man after God’s own heart, like David. He lived by example, confessed with a contrite heart, and knew he was fully human while the God he served was fully divine.

Jim knew the Divine as he readily prayed how the Lord had taught: “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…” (Matt. 6:9-13).

May Jim live on in us…only to the extent that like Jim, we get out of the way in order to make way…so He might make a way through His only begotten Son who lives and reigns both now and forever. 

“The Lord reigns, He is clothed with majesty; the Lord has clothed and girded Himself with strength; indeed, the world is firmly established, it will not be move” (Ps. 93:1). Amen.

Kathleen Kjolhaug, OblSB

This blog was first published on Theology in the Trenches, written and maintained by Oblate Kathleen Kjolhaug. Reposted with permission.

Woven Together

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Tonight [October 16] was Sister Roberta Werner’s wake.

Sixty-one years ago, we sat in a circle of 35 young women aspiring to become monastics.

In June of 1959, 20 of us became novices.

With Roberta’s death, six women remain monastics of our original 35. Some have died, others answered God’s call to different parts of the vineyard.

My heart was full as I saw women accompany Roberta’s body into the chapel.

Suddenly, my mind was captured by a kaleidoscope of memories woven into the present:

I find my place as a postulant right by the huge granite pillar on the left, as a novice and junior in Schola. Benedict—teenagers we were, and now women we have become—each woman coming into chapel is a heart tug—each one, in some way is still, or newly, connected to the 35 of us in 1959—our hopes and dreams, our lives lived out. Benedict—at the center of it all.

Ora et labora—washing dishes and changing diapers, prayer in the 70s—short stops to saying “hi” to the Divine when toddlers tugged at my skirt or cried in my arms. Benedictine women who came before me and all of us together—here right now! Learning Hospitality—a shortcut to welcoming all races, all religions, all gender orientation—no exceptions.

Singing broke through my reverie. How I have missed monastic liturgy.

Many young faces 61 years ago fade in and out of my thoughts. Where are you, my sisters? Our lives are truly woven together in inexplicable ways. I no longer can name you, but I linger on your images as Roberta’s eulogy is being given and memories from those days are spoken. We’re all there and we’re all here, Roberta. You brought us together.

Don’t you dare rest in peace. Keep on making us laugh and bringing us together.

Pat Pickett, OblSB

Connections in the Amazon

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As you are reading this blog, the Pan-Amazon Synod of Bishops is in session in Brazil and will be running until October 27. Called by Pope Francis, we can be sure he is encouraging the bishops from Brazil, Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, Guyana, Peru, Suriname, Venezuela and French Guyana to focus not only on the specific concerns of these nine countries, but on the connections this Amazon area has on—literally—the entire hemisphere and beyond. About 2.8 million people, speaking 230 different languages, inhabit this territory which extends across the unimaginable expanse of some 3,728,227 miles of land. What is the meaning of those statistics and/or the connections between regions, to say nothing of the Amazon basin currently devastated by fire, mass movements of people forced out of their homes into urban areas or the effects of deforestation that have affected the climate across our hemisphere! There is no doubt that this ecosystem is currently being disrupted by floods, extreme temperatures, fluctuations affecting anyone’s ability to earn a living.

So what does Pope Francis, author of Laudato Si (Care for our Common Home), suggest? That the Bishops remember that everything is connected; that each of us is responsible to each other; that we must discover—together—new paths for the Church in the Amazon region to promote an integral ecology and, therein, to find ways for the Christian community to respond to injustice, poverty, inequality, violence and exclusion! Does this surprise us, knowing Pope Francis’ repeated emphasis on the fact that care for creation can never be separated from all other aspects of Christian life?

Let us pray for the Pan-Amazon Synod of Bishops...

Renée Domeier, OSB

A Sacred Goodbye

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I am here alone with my mom. The old hymns she loved are playing quietly. Mom is resting quietly covered with one of our homemade quilts. Most of the grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren have been here this weekend to say their goodbyes. This alone time with mom is a special time for me. I can pray the rosary and she will move her lips to the words. Praying seems to calm her. Alone with her, I can also tell her all the good memories of days gone by we shared. With humility, I can ask for forgiveness for the times I may have disappointed her. It is a time of sacred goodbyes.  

Mom is transitioning from this life to her Father. After 96 years of a deep and lasting faith that sustained her in good times and difficult times, she is leaving us. Raising a big family, juggling farm work, housework and raising a family of seven, she deserves to rest. Yet, as I hold her hand and she looks at me, I sense the difficulty letting go. After all, she has been the backbone of our family and I am sure she thinks about what will become of us when she is no longer here to guide us. It is what most mothers probably think about when leaving their children behind.  

How blessed am I to witness this most sacred journey as my mom goes from this life to everlasting life. Our family has spent the last days wiping away tears, reminiscing about our childhood and laughing together. Small children toddle around the room, touch mom’s hand and wonder where grandma is going. I know mom can hear us as we talk and I know she is enjoying the stories and action. But now, in the quiet, with her to myself, I am blessed to feel the Divine Presence sitting and remember all she has taught me. She was an example of Benedictine values before I ever became an oblate. Work, prayer, stability, stewardship, humility and hospitality I learned at her knee.  

