Santa Rita Abbey

ABBEY JOURNAL....................2006

24 December 2006

Dear Friends,

            I have to say that this has been a very meaningful Advent. It has had its ups and downs, but they have all worked out more or less. But life is kind of more-or-less in general, and what you make of it is what counts. I guess it helped that I was able to write some reflections on the O Antiphons and Advent candle-lighting. Doing that tends to sort things out a bit.

            This is that wonderful time between the end of Evening Quiet Prayer and Vigils on Christmas Eve. It is so traumatic to have to get up after four hours of sleep that it’s easier just to stay up. And you get such glorious music. Three of the Bach Christmas Cantatas just finished. This is the one season when you get vocal music.

The last of the Christmas cards got finished in time to go out the Friday before Christmas (with one day to go). This year I killed myself trying to get at least most of them signed personally. It means so much more to the wonderful people who receive them. Or at least I imagine so.

And the incoming community cards have been opened, put into boxes for the community, with all but a few thank-you’s written. Because of the weather holding up the mail, I’m sure another batch will arrive on Tuesday. But temporarily, my office has ceased to be Chaos City and is remarkably, unbelievably, wonderfully tidy. Well, maybe relatively so.

It’s now that I feel the whole tradition of Christmas Cards is worth it. Each person comes before the mind’s and the heart’s eye. You hear of someone’s cancer, someone’s baptism, someone’s court case, someone’s waiting on a judicial decision that will affect a marriage, and so much more. Human lives full of joy and growth and pathos arrive in the mail or on the web.

As I walked up the cloister several times, I was walking in beauty. Through the large windows, you can see the little outside tree that Pam decorated with colored lights, and above it at this hour hangs a luscious crescent moon. And since we now have hand rails along the cloister, she has hung one section of these with lights.

The house Christmas tree, a gift from a special friend, was so sturdy in the trunk that it took a bit of doing to get it into the stand—the use of saws and a drill. Thankfully not an ax. But such a lovely shape, and just the right height. Father Bernie blessed it this evening before Vespers. Then Vicki switched on the lights, careful not to knock it over in the process.

The other evening, our local classical music station provided the most wondrous Christmas gift—a fine performance of Messiah by the Pittsburgh Symphony with the Westminster Choir. Then, as I was about to go to sleep, “Golden Voices” came on. It is a Tucson specialty, featuring biographical commentary on great voices of the past. It comes on too late for my regular listening, but this was on Jussi Boerling, and I had to listen. No dozing. Just a hushed sense of wonder at the great gift to the world of such a voice. Hanging on the marvel of such greatness was itself a prayer. I will always be grateful for such an unexpected experience of God’s glory in a human vocal world.

25 December 2006

            We have lost at least half our congregation. Some have moved, and some have become so bewildered at our off-again, on-again Mass schedule that they have given up. But a number of the people at Midnight on Christmas come only then, and it is good to see them. Someone brought a little girl who looked to be between one and a half and two. On the whole, she was very good, but parents get itchy when the baby runs around. What would Christmas Mass be without a baby to make noises and try to get someplace the parents think they shouldn’t be?

            I remember one Christmas at Wrentham when a baby was making rather a lot of noise during the sermon. Father plowed resolutely through the competition, when I kept thinking it would be nice to walk into the congregation, pick up the squalling infant, and say, “This child is your sermon. This is what we are celebrating tonight.”

27 December 2006

            Yesterday, Vicki, Dom Bernard and I went to town for his appointment and our shopping. I had seen ads for J.C. Penney’s sale, and we needed luggage. Ours was becoming dangerous. One does not want one’s suitcase to lose itself in some god forsaken airport, or stagger off the carousel in pieces. Penny’s is so much fun. I know a store like this represents rampant consumerism, but it is still so much fun. I ran into a mirrored column looking around. Oops. All the stuff, all the people, all the space…

            We found what we needed at lovely prices. Now I dare anyone to go anywhere lest the new luggage get messed up.

            Our refectory décor this Christmas is blue: blue table cloths, which are gorgeous and probably remnants from SAS, an exquisite faux tree hung with the little white angels Pam crocheted two years ago, and tiny white lights.

            On January 4, Mepkin Abbey in South Carolina will celebrate the Abbatial Blessing of Fr Stan Gumula. Stan was elected last month to succeed Fr Francis Kline, of whom God asked the sacrifice of an early death. Frank McChesney, a friend of ours and of Mepkin, will set off with me to take part in the celebration. I have stocked up on books, and was careful to avoid connections in Dallas. (Avoid Dallas on general principles whenever possible.) Also Chicago, Denver, and Newark were to be off the list, since they are northern in winter. So we hope Houston will escape blizzards.

Stay tuned.

Tomorrow we return to Altar Bread work. But we do not set Christmas aside until—well, it’s kind of cloudy now.

The Senior Wing is progressing, and will soon be painted inside.

3 December 2006

A few years ago, a young family began to come from their home in Connecticut to visit the husband’s mother, Maria Hoopes, a lovely woman who lived in Sonoita. She could not go to them because she had been stricken with ALS, so they came to her as often as they could—the parents and six children. Think of shepherding six kids on a plane several times a year. Think of what it’s like for the kids, especially the tiniest, who is now only two and a boy at that. Something like this is spelled LOVE. And Maria deserved every ounce of it.

The little family came to Mass with us while they were here. Since they were so attractive and unusual, we did not simply open our chapel doors to them. We made friends. We learned their names: Tom and April are the parents. Their three girls are Cecelia, Olivia, and Dorothy. Thomas, Benjamin, and John Paul are the boys. Picking names must be fun when you have so many to pick for.

This symmetry is about to be changed when a new little Hoopes is born in March or April. Tom and April edit a Catholic family magazine, Faith and Family. Fortunately, they were here while Dr Glenn was also visiting, so they could attend the third annual Sunday Brunch for our Mass-goers. The children were the hit of the party.

There was an urgency about this visit, because Maria was failing and they felt that perhaps they would not see her again. We ourselves had last seen her at the Dedication of the land for our new church in Sonoita. She was then in a wheelchair with her neck in a brace. Her neck had been the first site of the disease, and we had never heard her speak. Her husband Lance has been a steadfast, entirely devoted caregiver as well as the most impressive and loving husband one could imagine.

