At 6:30 a.m. anything can happen...and does

By Sister Susan Doubet, OSB

We hold Morning Prayer in our monastery at 6:30 a.m. on weekdays. With no intention to toot our own horn, without cause, I must say that our prayer is quite special: We chant most of the psalms and canticles, have a variety of musical instruments played and have many sisters who generously share their creativity and experience in presenting the Word of God.

However, that 6:30 a.m. time can sometimes overwhelm even the best of intentions. A stand-up comic couldn’t compete with some of our faux pas, for they aren’t rehearsed or timed or planned, they just happen. Here are some of the best from recent mornings: The reading from the Rule of Benedict says: “Those guilty of a serious fault are to be excluded from both the table and the oratory.” One morning we were told, “Those guilty of a serious fault are to be executed from the table ….” During the Easter season the solo reader was supposed to be telling us, “Let us go forward with branches….” But that day we were told, “Let us go forward in branches.”

And then there was that time when our prayer asked God to “Free us from our tendency to sin.” But our leader begged God to “Free us from our tendency to sing.” And, she was one of our musicians, too! On hot August days you can tell even in the early morning that it’s going to be “a scorcher,” as they say, so who could blame one of our sisters when she quoted the chapter on humility in the Rule by reading: “Therefore any requests to a prioress should be made with all humidity...”

Everyone loves the Advent readings, especially the Old Testament Scripture prophesies of the coming of the Messiah – except one day when we were told, “Wait in patience for God’s promise takes forever.” And finally, in our prayers we often pray for all the intentions that are asked of us. Many of them are posted on our prayer bulletin board. Here’s one of our memorable ones from that board: “Please pray for Maria K. who broke her hip and her husband Chuck.” None of these hilarious moments changes the beauty and sincerity of our prayer, of course. They just remind us that we are human.

ora et labora and herding cats

I heard a funny story on the radio recently. A union worker was bemoaning the fact that the real meaning of Labor Day has been lost and that it has become just another day off from school and work. He even cited a third grader in his town who, when asked what Labor Day was about, answered, “It’s a day when we think about all the women who have had children!” Well, labor – work – still has an important place in the Rule of Benedict and one of the popular Benedictine mottos is “Ora et Labora,” (Prayer and Work). The inside family joke, muttered behind covered mouths whenever this is voiced in any monastery is, “Oh, yes, more like ‘Ora and Labora and Labora and Labora!’”
Nonetheless more than 15,400 women and 7,800 men worldwide live this life and those totals don’t include the Cistercians and Trappists, followers of the Rule of Benedict, too, as their founders sought to reform Benedictine monastic life in the 12th and 17th century respectively. St. John’s Abbey, just west of Minneapolis, is home to the poet Kilian McDonnell, OSB. In one of his poems he gives us a glimpse of everyday life in his abbey ... and in every Benedictine house.

The monks of St. John's file in for prayer

In we shuffle, hooded amplitudes, scapulared brooms, a stray earring, skin-heads and flowing locks, blind in one eye, hooked nosed, handsome as a prince (and knows it), a five-thumbed organist, an acolyte who sings in quarter tones, one slightly swollen keeper of bees, the carpenter minus a finger here and there, our pre-senile writing deathless verse, a stranded sailor, a Cassian scholar, the artist suffering the visually illiterate and indignities unnamed, two determined liturgists. In a word, eager purity and weary virtue. Last of all, the Lord Abbot, early old (shepherding the saints is like herding cats). These chariots and steeds of Israel make a black progress into church. A rumble of monks bows low and offers praise to the High God of Gods who is faithful forever.

It's not what's taught, it's what's caught

Every once in awhile during my teaching days, I would forget that oft-quoted phrase all teachers have heard, “It’s not what’s taught, it’s what’s caught.” But then something would happen to bring me back to it and I’d humbly admit that my students’ fondest memories of my classes would probably have little to do with my mathematics efforts.

