The Best Christmas Present

Photo: freestocks.org from Pexels

“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

Photo: Pexels.com

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

Photo: Pexels.com

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

Photo: Pexels.com

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