Tom’s family was set to return home on Wednesday, and lo, there they were in church instead. We knew something had happened, and after Mass, April came to tell me that Maria had died the previous day. How beautiful that they were there with her as she passed gently into the arms of the God she had loved and served so faithfully. Maria had always been what one could call a luminous presence, and even in their grief, this quality walked with them.

Next day was the feast of St Andrew, and Dom Bernard was to return for an afternoon Mass. We decided to have it offered for Maria, and called the family to invite them for this Mass at a time of day that was for us unusual. Maria’s other two children would be there as well as Tom’s family. And Lance, bless his grieving heart. They brought a lovely framed photo of Maria, which we set against the altar.

The kids were quiet and attentive as usual. John Paul was restless and skittered around the chapel. We have remarked at how gentle they are with him. He is a little boy with a little boy’s energy. Their discipline goes just far enough to prevent the energy from becoming a disturbance, and gentle enough to preserve his spontaneity. At one point, his mother was holding him in the rear of the chapel, and Cecelia, the first born, went back to see if she could help. I kept thinking, “Let the little ones come to me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The vestments for an Apostle are red, and we have a rather spectacularly bright chasuble, one that proclaims visibly the blood of martyrdom and the flames of the Holy Spirit. Because of the time of day, we integrated Vespers with Mass, and that entailed some antiphons very appropriate to Maria’s faith-filled offering of herself.

The Lord loved Andrew as a fragrant sacrifice. Follow me, says the Lord.

Follow me, Maria. There is meaning in the fragrance of your sacrifice.

No one healthily seeks out pain. We no longer walk around with stones in our shoes or revel in hair shirts. We figure that what life deals out to us is penance enough for our share in the salvation of the world. But when God lays on someone a particularly heavy weight of suffering and dispossession, and that person can see the gift as coming from a God who does not willingly let us suffer, and who has taken on himself the anguish he is offering, then we stand in awe of a great mystery, a mystery that was being celebrated in the Mass.

Maria was being asked not only to bear but to trust the hand that did not stay her disease or her approaching death. Tom said after the Mass that he could not believe the joy with which she suffered. He said that his brother and sister had been able to visit more often than he with his obligations so far across the country, and that Santa Ritas had been a comfort to him.

When the blessed Andrew arrived at the place where the cross had been made ready, he cried out, “O good Cross, so long desired, and now made ready for a soul that longs for you! Fearless and filled with joy I come to you. Receive me with no less a joy, for I am a disciple of him who hung on you.

On Friday, Tom’s family and his brother returned for Mass, which happened to be our monthly Mass for the Deceased. He held Benjamin in his arms the whole time. John Paul was more subdued. This was probably for all of them a child’s first experience of the death of a loved one, and especially of such an important family member. When a parent or a grandparent dies, it is almost as if one’s own early years somehow slide away together with that loved and loving presence.

Tom and his brother came to early Mass with us on Saturday, the day of the eleven o’clock funeral at Maria’s parish of St Theresa’s in Patagonia. We kept in our hearts and prayers all who were attending in grief and difficulty, and—we hoped--also able to rejoice in her unalterable bliss and in the life of this remarkable woman who has given so much glory to God and love to the world.

30 November 2006

Bishop Moreno’s funeral:

Some events are so important that you not only don’t forget them, but you regard them as turnings in the path of your life. They make such a difference that if they had not been, you would have become a different person.

Of course, a funeral is not just this set of circumstances. A funeral depends on the quality of a life, a life that has passed through our world and into the next. At this ceremony we try to enter a mystery so deep and impenetrable that it comes as almost a shock.

We knew that Bishop Moreno was not well, and that sooner rather than later, he would leave us. We did not, as one never can, estimate the emotional impact of that leave-taking until it was accomplished. Monsignor Cahalane, who accompanied him through much of this last chapter of his life, had already given us the details of such a peace-filled and dignified exodus.

Bishop Moreno came to us from the archdiocese of Los Angeles. The troubles of Tucson were no joke. But the people were wonderful, these people he could love with all his heart. From financial difficulties to the last terrible experience of clergy sexual abuse, this gentle man walked through the valley of more than considerable shadow.

That is what you thought about, waiting for the funeral to begin. You thought about his response to calumny, insuperable problems, misunderstanding, misjudgment and loneliness. Sexual abuse from a clergy person, a person one would expect to trust and reverence, ravages one’s present and future. But the bishop, whose ignorance of the mechanics of addiction has betrayed him into what seems complicity with the evil, must suffer unspeakably from the knowledge of what he has unwittingly done to the weakest and most vulnerable of his flock.

How to measure that pain? How to measure the response Bishop Moreno made, not only to the persons afflicted, but to the media which so savaged him? As Bishop Kikanis said, he got down on his knees and asked forgiveness. He and Bishop Kikanis went to every blessed parish in the diocese, listening, taking into their hearts the sorrow and anger and recrimination of wounded people. He did not meet anger with anger; or judgment and personal recrimination with anything but love.

This holy, beautiful man got stuck with an era that crucified both him and his flock. And he embraced the pain without self-pity, without defensiveness. You looked around the cathedral and were pierced by the knowledge that so many people who realized the monumentality of his sacrificial life, had come to honor that.

Our Sr. Rita later asked what I had found the most important aspect of this experience. For me it was the overwhelming fact that calumny doesn’t count. It doesn’t matter what people say. All that matters is the response, the gentle choice to live beyond all that is said and thought about oneself, the choice of an outgoing love. And the knowledge that here, in Tucson, day by day, this unbelievable love was being chosen and lived again and again in circumstances both mundane and unbelievably extraordinary.

To her, it was his choice of the background, the hidden place from which he encouraged and drew out the capacity of people he served and worked with. An intelligent, wise, and loving person will not always be living in the dark. Bishop Moreno accomplished a great deal, succored his people, went out to them as father, brother and friend. But Bishop Kikanis’ beautiful tribute emphasized how he delighted in pushing forward, encouraging, and drawing out the best in others. When his time came to hand over his position to a successor, the two bishops created bonds of a deep friendship, and Bishop Moreno stepped aside with utmost grace. I had to agree with Rita that this was of equal importance to me.

I did not mean to go on like this. I had meant to pass on the details of the funeral. But Bishop Moreno is the details of the funeral. He is the impact of the ceremony which is more than a ceremony--the Eucharist, the infinite Thanksgiving of which his life was constructed.