Here’s one event that surely qualifies: I had just begun an Algebra II class with a group of juniors when I realized, due to the squinting that was going on in the front rows, that I had forgotten to pull the shades on the first window as I did every day to cut the strong afternoon glare of the sun on the board. Not wanting to break my growing excitement into the world of equations and graphing, I backed up toward the window and reached behind for the drawstring – not missing a beat in my explanation of whatever invaluable mathematical nugget that day held.

I found the right string without a problem, but as I pulled it, it caught and stopped. Now everyone who has ever opened drapes or shades knows exactly what to do when this happens, and I had done it the correct way hundreds of times: you switch to the other string, back up a couple inches, switch back, and then the one you want will work perfectly well. Why I didn’t do that that day I do not know. What I did do, after feeling it stop, was give that string what turned out to be a Herculean pull – and yanked those 8-foot-high blackout drapes, the bars, the string paraphernalia, the hinges, screws and even a small cloud of plaster dust out of the wall and down onto me.

It all happened so fast I didn’t move one step, (remember I was engrossed in my lesson at the time). So before anyone could realize what was happening, there I was, buried under those heavy drapes and everything else that had come down with them. Of course there was dead silence – that is, until I emerged unscathed, looked up at the whole class and started to laugh, which of course set them off into great hilarity, in fact it was probably a combination of laughs, giggles, howls and amazement. After all, their teacher had just buried herself right in the middle of the Pythagorean Theorem! I know deep down that many of those girls probably remember that moment more than any algebra I taught that year: the day when Sister acted quite human, laughed and enjoyed the moment as it should be – teaching much more than a mathematics lesson.

where is love?

By Sister Susan Doubet, OSB

At the end of each semester, the Inner-City Neighborhood Art House, located in a converted Goodyear Tire store in downtown Erie, has a type of talent show, showcasing the semester’s progress. The 60-75 children in the free after-school program of fine arts, dance, music lessons, tutoring and one-on-one reading support, take the stage in front of family and friends to show off their latest accomplishments.

When I saw the first of these shows 10 years ago I thought I had been transported onto the set of the musical Oliver! – especially that opening scene where the ragtag street children hold up their soup bowls as they march around their meal tables singing “Food, Glorious Food!”

A decade has now passed. Hours of classes, instruction, experiences and practice by generous volunteers and patient, dedicated teachers have made these annual performances a real showcase of talent and abilities that usually develop through private lessons or classes – unaffordable to most NAH families. The progress has been nothing short of miraculous. Talent has erupted. Creativity and confidence abound. Not only has the building been transformed, the children have been, too.

Woven within the movie Oliver! are ballads as well as more upbeat tunes. The one I most remember is the beautiful “Where is Love?” sung by Oliver himself. This is the song that comes to mind nowadays whenever I go to an Art House event. Where, oh where, is love? I have no doubt: love is right here.

in our backyard

The deer have returned to our backyard. Sometime between 6 and 9 p.m. most nights they emerge from the woods that rim our property. They stop at the salt lick and wander in and out of the apple trees, making their way across the yard before crossing East Lake Road to the lake side of our property for the night.

The sisters see the deer every year and some of our guests certainly have deer in their own neighborhoods, yet nearly every supper has us at the dining room windows watching them. The adult deer rise up on their hind legs stretching for the fruit while the fawns romp around trying to mimic their mothers’ behavior, yet getting their apples from the ground. They don’t seem to mind a person walking on the nearby path, but get too close and they will disappear into the woods – just waiting until you leave before returning to continue their feasting.

Another much-anticipated summer phenomenon has also begun: the flowering of our night-blooming evening primroses. Multiple, strong, bright yellow flowers are now emerging on all three of our plants. They come out at sunset every day. They look at first like a tiny ear of corn on a stalk. Then a little sliver of yellow appears at a seam and then, over the next minute or two, the outer leaves unfurl and a bright yellow flower pops out. It reminds us all of one of those National Geographic shows where they use stop-motion photography to capture nature’s movements. Anywhere from three to 10 flowers bloom on each plant every evening, so it’s rather a dizzying head-turning few minutes if you want to see every one opening.