The window is opened just a crack for fresh air, as mom loved to be outdoors, but also in an old tradition of freeing the soul to take flight to Heaven. As she makes this journey, I will do what I can to make her last days a sacred goodbye.  

Mary Baier, OblSB

Whatever Happened to Sunday?

On Saturday, September 28, I had the opportunity to be part of an Oblate Retreat Day. The subject was most intriguing: “Whatever Happened to Sunday?”

Sister Ephrem Hollermann of Saint Benedict’s Monastery was the presenter. She first explored the topic with her audience, a group of approximately 65 oblates from St. Paul’s Monastery.

She asked her audience to consider what they did last Sunday? Could anyone even remember, because that was 6 days ago. Because of our busy lives, we can barely remember what we did 6 hours ago, much less 6 days.

To add the dimension of further reality to the situation, S. Ephrem went on to describe what a few contemporary writers think of present-day Sunday activity. Indeed, the bulk of their comments attributed the lack of Sunday rest to economic issues. In a society so fueled by the industrial nature of American life, Sundays are rarely sacred.

On another note, S. Ephrem asked the oblates to consider the impact of nonstop busyness on ourselves, our families, our friends. How is our health affected by our constant activity? The audience shared some of these effects as anger, fatigue and a sense of harried living.

Of course, S. Ephrem was not trying to guilt anyone, but she was trying to help us all reach the conclusion that yes, we lead busy lives and no, we cannot go back to another time when Sundays were treated as Sabbath rest.

However, what we can do is restore “Sabbath rest” by taking time more often to experience shorter times of rest, maybe by taking half a day to go to the park for a picnic supper, for example.

Or, maybe once a month, we could intentionally arrange to make Sunday truly the Lord’s Day—a holy day of rest, renewal, delight and blessing.

Mary Jane Berger, OSB

Pay Attention to How You Listen

“Pay attention to how you listen!” Jesus tells his disciples.

We hear a similar admonition to us from the Rule of Benedict: “Listen with the ear of your heart.” In Benedictine lectio divina (sacred reading), we practice holy listening. And, I would say all real listening is holy. We begin with listening to the word itself with our ears, making sure we really hear it. In this continuum of listening, we then bring the mind’s eye to see it, then we listen to how that word resonates within our heart, and the fourth step of listening is when we really shut up and let that deep, deep mind within us listen without word or comment. At this point we are at rest, yet our deeper self continues in a deep listening. It is here where the listening is beyond all words. It is that silent listening where we are changed. But it does not end there.

Can we listen to one another in the same way? Jesus’s admonition to listen to one another requires paying attention to how we listen to one another. As lectio is sacred listening, so real listening to another person is sacred. As God opens our hearts to speak to us in lectio, so God opens our hearts to listen to another person. When we listen to one another, we are changed and so is our world.

Jesus’s admonition is clear: “Pay attention to how you listen!” Even in the most ordinary conversations with another it takes an awareness, an openness and an internal silence that is a godly attention. It takes time. We say in our culture, “Time is money.” Benedict and Jesus say, “Time is people.”

Charles Preble, OblSB

Simple Living

Have you ever wondered how someone like Francis of Assisi found meaning in his life by stripping himself, not only of clothing, but of riches that could have supplied him a better shirt, or slacks, or shoes? What did he find as he walked through Gubbio? He found the sun, the moon, the rain and even a wolf that needed comfort from a thorn in its paw!

Or how could St. Paul find meaning and even joy in prison? And love enough to keep on writing some of his best letters to the Christian communities around the Mediterranean?

Mother Teresa as well! How did she manage to be faithful to the dying poor in spite of questions about the limited value of her long hours of serving them?

These are but three examples of stripped-down servants who found their lives meaningful, in large part, because of the small amount of luggage they had to lug around! Rather, they found their treasure in those they served, not in what they owned!

Some among us literally suffocate from too much stuff! Too many distractions, an overload of noise and ceaseless activity. We become overwhelmed, distraught, yes, suffocate!

Why do we consume so much? Buy so much? Go so much? Where is our lodestone? Our soul? Our inspiration?

Huge, attractive, orange storage buildings, across our cities and country, await our extra knick-knacks, furniture, bicycles, suitcases, toys that we may need—we tell ourselves—sometime in the future.

Can we even imagine St. Francis of Assisi, St. Mother Teresa of Calcutta or St. Paul doing what they did and lugging all this stuff from one place of ministry to another? I, for one, cannot!

To live simply, to serve, to seek peace and pursue it, as St. Benedict advised his followers, seems to demand sandals, perhaps a staff with readiness to walk toward and within a call, willingness to leave all things behind in following that call!

“We’ll give away our stuff tomorrow,” we say to ourselves, while turning another calendar year and storing yet one more box of stuff  in our rented storage spaces! Being 75, 85 or 95 doesn’t change our perceived “need” to amass or store “stuff” nor can we imagine that the relinquishment of such might be the requirement for finding peace, sanity and the joy of breathing freely, of appreciating what is simple, beautiful and what is truly needed—one another, God, ourselves, what is right next to us, and even within us!

Renée Domeier, OSB