As far as details go, our cathedral, as cathedrals go, is not very big. The papers said 1500 people attended, either inside or outside. The Mass was scheduled for 11:00, so we started out at quarter of nine, expecting trouble with a parking place. No trouble. The lovely Vicar for Religious, Sr. Jean Olmstead, was one of the greeters, and as we moved into the place designated for diocesan Religious, Sisters were chatting and we met other friends. Our Brothers of Erlac sat with us.

I love informality in church services. God forbid a stiff and proper presentation. Bishop Kikanis was walking about ahead of time, and probably knowing the name of every person he saw. A group of seminarians were practicing the Presentation of the Book in the sanctuary. The choir and its attendant instrumentalists tuned up and sang. I had brought a book (of course I had brought a book) but that was because I had forgotten how interesting a group can be. Bishop Moreno’s large Mexican-American family occupied half of the right hand section of seats, bless their hearts. Then in no time at all, the ceremony began.

The Knights of Columbus, and the Knights and Ladies of the Equestrian Order of the Holy Sepulchre, marched out to form the honor guard. An endless procession of ministers in albs passed through them to the church entrance where the casket waited.

We had spotted a yarmulke and prayer shawl in the front pews on our side. They belonged to Rabbi Samuel Cohen, who followed the procession to the entrance of the church to sound the shofar at the beginning of the service. Your heart stilled. Family members and ministers surrounded the casket for the laying on of the pall, a large white cloth adorned with the Jerusalem cross in red. The procession returned, followed by the casket with its pall bearers. I admit I did not sing the Entrance Song, “All creatures of our God and King”, because I was watching so hard.

Cardinal Mahoney of Los Angeles presided, with Bishop Kikanis and Archbishop Sheehan of Santa Fe, our Metropolitan, on either side. I counted fifteen mitres, but the papers said seventeen bishops. That would have counted the Cardinal and somebody I missed. Bishop Quinn was there, very frail. Bishop Quinn is another incredible person. After he retired as Ordinary of Sacramento, he came to our diocese to be of help to Bishop Moreno. I remember a woman from Sacramento telling me that when he was bishop there, he would take his brown bag lunch to the city park, and anyone could join him for conversation. In Tucson, he lived in a trailer. Though he’s had some heart problems, maybe he still keeps to the trailer.

For readings, we had the glorious passage from Isaiah in English: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” Then “My shepherd is the Lord” for response. And in Spanish the great hymn to charity from Corinthians: The greatest of these is love.” After a rousing Alleluia, the Gospel was proclaimed by a deacon; we have loads and loads of deacons in the diocese. They were an impressive presence in the sanctuary. It was Matthew’s Beatitutdes: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, the pure of heart, the peace-makers, those who suffer persecution…” Yes, Bishop, blessed indeed.

Bishop Kikanis is a fine speaker and he punctuated his homily of tribute with the recurring, “You had to like Manny Moreno,” as he drew a word portrait of one of the greatest friends of his life. I don’t remember the Prayer of the Faithful. It has probably been obliterated from memory by the wonderful Offertory Song, which went on and on—almost to my satisfaction, since I was ready for it to go on forever: Dan Schutte’s “Table of Plenty.” With guitars and a trumpet and full voice of choir and people. This was Church with a great huge bang. Nobody left out, everybody singing.

They used the First Eucharistic Prayer, which so links the present Church with its past. Now our humble little bishop was joined forever to the saints of the Canon of an ancient faith.

I asked someone later in the car why our diocesan patron is St Augustine, since that is the cathedral’s name. Clare found the right book a few days later. As in Fr Serra’s Rosary in California, the churches of our geographic region have been founded as missions. (Were we one of Fr Kino’s missions, I asked. She thought so.) And probably they founded it or bumped into this place on the feast of St Augustine. Our mountains are named after Santa Rita because they were “discovered” by the Spaniards on her feast. So we are Mission San Agostin de Tucson. You can’t help thinking of the years present to us in this place, with their history of faith and oppression and colossal misunderstanding, of service and grief and joy, of family and Jesuits and Franciscans and diocesan clergy, of the passages of individual human lives, of the patronage of a very human saint who is not thought about in an especially familiar way today.

With a huge crowd, you begin to wonder sometime during the Mass how Communion will be managed. But it went off very well. Cardinal Mahoney stood in the center of the main aisle, and Bishop Kikanis to the left. We went to the bishop. Other priests took care of various points in the cathedral. The people outside received also, and their priests came up the aisle rather late. After Communion, Father Van Wagner and Monsignor Tom Cahalane spoke of Bishop Moreno. They were both very close to him, and Monsignor Tom had been with him not only during his retirement, but especially during his last days.

When Monsignor had told me that he had been tapped for this opportunity, I’d said, “Good luck!” and I prayed fiercely during the whole of his presentation that he could finish in form. It is not at all easy to do that kind of thing without breaking down.

Archbishop Sheehan read a letter of condolence form the Holy Father, preceded by an explanation of Metropolitan Sees—the which was familiar to someone brought up from puppyhood through the old catholic school system, but news to one of our convert sisters. You kind of wished the Holy Father could have picked up a phone and talked to Bishop Kikanis or one of Bishop Moreno’s brothers. As it was, the message came through the Secretary of State to the Papal Nuncio in Washington to the Archbishop of Santa Fe to the diocese of Tucson.

We then had the Final Commendation and that absolutely perfectly thrilling “May the angels lead you into Paradise…” as the casket was taken down the aisle. Bishop Quinn was to preside at the interment. The procession of cars to Holy Hope Cemetery was restricted to thirty because of safety and also space at the cemetery, and although others would be able to go too, it would have been quite a crush, and we made our way out the side door of the cathedral to the parking lot, past a group of the lovely Carmelites who had come all the way from Douglas (which is not by any means next door), past the police outside, and so to home.

Bishop Kikanis had said of his friend, “The One he saw in us, he now sees face to face.” And, “We will miss him very much.”

 20 November 2006

It is almost Thanksgiving. How did that happen?

Yesterday Marg returned from a month’s mission of love. Her elderly mom is on the brink of her first adventure in many years. Marg’s sister and her husband are moving to his home in Atlanta, and Mrs Walsh will be going along to her own little suite in their newly purchased house. It is a perfect arrangement, and Otto, the cat, can go too.