No wonder there are so many beautiful references to the natural world in the Scriptures. Humankind has a near impossible task surpassing them.

peace-pax

Earlier this year during a time of civil unrest in the East African country of Kenya, a story came out of Kipkelion, in the Rift Valley region of that country. A group of Trappist monks of Our Lady of Victory Abbey were offering refuge to nearby residents driven out of their homes by the violence. A YouTube video offered an excellent three-minute news report that included footage of the abbot describing their local situation and the decision of the monks to house the refugees.

More recently, when a cyclone struck the southeast Asian country of Myanmar, killing thousands and leaving even more homeless, one of the stories from that disaster was similar: local Buddhist monks opened their monastery to bring in their neighbors who had no homes, no food, no clean water, nothing at all. Both of these cases highlight two strong aspects of Benedictine monastic life and that of many non-Christian monastics, too. The first is the prominence of peace (pax) as a driving force in the life of a spiritual seeker or spiritual group. All of the major religions in our world, regardless of their radical branches, promote peace among all peoples. Secondly, from the concept of sanctuary, monasteries remain places where people in need can come for help.

Our own community has had some “giving sanctuary” experience, as we sponsored a number of families who escaped the violence of the 1970s and 1980s in Central America. Some settled here in Erie, some went on to Canada or to another U.S. city. All of them were seeking one thing: an opportunity to live their lives in a free and open way – to live in peace.

memories of Sister Bertrille

The director of the Women’s Studies Dept. at Loyola University of Chicago is on a sabbatical, taking time to produce and film a full-length documentary, A Question of Habit. Her thesis is that the visual portrayals of nuns in pop culture (movies, greeting cards, T-shirts, print ads, TV commercials, even Halloween costumes) don’t show or do service to the reality of who nuns are and what they are doing in our culture today.

Recently, the film crew on this project spent a day with us. They were here to interview Joan Chittister as one of the most well-known and best articulators of the life of women religious in the U.S. In addition to the interview, they taped our community’s Evening Praise and visited some of the Benedictine community ministries to use as background shots for the film.

As we talked to the film crew about Whoopi Goldberg, Sally Field, Julie Andrews and other media portrayals, the discussions took me down memory lane, for I spent my first three years in community dressed in the traditional habit – the 17th century garb of women religious that we were still wearing. One day I was walking along West 7th Street from nearby St. Andrew’s School. I passed lots of children playing outdoors on this residential street. As I came toward one group of preschoolers, I looked at them and said, “Hello there.” Immediately they turned, looked at me, and responded with their own “Hi’s.” And then one stepped toward me, paused and asked, “Can you fly?” The Flying Nun was at that time a big TV hit, remember?

Thankfully I had enough experience with little children – or maybe it was just the grace of the moment – but I paused and then responded, “Well, when the wind is right, I certainly do try!” Which, as I think about it now, years later, still fits: when the wind of the Spirit is right, I certainly do try – lots of things.

In Flanders fields

By Sister Susan Doubet, OSB

In our small courtyard garden, only seen from inside the monastery, the spring flowers are blooming wildly. At this time of year some of the brightest are the large orange poppies.

A few years ago, I traveled to a Benedictine abbey in Brugge, Belgium to attend a meeting, in Flanders, as the area is known. The daily prayer was sung in the language of the region, Flemish, a kind of Dutch and German derivative. The spirit of Benedictine life came through clearly, even if the words were unintelligible to me most of the time.

When I returned, I had to reacquaint myself with “In Flanders Fields,” the famous war poem written over 90 years ago, in May 1915, by the Canadian military doctor John McCrae. Western Belgium, Flanders, was the site of three World War I battles that produced hundreds of thousands of casualties. As Dr. McCrae reflected on the carnage and death around him amidst the wild poppies springing up from the ditches and newly dug graves of young soldiers, he penned the poem on a scrap of paper. Here is the first stanza:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Wild poppy seeds can lie in the ground for years and only when there are no more competing flowers or shrubs in the area, the seeds will sprout. Today, poppies have become a symbol of lives lost in war–over 36,000,000 in 20th century wars alone.

