New Beginnings

Every year when September 8 comes around I remember the first day that I came to the monastery, the feast of Mary's birthday. There were four others who came that day, so we joined a class that already had two who came in June, and five others who had entered August 15. The next week on Sept. 15, another feast of Mary, three more postulants arrived. We were a class of fifteen, the largest group to enter in one year in our community! Those were the days when religious vocations flourished. Our group filled the entire Communion railing in our chapel.

I remember my mother fighting tears that day, telling me that she felt a promise she had made to our Blessed Mother on December 8  before she was married, had been fulfilled. I kissed her Good-bye, together with Daddy, and my younger brothers and sisters. (I was the first of ten children born our family.)

I remember the feeling I had when we came into the chapel, with the Blessed Sacrament exposed, and began to join in the Latin chant of the Sisters. I thought, "This is it! I am going to be here forever and ever!" I was so happy that day.

It was the beginning of a new life for us postulants! I soon began to feel at home with all the Sisters who had taught me in grade school and high school who were still living.  I was part of them!

On the following March 21, ten of us fifteen postulants who had persevered became novices, in a beautiful ceremony. We were dressed as brides and given a new name along with the white veil and habit of a Benedictine Sister. We no longer use this symbolism in the reception for new novices, but I am so glad that it was there for me. It sealed my relationship with Christ, which has strengthened  my perseverance and stability in the seventy years that have followed. In the 60’s and 70’s I grieved as my classmates were leaving, and  was constantly asking myself, “Why am I still here?” There were only two of us remaining  to celebrate silver and golden jubilees; then Sr. Marilyn died, so I remain, the only one of that class.

But over all those years, new beginnings kept occurring: my first profession and the teaching career that lasted fifty years in several parishes and our academy as well as serving as organist and choir director throughout Vatican II and all the changes in the liturgy and its music, and in religious life itself.   

Opportunities to study at CUA in Washington, D.C., Cuernavaca in Mexico, and Vienna in Austria, as well as a Benedictine Renewal program in Rome gave me a global perspective that enrich my teaching  and my life. I have been so blessed!

In this past year of the pandemic, I began to make new adjustments such as teaching piano students with Zoom, and the reality of retirement and aging.

What plan does the Lord have for me now? I keep my thinking positive: the best is yet to come!                  Sr. Mary Carol Hellmann

Discovering My Dramatic Roots

During the past six months I have discovered Henry Louis Gates’ show on PBS, Discovering Your Roots. The show not only introduced me to the scholar, Henry Louis Gates, but also made me interested in genealogy for which I never had much interest. On the show Gates, with his staff of back-up researchers, talks with some celebrity guests about their ancestors and their interesting experience. Gates usually finds that with African-American celebrities, their ancestors were affected by slavery and with immigrant ancestors, theirs lives were affected by the Holocaust. There are usually surprising and dramatic finds in people’s pasts.

When I had a chance for a 14-day trial on Ancestry.com, I thought I would look at my roots. I expected them to be interesting but not surprising or dramatic. And what did I find? My grandfather killed a man was tried for murder!

It took place in a small town in Eastern Kentucky. Newspaper articles at the time quoted witnesses. On June 16, 1913, my grandfather confronted a wealthy business owner whose sheep had gotten on to my grandfather’s farm and trampled and ate some corn. My grandfather (who was a tenant farmer of the sheep owner) demanded damages but the sheep owner thought the demand was too high and offered a lower fee. The story according to witnesses is that after some sharp words, my grandfather pulled out a knife and stabbed the sheep owner twice. My grandfather then fled. He was apprehended two weeks later and declared he was defending himself even though most witnesses said it looked as if he stabbed the sheep owner deliberately.

My grandfather was tried for murder in court December 5, 1913 and was acquitted on the grounds of self-defense. It isn’t clear when my grandfather moved to Michigan but it must have been shortly after he was acquitted. He was also a farm laborer in Michigan and on December 2, 1917, at the age of 34, he died of a skull fracture in a farm accident. A local newspaper in Michigan said “he was a most industrious young man and well liked by all who knew him. The family moved here from Kentucky and lived in the village a few months but worked most of the time as farm tenants.”

After I had gotten over the shock of finding a dramatic and sad story about my grandfather, I decided that all I could do about it was offer him and other family members up to God’s mercy. He was a poor farmer whose future was not hopeful. If he had lived, he probably would have been a tenant farmer all his life. After his death, my grandmother moved back to Eastern Kentucky. The story of my grandfather’s stabbing and killing another man was a family secret which I had never heard. Telling the story now reminds me how blessed I have been and a large part of that blessing was my grandfather.

Gleanings

 

This year I started a new job here at our monastery. I became the gardener for the interior patio. I expected to like the work. I had helped Sr. Mariana for a couple of seasons beforehand and still depend upon her wisdom and experience for advice and methods. But I had never seriously planted anything much before, at least anything that actually grew up to be something. So now as I see the abundance of color and lots of foliage, I am amazed and proud.

 

It’s rewarding to hear the Sisters talk about how much the beauty of the garden lifts their spirits. We certainly have had limited opportunities for “new growth” of any kind during this year and a-half of Covid-induced isolation. Those who keep an eye on things in the patio discover something new everyday: an emerging tiny bud, an expanding blossom, visiting birds and butterflies, greenery that exceeds all expectations and some plants that are already completing one phase of their life cycle for the year, providing us with a metaphor for the Paschal Mystery.

 

The garden has taught me. (Mostly about the weeding needed in life.) I offer the following verse as an example of nature’s lessons that make me smile:

 

Yesterday's Blossoms

     have turned to brown.

I would have preferred them to keep

so that every flower

     might be glorious together.

But that is not the way.

And so, I treasure

     each

     in turn.