Marg was needed to companion her mother while Kathy and Jim went to prepare the way and to manage Kathy’s show; she is a very accomplished artist. Marg was also needed to smooth the way emotionally for her mother’s large transition. Now all is well, and they are only waiting for the sale of one of their houses in New York State before zipping off to Georgia.

We were more than happy to have our sister home again with us. Rita and I brought her back from Tucson International last evening after Compline, and the sisters were trooping down to welcome her.

Dr Glenn will come Thanksgiving afternoon for his annual celebration of Sunday Brunch with the neighbors and St Nick’s Eve with just us. For the anniversary of Katrina, NBC’s Dateline produced an hour-long, very moving account of his experience at Lindy Bogg’s Hospital during the storm and flood. The program zeroed in on three couples—an elderly white couple, a young, racially mixed couple, and a middle-aged black couple—tracing their particular traumas.

We also expect Mary Ricker, our dear friend from Massachusetts who bonds us with the Cistercian Associates of the motherhouse. Mary gave a beautiful concert this year, in celebration of receiving her voice back after having lost it for several years.

Our dear, beautiful Bishop Moreno died Friday. It was a swift and graceful exodus to the eternal Promises. He died at home, after surgery in Phoenix. His family was gathered in the tiny chapel of his home; Monsignor Cahalane offered Mass, and as the children were singing a hymn, he quietly slipped off to God.

The diocese plans the obsequies for after Thanksgiving, and we will attend the Mass—if we can squeeze into the cathedral. Maybe there will be attendees outside, and that would be OK too.

Bp Moreno was a man of the Cross. He carried so many burdens, so much criticism. So much of the darkness of the human heart broke against him. And yet he remained sweet-tempered, gentle, witty, and totally open to God. There are people on this earth whose presence is itself a profound grace, and Bp Moreno was one of these special presences. He never wanted to be a bishop, and it took years before, in his heart, he could accept his vocation to the episcopacy during an encounter with Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. We asked him to a visit one St Patrick’s Day. He was accustomed to come on the feast of St Joseph, but that year he had had a meeting on March 19. He began his homily apologizing for not being Irish: “The O is at the wrong end of my name.”

He came to say goodbye to Mother Beverly when she was dying. She was asleep when he went to her room, so he waited, chatting with the sisters until someone came to tell him she was awake, and he went to bless her.

When his health began to decline, he asked the Holy See for a coadjutor with right of succession, and we received the best in the country. He and Bishop Gerald Kikanis from Chicago worked together warmly and perfectly until it was the right moment for Bishop Moreno’s retirement.

Once happily retired and on another visit, he almost rollicked at our breakfast table, telling us about a day in which he had said to himself, “What shall I do now? Oh—I can go to a ball game!” Simple-hearted, generous, holy, loving, and humble, he enjoyed his few years of retirement as much as his failing health would allow, and now he is with the Lord he so loved.

Our faithful Construction Crew is forging ahead on the Senior Wing, and we hope to have that done shortly after Christmas. Too bad we won’t be able to place our Christmas Tree in its lounge area this year, but we have that to look forward to.

I read about the gentleman who showed up at the Manila airport with 15 live Cambodian alligators in his suitcase. Adventure for the TSA. Watch your fingers, people!

A very happy Thanksgiving to each and all!

19 October 2006

The few trees that turn yellow are turning yellow. We have lost our swallows. They left when my back was turned. Or maybe when I was out of town. I have not seen a pigeon in quite a while either. I did not know that pigeons migrated, but I can’t say I am sorry they seem to.

It was not possible for me to go to the western superiors’ pastoral meeting right after Nettie’s Blessing last summer, so I went to the eastern one. It was held at the monastery of Berryville in Virginia. Talk about beauty. So much green you have never seen. So many lovely rolling hills. They have had the road black-topped recently, so you could walk anywhere with perfect ease.

These meetings are gentle ways of sharing what life brings to an abbot or abbess or prioress and their communities. (I think there are no titular priors in our country now.) We all have similar problems and values. And it is so good to meet old friends.

We spent Saturday visiting the community of Sisters at Our Lady of the Angels in Crozet. This is Wrentham’s third daughter house and our sister house. They have been going through (or engaged in) a building project. They had got to the stage of needing a kitchen and a refectory and extra rooms. Also more space. It’s amazing how welcome a bit more space is to monastic life.

All of us quake with trepidation at the need to pass through the airport at Dallas-Fort Worth. For some reason, traditionally, either you get stuck there or you miss your plane or you dash across the whole airport to barely make the connection. On the way out, I saw that they have added a train—for the plane that is across the whole complex. On the way back, I was sure I had an hour’s wait, and lo, when I faced the monitor, it said, “Final boarding call.” Yeeps. Fortunately, the plane was in the same concourse, and down I dashed. Actually, after boarding, we waited half an hour.

I had a middle seat for this lap. On one side, a lovely young mother was managing her ten-month old son. He was cute as he could be, and except for a few minor eruptions, very well behaved. His face was extraordinary, with a little elfin look about him. And the mother was perfect with him, very understanding of his predicament. I told her it took courage to fly with a baby, and she said, “Yes, real bravery!” (On the way out a baby screamed the entire last lap. Its ears or its tummy must have been hurting, and babies can’t have those things explained to them. I just kept reading my book and admiring mothers and hoping this one was not embarrassed.)

On the other side, sat a nice grandmother with her Himalayan cat in a carrier under the seat ahead. It was labeled, “Live animal.”

I like to get to airports way ahead of time. Not only do you make it through TSA points without anxiety attacks, but you have time to browse the bookstores. I have learned that one does not wear a religious medal on the plane. They ping. It is nice that now one can carry toothpaste (30 ounces in a quart-sized plastic bag) and so forth. I do not trust the baggage check, especially when one has to go through Dallas-Fort Worth. It’s amazing how little one can get away with, after years of taking more than absolutely necessary. The problem is books. God forbid I should get caught without enough books.

2 October 2006

The earth is spinning rather more rapidly than we are used to.