X-out those days

Both the Catholic and public elementary and high schools in the Erie Diocese finish their 2007-2008 year soon. For decades, a majority of our Benedictine community was in elementary or secondary education. Today there are only six sisters who are directly in the schools–although I counted more than 30 in education including things such as childcare and preschool, religious education and adult ed. There are a few who do individual tutoring and others teach, tutor or read in the Hooked on Books! reading program at our community’s Neighborhood Art House in downtown Erie.

For a community in which the majority became teachers when they entered, this is quite a change. But I’ve noticed that “Once a teacher, always a teacher” seems to apply. The creativity, variety of methods and all the bags of motivational tricks that good teachers have to call upon every day still come out whenever a former teacher stands in front of a “class.” This makes for great presentations at meetings, community gatherings or even reflections in chapel.

I remember as a teen making a calendar in the final month of the school year–drawing it on the cardboard in the back of each subject’s notebook. Then I’d cross out that day when each class period ended: a 30-day countdown to “freedom.” Later, when I became a teacher myself, I was surprised to find out that teachers counted down those last days with just as much anticipation and yearning as we had had as kids–maybe even more. They just kept their crossed-out calendars hidden!

pure inspiration

One of our under-60 sisters is in the end stage of breast cancer. After nearly two decades in remission it returned three years ago. Adjectives that are used for journeys like hers are valiant, courageous, brave. To me her experience has been pure inspiration.

One bonus for us is her return to the poetry writing she began as an adolescent. It has become a kind of unofficial journal on dying, which, we discovered, has been amazing and inspiring to us all. Friends have sent samples of her poetry to regional affiliates of the Susan G. Komen for the Cure centers throughout the country, to support groups and other women with similar experiences. Here is one of her best:

I Drag Cancer Along

I drag cancer along
like a hermit crab
greedy for
a larger shell.
I sometimes lurch
sideways
not sure of my footing
on tide pool edges.

When I stand
my breath deserts me
and I panic like a child
who loses sight of home.
When I kneel down
to catch a bit of litter
off the floor
my legs can find no pull
to bring me back
to steady ground.
And so I flounder.

The crab can disappear
for hours hidden, invulnerable
inside its whorled shell.
But I must remain seen,
my shell emotion deep.

The softness of this body,
the swollen face,
mothwing fragile skin
and the fatigue, the fatigue
sketch evidence of this
grotesque, unbidden malady.
I would like to scuttle home.

— Ellen Porter, OSB

Summer solstice

The summer solstice in our Great Lake plains region is a welcome feast, as our winters are long, grey, snowy and cold. Additionally, Erie, named for the Eriez Indians who lived along the southern shore of Lake Erie until the late 1600s, lays claim to the Native American tradition of respect for and awareness of the earth, its rhythms and seasonal cycles.

Saint Benedict, who wrote in the midst of an agrarian society in the sixth century, also made note of the changing seasons. In his Rule, he adjusts the arrangement of prayer times, clothing and even the amount of food and drink, aware of the manual work for the monks in the fields in the summer heat.

For each solstice and equinox we have special psalms and prayers as part of our morning and evening liturgy of the hours. Fortunate to live right on lakeshore property and in what I’d call the rural suburbs of Erie, we are just wooded enough to have numerous deer, a red fox, wild turkey and birds and small animals galore.

We can honestly appreciate and respect our mother earth and our lakeshore Native American ancestors. The solstice and equinox days are perfect times to reflect upon their beautiful earth prayers. “Our Father the sky, hear us and make us bold. Our Mother the earth, hear us and give us support.” To these we add our own: “God who made the heavens and the earth, hear us.”

weathering storms

Retreatants who come to our place in March are into some serious seeking. They don't come for the sun and lakeshore meditation. They don't come for summer r & r, to walk or sit and read and spend evenings outdoors till 9:00 p.m. There is none of that in the last month of winter and cold days of early spring. And yet, we have many visitors at this time of year. Many reserve one of our three hermitages and, since cars can’t get out there, they load up the sleds (for snow) or huge wheelbarrows (for mud and rain) and trudge out to these refuges in the woods. I watch them with admiration as they take time–in the midst of gray skies, rain clouds, short days and hours spent indoors–for spiritual pursuits.