 

May the Spirit of God in me reflect the beauty and wisdom of this day!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

 

Until I did a bit of research on the title of this blog, I only knew it as a line from an English nursery rhyme. I had no real idea of its history, but it is interesting if you are curious. I only intended to write something about the pleasure I get from our small community garden!

One theory is that the bells represent the Sanctus bells at Eucharist. Another is that the cockleshells are the badges of the pilgrims to the shrine of St. James in Spain. A third is that the bells referred to Mary, the first, of England who could not bear children. Wikipedia can provide more info if you are curious.

Our garden is rather small and enclosed by a wire fence that keeps the deer from eating whatever each prefers. We have tomato plants, basil for making pesto, cucumbers to turn in pickles and the inevitable weeds. Best of all, it gets me outside during the day and evening!

"Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary"

Mary, Mary quite contrary

How does your garden grow?

With silver bells and cockleshells

And pretty maids all in a row.  

“

Having Faith in an Assumption

         We are counseled not to make assumptions about people. How is it then that one of the solemnities of the church goes by that very name, and is in itself an assumption?

        In 1946 Pope Pius XII gathered petitions received in the preceding 100 years about the Assumption of Mary, and then surveyed the bishops:

Do you, in your outstanding wisdom and prudence, judge that the bodily assumption of 
[Mary] can be proposed and defined as a dogma of faith? Do you, with your clergy and 
people, desire it?

It took until 1950 for the Assumption to be declared and defined as dogma. I was surprised to read that the pope had consulted so widely. A common practice in community life, but in the church in the 40’s and 50’s? Perhaps I am revealing my ignorance of hierarchical procedures.

The roots of the feast can be traced to the faith of the eastern church in Jerusalem. The feast was called the Dormition, or the falling asleep of Mary. Although there were no witnesses, no scriptural record, the Assumption became a commonly accepted belief. Within the biblical tradition, holy and unique individuals (like Elijah and Enoch) were taken bodily to heaven. Making this assumption about Mary has precedent in the church’s tradition.

        Germanus of Constantinople, reflecting the faith of the eastern church of the 7th-8th centuries, addresses Mary directly:

        Since you are the Mother of God, it was appropriate that you accept a death that was like sleep, undergo a translation like an awakening. It is fitting that you should be restored to the companionship of your Son.

        And in the 21st century, Pope John Paul II quoted the gospel of John as a scriptural basis for understanding the dogma of the Assumption:

        
        If I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you to myself, that where I am, you may be there also.

Sr. Christa Kreinbrink, OSB

 

A Seat of Solace

 

    Recently the old rocking chair in my room with a wayward spring was replaced by a new rocker. As I looked at different styles I thought about the wooden rocker at my parent’s house, the glider in the community room, even the rocking chairs while waiting to get into Cracker Barrell. I thought about replacing the old rocker with a different type of chair but came back again and again to the wooden legs and rhythm of rocking back and forth.

     Rocking chairs have long been a refuge in my life through different homes and circumstances. The soothing rhythm slows my breathing and grounds me.  Rocking chairs remind me of conversations in the living rooms of friends or talking on porches into the twilight hours. Rockers provided seats of healing following surgery or recovery from illness.
            

Since I’ve been working from home due to the pandemic I often pray in the morning from my rocker, a hot cup of coffee close at hand.  It is where I bring to God my gratitude, my searching and all which plays and sometimes weighs heavy upon my heart.  My prayer recently is messy and often bears petitions and questions which are not quickly resolved. Even in the mess, I rock and I’m soothed, my trust reinforced that God is there listening and at work in ways I cannot yet imagine.
      
        We each need a space to go where we can find solace and grounding. That space often comes to represent something much bigger and broader than the physical space we dwell.  It is where we meet God, ourselves and come to attempt to make sense of the wild, wonderful and often perplexing world in which we live. It is also a space where we connect with others through laughter, stories, and musings that weave into the conversation of friends.  I am grateful for the many rocking chairs through the years which have provided solace and connection to others. I encourage you take a moment to visit or appreciate the seats of solace you find in your life which bring you grounding and connection.  Blessings!

                    Sr. Kimberly Porter, OSB

A model for tribute, prayer and process

     

I attended a funeral recently that was introduced with a tribute written by one of the daughters of a man who was 93. He had recently suffered a major stroke.  She was inspired to write this as she sat with him one night. With her permission I share part of it.

I never saw my father dying

Instead I saw a family tirelessly

caring for a father they adored.

I never saw my father dying

Instead I saw respect and admiration

from friends whose lives he enriched.

. . . I never saw my father dying

Instead I saw Love.

Such a beautiful tribute! I have reflected on it often.  I love the content and the format resonated with me. It is a beautiful way to live with difficult situations, to process encounters of significance,  and to inspire prayer.  With  gratitude and humility, I offer a few  examples.

Connecting with the news

I do not see the pile of debris in the Florida building collapse.

Instead I see lives lost and dreams shattered.

I do not see the pile of debris in the Florida building collapse.

Instead I see the dedication and jeopardy of first responders and  generous citizens.

I do not see the pile of debris in the Florida building collapse.

Instead I see a mayor who cares and a country holding its breath.  . . .

Perhaps a remedy for negative judgement

I never saw her outburst of anger.

Instead I saw a frustrated, overworked, unsupported woman. 

I never saw her outburst of anger.

Instead I saw a woman doing her best to love her children.  . . .. .

Grateful for our natural world.

I do not see the brown ends of tree branches.

Instead I see Nature producing new life for those pesky little cicadas .

I do not see the brown ends of tree branches.

Instead I see relief from noise and freedom from discarded body parts.  . . .

May you likewise be inspired.

                Sr. Mary Rabe, OSB