We had one more Sunday before Dom Ambrose was scheduled to come for a month as chaplain, and decided to go to St Therese’ for Saturday evening Mass. Now, the feast of St Therese fell on Sunday this year, which would normally eliminate it, but since it is this church’s patronal feast, the parishioners anticipated the celebration on Saturday. Consequently, we walked into the last part of their fiesta when we showed up for Mass.

Our friend Doris Wenig explained that the celebration was also a fund-raiser and that parts of it were going on in different sections of town—pie sales and so forth. I hope they did well because this parish is not rich, and may not even be making ends meet.

The parking lot was full of entertainments, with a moveable wooden platform lying in the middle, hosting a little group of dancers. We made our way into the church, which filled itself to the walls soon enough. It was to be a mariachi Mass. Oh joy, Oh lovely, Oh how I have longed to go to a mariachi Mass. I think the band was four guitars (one very large and only plucked, three strummed), three violins, and two cornets. Father De la Torre is very much at home with his people, and the atmosphere is distinctly familial. Children are everywhere, with their big dark eyes and their “I’m-going-to-get-away-if-you-don’t-watch” energy. The whole Mass is offered to the accompaniment of small feet and small voices. The little ones who have not yet made their First Communion go up at Communion time with arms crossed to receive a blessing.

The readings were fairly somber, but Father preached extremely well. As Doris has told us, “He really says something.” In this case, it was it was some excellent advice on not to judge a person’s goodness by Church affiliation or attendance, not to predetermine qualifications for the good person, but to recognize goodness where it shows itself.

On the end of the pew behind us sat a young mother beside her baby in a carriage. Baby slept peacefully through the whole rhythmic adventure.

In the pew ahead of us were five of the dancers from the Ballet Folkloica of Our Lady of Lourdes High School in Nogales, which was going to perform after the Mass. We had not really planned on this presentation, but why turn up a chance to absorb such beautiful local culture. The girls ahead were in costume--exquisite folk dresses, their dark hair pulled severely back into braided buns enhanced with flowers. They were all absolutely beautiful, with regular features, creamy complexions, and long eyelashes.

Young people, beginning their future. You follow the Mass, but you also think of young-ness, of couples forming, of friendships and choices being made that will lead to middle age, and to the last years. What do they want, what are they thinking, how much time do they have to be young in? How much does this beauty count in forming life choices? The boy, for instance, attracted to this or that girl’s beauty—how well does he know her? How limiting will their life choices become, these young people, and will these limitations enhance or destroy their possibilities for emotional growth?

The moms, dealing with squirming little ones, the fathers with tiny children in their arms, the elders whose life has almost played out, and who watch young lives beginning what they have done and been and are—this is a parish.

At the end of Mass the band accompanied the congregation in a song for a deceased member of the local church, as well as one to an elderly lady celebrating her birthday. Then we left the church for the presentation of beauty in movement. This group of dancers practices for an hour and a half four days a week at school. This training is part of the curriculum. It must be a large school.

Most of the dances showed the Spanish influence in Mexico. The girls take the eye at first, because of their bright costumes and the effect of their highly swung skirts. They all wear black Mary Janes, and since the swinging of the skirt exposes quite a bit of leg, cute little ruffled bloomers underneath. One of the sisters said, laughing, “I like their modest pants.” The boys dress in black with red sashes and hard heeled boots the better to stamp the rhythm. They largely just partner the girls.

The boys come into their own in the machete dance. They throw a machete with each hand, twirling and catching and slipping them under the leg. They squat like cossacks and keep tossing the machetes under their legs. Finally they pull their head bands over their eyes and do the throwing blind-folded. We noticed one boy in particular. He was the heaviest, but also had the best rhythm and grace.

We couldn’t stay for the entire program, so we began sneaking away quietly. A woman ran up to us then and begged us to stay for the next number, the Deer Dance. She said the troupe had brought it to France at one time. It was deeply traditional. We hated to disappoint her, so back we went. The floor had been moved away, and in late evening dusk, the spotlight played on a single dancer, who was obviously the deer. He was bare-chested except for an array of ornaments, his legs were costumed to approximate a deer’s, and his face was mostly covered. Upon his head rode the head of an antlered deer. He wore a short patterned skirt.

This dance seemed to be a sacred ritual, pre-dating Spanish influence, as it reached back into the hunter-gatherer stage of native religion. The dancer imitated the gestures of a hunted animal, his head and body becoming the anxious deer. Fairly soon, the hunter and his “dog” (another male dancer with “whiskers” dangling from his face) emerged from the darkened side of the “stage”, and began to hunt the frightened animal. They danced the chase, until the deer fell to the attack of the dog, the hunter thrust the dog away—after all, this kill was for the village--cut off the deer’s head, tossed him over his shoulders and bore him away. We thought that was—wow—quite a feat.

It was just a little bit hard to get to sleep that night.

24 September 2006

We have had a Big Weekend. It is now Sunday, a perfect post-monsoon day with china blue skies and white, glowing, puffy clouds for decoration.

Blanche. Yesterday, Vic, Pam, and I attended the Memorial Service for Blanche Carmody at the Arizona Inn. Nancy and Blanche’s family will be present in mid-October when her Mass is celebrated in Connecticut. Her ashes will be buried beside the grave of her brother, whose funeral was taking place there in the east while we were remembering Blanche in Tucson.

The Arizona Inn is a lovely place, and Nancy was blessed that they had the room for us on such short notice. Nancy, together with Blanche’s nieces, had developed a program that was quiet, homey, and beautiful, overflowing with the love that was the identity of such an extraordinary woman.

As we entered to exquisite harp music, we were given a white rose to keep in memory of Blanche, and enveloped in Nancy’s warm embrace.

Patricia had composed a large collage of photos of Blanche with her beloved flowers and animals. It was displayed beside the reader’s stand and flanked by two floral arrangements. The ceremony began with tributes from Nancy, Patricia, and a family friend, each one laying another shape or color into the living description of Blanche.

We learned how Nancy and Blanche had met: Nancy was looking for a place to stay while teaching in New York, and Blanche was the heart and soul of hospitality. Why was Blanche called Sis by almost everyone who knew her? She had been, from her first breath, so spiritually aware, that no one doubted she would enter a Religious Order. When her delicate health made this impossible, the name had become so much a part of her that no one ever thought of dropping it. And the thought of Blanche without a garden was also unthinkable.

Around Blanche, people and nature blossomed.