This winter we hosted an Anglican vicar from a small village in England. He was taking a month's sabbatical–with his bishop and wife's “permission.” He was in one of our hermitages but came over for evening praise and supper every night. Here is an excerpt from his thank you letter: "The stay was at the right time for me–I had almost given up but your community reminded me that it was important to stay–and to focus on what was important for the sake of those we serve.....so thanks to you all. I have to say I have never stayed in a more hospitable religious house–so may your various ministries prosper."

The Rule of Benedict says that “all guests...are to be welcomed as Christ.” He doesn’t comment on what the weather conditions may happen to be when the when the guests appear.

a new spring

A pair of Canada geese has returned to the pond up the road. Any day now we'll see this year's crop of fluffy goslings trailing after their parents in daily parades around the area. Last Saturday some of our own “goslings” were back, following after our sister-recreational therapist all day. The gals started coming five or six years ago: teens or young adults needing community service hours for some minor infraction of the law.

For those who aren't Catholic, or even for those who are but have never been inside our place, it must be like entering a parallel universe! Their first reactions are to be shy, quiet and unquestioningly obedient. But after two or three visits, they seem to relax, speak to us in the halls and actually appear to “catch on” to the rhythm of the place and what's going on. The sister they follow around is marvelous with them–teaching, sharing, modeling all sorts of behaviors, attitudes and lessons. At the end of their time she invites their families to come for dinner, as a kind of informal graduation. In the Benedictine world we call that hospitality–a unique version no doubt, but hospitality for sure.

let us pray

In November 1999, our Benedictines For Peace committee, along with the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Sisters of Mercy, began a public nonviolence effort offering a 15-minute on-site prayer service whenever a homicide occurs in Erie. This month the 30th Reclaim the Site prayer service was held–the second one for a young child. These 5:15 p.m. prayer services, performed at the place where the death occurred, have had such a widespread effect that frequently the victim's family responds when contacted, “Are you the sisters that do the prayers? We were hoping you would call.”

Young adults, murdered outside a restaurant or bar as the result of an argument or dispute, are the most common victims, but not always. We have held vigils for all age groups, both in city and residential areas. The one thing they all have in common is the sadness and sincerity of the attendees: family members, neighbors and anonymous members of the Erie community who gather together to mourn the loss of someone they loved so much. Let us pray for an end to all violence–throughout the world, in our country and, especially, in our own cities, between our own neighbors.

in tune

Garrison Keillor has a classic routine titled, “A Young Lutheran’s Guide to the Orchestra.” In an attempt to find the best instrument for a young person he lists all the instruments that would not be suitable–and why. On that list is the oboe, “the sensualist of the woodwind section,” writes Keillor. It is too dour and dark, and hinting of back rooms and nightspots!

Well, we have an oboist and are quick to disagree with him. Of course our player is not a young Lutheran, but one of our sisters. Over the past few years we’ve learned a lot about the oboe and its uniqueness through her playing. A double-reed instrument, much of its performance depends on the condition of those reeds–which varies from day to day, performance to performance. If you pass her on a day when she’s playing and ask how she is, she’ll often answer in terms of her reeds, “Well, my reeds seem a little stiff today, we’ll have to see!”          

Challenging to play, the oboe is susceptible to the emotions and the physical wherewithal of the player–posture, abdominal muscles, lung capacity. The environment also greatly affects the instrument. Too cold–no sound comes out at all. The oboe is nonplused by other instruments and is the one the whole orchestra tunes to before every performance. Be it its central location in the orchestra or its tuning ability, the other instruments adjust to the oboe, never the other way around! But, the sound–the sound is worth it all. Deep, resonant, emotional, haunting–it is the instrument of Lent, and as such, has brought a beauty to our weekly Vigils of Sunday and liturgies of Holy Week that is beyond compare.

Hmmm, maybe the oboe can teach us something about the results of acknowledging the uniqueness of each individual.