We had the picture of a woman so alive, with so many interests and such an enthusiastic gift for drawing others into the things she loved that her lucky nieces and her friends grew gratefully into those loves. Here was a woman so vibrant and so sensitive to the spiritual dimension of the ordinary that physical diminishment only deepened the stream of faith in which she lived.

Vic and I gave readings: Milton’s Sonnet on His Blindness, and the Prayer of St Francis.

Fine musicians had, as it were, fallen into Nancy’s needs, and between the spoken phases of the program, we sank gratefully into a fine bass voice and a harp and trumpet duet. The latter switched from sacred music and “Amazing Grace” into “Sweet Georgia Brown” at the end. Did we mention that Blanche loved jazz as well as classical music?

We asked those who had come to honor Blanche to share other memories with us, and they added further touches to the portrait: the tech in his work uniform who had gone to her home eleven times (he remembered exactly) to fix the object of his expertise, and was so sorry he would not see her again; the next door neighbor who had wondered early on, “why those two women are always laughing”; others who simply remembered a person who created an unexcelled environment of love.

Her animals could not come of course. Nancy felt that the Arizona Inn might have “renegotiated the contract” if Michael and the two cats had shown up. Michael is still drooping at home, and is a question mark, since Nancy’s schedule is so erratic.

Pam ended the sharing with a lovely prayer, and after our terrific musical duo had belted out its unique recessional, she invited us all to a tea in the adjoining room. The Inn does those things beautifully—iced tea, canapés, tiny cakes and éclairs. (They replaced the sweets tray, since it was so popular.)

Nancy, Patricia, and Nancy wanted this to be a celebration, a place and season of joy over one of the most spectacular examples of God’s creating grace, a woman physically diminished, but spiritually and humanly great.

Our Lady of the Angels. We live in the wild, so to speak. At least we do not have every single one of the amenities of urban existence. In this case, Sonoita and Elgin do not have their own church building. Since it’s a bit of a trip to St Therese’ church in Patagonia, our own mission congregation celebrates Sunday Eucharist at the firehouse in Sonoita. Our firehouse congregation would like its own church. A beautiful piece of land has been donated, and all we have to do is raise enough money to construct the building.

So today, Bishop Kikanis came to bless the property and pray with us that this dream may find itself fulfilled. People from many places turned up for the Mass in the Pioneer Hall of the Sonoita Fairgrounds—friends from S Therese’, from Rio Rico, from Sierra Vista, even a few from Nogales. At the end of our row, behold a baby of a few days old in its parents’ arms—you know how it is, alternating mother and dad.

The group is wonderfully multi-racial and of all ages, the program was in English and Spanish, and the five-person choir full of verve. I really love the teen-aged acolytes in their albs.

The bishop knows what he is doing. Today’s gospel spoke of receiving the Kingdom as a child, so he asked all the participants over the age of twelve to come up to the altar, and asked them why children were considered wise by the Lord. He fielded the answers while we enjoyed the children. A couple of tiny ones got disoriented and had to be scooped up by their parents and returned to their family places.

After the Mass everyone processed down the road to the prospective site. The police even stopped the traffic. Talk about feeling important. There were banners and a set of colored crosses representing our solidarity with the Church of Central America. And the word “Procession” does not mean some orderly, formal march. It means friends and neighbors, kids and grown-ups, little ones being carried and nestling into their fathers’ necks—all walking along in a bunch under a bright sun, chatting as they go.

When we arrived at the beautiful site, we sang a couple of hymns, had a word from Padre Geraldo, and admired a sketch of the prospective church. Bishop Kikanis blessed the land, and the group broke up to return to the Fairgrounds for the refreshments that had been lovingly prepared. We did not attend this stage of the proceedings, but were told that the architects were present and would listen to the desires of the group for their new church.

It had all been so beautiful and moving that one of the sisters told me she could hardly keep from crying. These are people of faith, who live it in the mystery of the ordinary, and who want a place in which to worship and into which they can slip for a few quiet words with the Lord. They are slowly raising money in the way that people do for these things—sales of this and that, the baking of dog biscuits, and so forth. Pray for Our Lady of the Angels.

3 September 2006

Oh my—Holy Church.

As I have said before, our local pastor comes over from St Therese’ Church in Patagonia for our seven o’clock Sunday Mass, and then zips over to the mission station at Sonoita Firehouse. (Don’t think we have a formal fire department. We have SEESI—Sonoita Elgin Emergency Services. They are also what you call when you need the helicopter to whisk someone a hospital in Tucson.)

Anyway, I had written Father a note to the effect that we would be grateful for his ministry on the Sundays of September instead of the Sundays of October, because Dom Ambrose is coming in October instead of September as I had mistakenly believed. He is a native Spanish speaker, and although he speaks English very well, I must have phrased myself awkwardly. Therefore he misunderstood.

And therefore, no priest for Mass today. About ten after seven, we explained to the retreatants, and prepared for Mass at the firehouse. The retreatants had enough cars among them to make it, and we used our three vehicles. Setting off at quarter to eight, we happily met Father at the firehouse door where he greets his parishioners, and settled in.

It ‘s a very impressive experience, attending Mass at this tiny mission station. We’re a mission diocese, actually, with many far-flung little stations, and –of course—a scarcity of priests. I think we have the largest number of permanent deacons of any diocese in the US Church, many serving Native Americans on the reservations.

Hymn books and bulletins are passed out. A woman parishioner leads the worship and the singing. Father processes in with two tiny congregants holding candles, two lectors, and a crossbearer-acolyte in what seems to be his early teens. There is a prayer for a new church building, if it be the will of God. The church has the property, and funds have been accumulating over a long time. The priest will double up as he does now, but a real honest-to-goodness church building would be nice.

We see in the bulletin that the bishop is coming on the 24^th for a Eucharist at the Fairgrounds, to be followed by a procession to the new church property. It will be blessed, with refreshments back at the fairgrounds. We will go. Being part of our neighborhood and the local Church makes a big difference here.

As we left the firehouse, we walked into several drops of rain. Someone said how unfortunate, since it was a rodeo day. Oh no, I thought. Rain never lasts. It will be over in time for the rodeo. How wrong I was. We think we got the outskirts of Hurricane John, which has been busy in Mexico. At any rate, we had a rainy day. A real rainy day. Rainy days can be depressing, even despite our enormous need for the moisture, when one is conditioned to constant sunlight.

Ours gave us, unbelievably, 3.29 inches of rain. We haven’t had a full inch any day for years. I hope John did not do too much damage in Mexico. We did pay a price, because the cloister leaks.

Again one had the little wet swallow perched on the drain pipe and shaking constantly with the effort to get back into a dry world.

And after Compline, as I was on m way to bed, I heard an unrecognizable click-click or cheep-cheep beside the cloister phone. Thinking something might have gone wrong with the mechanism—no rare occurrence—I stopped, and there was a tiny wet creature beside the glass door, cheeping away in distress. Marg, who stopped by, thought it was a baby squirrel that had got washed out of its burrow. It kept trying to lick itself dry, and cheeping for its mother.

You feel so sad when you can’t help a creature in distress, but it was not possible to approach it with a hair dryer, much less find its home for it.

Whoops, there go two rabbits on the run.

4 September 2006

Oh wow. The road is a mess. The left side on the hill has become a gully, and there are cross wash-outs on the level down the hill. And soggy, of course.

We have a small program planned for today’s holiday.

The new puzzle is 1000 pieces, but it seems to have more variety than the last one, which was dreadful—endless little yellow flowers across a meadow with hardly any distinguishing features. Sometimes puzzle-makers seem to have cultivated a demonic streak. We have never attempted, and will never attempt, the ones with two sides that are cut both ways so that you can’t cheat by telling which side is which by the feel. My job is separating colors into batches ahead of the putting-together. This one has an autumn tree and two kinds of green. Someone has already done the easiest part—a red barn reflected in the water.

I was tempted by a puzzle of an almost entirely gold church sanctuary, but after the last one, it didn’t seem good for morale.

10 September 2006

We will no longer impose on Father’s generosity, but when we have no priest, we will attend Sunday Mass at the firehouse. If he comes to us, that makes four Masses per Sunday, plus any frantic requests from other places.

Dom Ambrose will be here for October, and for part of November and all of December, Dom Bernard. After that, we will resign ourselves to God’s Providence. Someone said recently that what has happened to us puts us on probably on the cutting edge of the sacramental life of monastic nuns.  

28 August 2006

Well, we have moved. Or at least those whose new place of work is in the Addition, have gathered up their gear and transported it, or got it transported, unto its destination. Esther was heard to mutter after one hard day of traffic, “I’ll never move again.”

 I had worried that we’d built too large a structure, but seeing it filled—and I mean filled--I have no such regrets. I just wish fondly that a bit of the stuff could be disposed of otherwise.

 The laundry has found a temporary home in the first dorm while the Old House is being gutted preparatory to becoming the Senior Wing. The dogs, bless their hearts, are enjoying a temporary home in and outside the trailer (former novitiate, former office building) which will eventually be demolished. They have devoted themselves to barking at our innocent Sunday Mass-goers and sundry other disturbances of their peace.

Because of the monsoon skies, we have skies the like of which one rarely sees. I just looked up to see a throbbing cherry-colored patch cradled in the mountain’s arms.

I thought the pigeons had emigrated, but they keep reappearing. Right now they seem to have gone off. Let us hope.

We are calling the tree man about our nut trees, which have developed bugs. They are lovely, sturdy Arizona walnuts and a pecan. And there are bugs, we are told, that go for the nut trees.

We have another species of bug that, when it is time to die, (we have figured out), flop onto their backs with their little legs softly moving. We used to try turning them over, feeling sorry for them, but it doesn’t work. They know the day and the hour.

31 August 2006

The Crew is jack-hammering and carting off huge loads of broken concrete. This has the interesting side effect of ringing the front doorbell. You get so used to it, that you forget there actually MIGHT be someone there. I took a chance this morning and lo—an actual reatreatant.

They have brought a long, long empty thing that they park next to the area of demolition to receive the loads of mess, delivered by the bobcat. After it is full, a sort of tracto-front comes along, hooks onto it and drags it away.

Someone was commiserating with me about the construction. After all, it has been going on since December 12, and shouldn’t it provide a lot of disruption? I have to be honest. It’s been fun. Not paying the bills, but watching the house change shape, watching the addition lay down its slab and grow brick walls; watching the inner rooms develop, choosing the tile and the paint, exulting in the clean whiteness and the speckles of blue and amber. Then finally christening the foyer with a picnic.

It will be blessed formally once the equipment in the rooms has been put to right. Stay posted.

16 July 2006

We have acquired a couple (I think it’s a couple) of mocking birds, and let me tell you, they make a LOT OF NOISE. Day and night. I’m not sure whether they take turns sleeping, or if they just don’t sleep. I noticed that they do not mock a robin’s call, but then realized that we don’t have any robins to mock. They are in addition to the swallows that do pretty well in the noise department themselves. It will be kind of dull in the winter.

The Big Rain in Tucson got on national news, and people keep congratulating us. We are not Tucson. This happens every year. That concrete city gets inundated, and we are still dry. The sky is big, and we can see other areas being rained on. “Well, someone’s getting rain!”

The addition to the Altar Bread Building is nearly finished. We hope they will be all done with it by the end of the month. The tiling is mostly in and we are just waiting for the carpets in the music rooms. People whose offices or studios lie within it are packing. I just passed Clare’s icon space and it is full of boxes that are full of stuff. I am glad for the dimensions of her new studio. She will need every cubic inch.

Esther, of course, could fill a hundred houses. She has a large studio, a smaller room in which to mix her messy stuff, and a small patio on which to dry her sculpture. The area around her large kiln is ceramic tile, as in the shower room.

Pam will have no trouble filling her maintenance room. And the music room and liturgy office will not go begging for fillings. And here I was worried that we had built too large. I hope now that there will be walking room inside.

I am almost tempted to go over to the foyer today and sit and admire the view while typing the journal. I hope the pigeons have vacated their nursery so that the roof can be finished there.

What else has happened?

Well, what will happen next is the Senior Wing. Our “old house” will be gutted and reinforced. We had a scare when the present windows turned out not to fit the new plan. But our wonderful architect, contractor, and project manager have put their heads together and found ways to solve the problem. The windows can be filled in partially. That will leave smaller windows in the right places. Sigh of relief.

The laundry will move temporarily into an empty dorm room while that section of the dormitory waits to become the library. Are you still with me?

Our parlor, which was made from two rooms into one, has turned out to be a vast blessing. No longer do we have to squeeze into a tiny space when guests come. We can have dialogues there in an informal setting, festive meals, and once we had our Communion Service there, with ample time for silent pauses.

And oh the simplicity of our white cloister!

11 August 2006

The phone men are here today to revise our phone setup. Abel and Leopoldo came at five to cut the grass. Our young helpers, Christian and Joel, have either gone back to school or are on the way. Our project manager, Nazarrio, went for his citizenship test yesterday and we prayed sturdily. We won’t hear until Monday. The only question Esther missed when she took her test, was “Who said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death.’” She had drilled and drilled with Rita, and I think that question was not in the booklet. She loves Abraham Lincoln and has read everything she can about him. She also keeps up on the news.

We have had five or six inches of rain this summer, usually in increments of .7 or .09 inches, but the grass has rushed into being.

Relative to the rain, I came into my office one day to check the window during what they refer to locally as a “shower.” (LOUD thunder, lightning, and a five minute deluge.) The birds are not used to rain. So on the railing outside my window sat the most disgruntled swallow you could ever imagine. It shook its wet self every second and doubtless wished for better things.

On October 28, we will host representatives of the Serra Club, the Knights of Columbus, the Daughters of Isabella, etc. in view of developing a bit of publicity for vocations. I’m not sure what they can do, but at least we can show them the life we live, and they will pray for us.

The Foyer of the addition is glorious, all white, with a good view on one side. The other side will have a good view when we demo the old trailer and erect a little wall to hide the gas tank. (!) Meanwhile, we recite our Terce and None there during Altar Bread work. Acoustics are great.

I wonder whether there is any section of the country which has not suffered from this summer’s heat. And all the deaths.

God bless with hopes for cooler weather!

5 July 2006

Now picture yourself as a visitor to the Midwest US from some sun-scorched and bomb- ravaged country, where, when you wake up in the morning, you are not sure whether you or your children or your husband will be alive to see another sunset. You are now driving through one picture postcard view after another, and it seems as if no blade of grass is out of place. And except for a few cut hayfields, no inch of space fails to be green.

This is a green land, with exquisite farm buildings nestled in the rolling earth. Green, green, green. And peace as far as the eye can see. Is it the same world, the same place? This land suffused with peace, with green, with the abundance of the soil and some picturesque cattle here and there.

Our older sister, the community of Our Lady of the Mississippi Abbey in Dubuque, Iowa, has passed the charism of leadership from its devoted and capable longtime abbess, Mother Gail Fitzpatrick, to a new leader, Mother Nettie Gamble. So opens a new chapter in the life of the US Cistercians, and a transition in every way for our sisters at Mississippi.

For the ceremony of Blessing a new Abbess, the Mississippi sisters invited the superiors of all our US abbeys, representatives from our brother-and-sister Order of Cistercians, and the Associates of their community and many friends. I flew to Chicago, where I was met by our dear friend Renata Marroum, and generously driven to Mississippi. This was the first of our trips through the green land of peaceful beauty. I soaked my desert eyes in green.

Nettie and our sisters outdid themselves in generous hospitality. As Renata and I arrived in the midst of Vespers, Nettie spotted us and ran out to greet us, even zipping off with my wrinkled Habit to press it. Renata had a lovely guesthouse all to herself, and I was housed with the other women superiors in one of the infirmary rooms of the monastery. It was so good to reconnect and chat with sisters of the house and those who were there to represent our sister communities.

I would say we had banquet after banquet, until for the last one, I opted to remain with the Mississippi community for left-overs around the kitchen counter. They thoughtfully had invited Renata and close doctor-friend of their community. We heard the story (gracefully told by Martha) of how someone had discovered four dozen eggs fallen and smashed on the cooler floor the day before the great event. It had been not only the anticipated creative activity that the sisters had managed so well, it was a few unforeseen and unplanned occurrences as well.

Nettie was so serene and peaceful that you would have thought she’d been at the helm for years. The ceremony itself was nicely done, and she has been securely blessed by the Church. The archbishop of Dubuque is a Benedictine and gave a suitably Benedictine homily.

The four Cistercian women superiors were seated at the right of the sanctuary behind the archbishop. Thankful was I that we were more or less hidden by His Excellency, since I, light packer that I am, had worn my little black Keds sneakers, and was not especially anxious to show them off on such a solemn occasion. (They did come in handy on the hikes between gates in the airports.)

The most moving thing in the ceremony was the entrance procession, in which Nettie was flanked by the two retired abbesses of the monastery, Mother Columba and Mother Gail. Since I had been present at the departures of each of Wrentham’s daughter houses, and have lived through the entire life of each, the sense of history brought tears to my eyes.

As we human beings move through our life cycles, and so it is with monasteries. So much time and so many changes and so much growth were being represented in that simple act of entrance into a new place in the life of this monastery that your heart went out to these courageous and vibrant women.

A benefactor of the community had arranged for a boat ride on the Mississippi for the sisters and their guests on Saturday morning. I excused myself, since my travel plans would have made participation a bit too tight. Renata and I drove quietly back through the glorious countryside, connected with her friend Teresa, ate roly-poly sandwiches in Wheaton’s Morton Arboretum, and after checking out some of the scenery, went to Sunday Mass at four in the afternoon. The church was St Joan of Arc in Lyle, Illinois, and you should have seen the crowd. It’s a large church and almost every seat was taken.

I ventured that perhaps the Sunday Masses were thinly populated, with so many going on Saturday, and Renata said no. They had even added a Mass on Sunday to provide for all the people. The singing was enthusiastic, with a really gorgeous male voice seated very near us.

7 July 2006

Saying goodbye takes a bit of ceremony and a great deal of heart.

From the beginning, our friends Clem and Wayne Wright have been simply and perfectly that—friends. There they were at Mass every Sunday, there was Wayne picking up the altar bread scraps for his animals, and Wayne without animals was unthinkable.

We devoured, his stories of the West, of his wrangling days, his days of managing ranches, of the dogs that helped his round-ups, and the bone-breaking adventures of the truest cowboy you could ever hope to meet.

He could break the horses no one else could, chose to ride the orneriest critters available. “If I’d known I was going to live so long, I’d have taken better care of myself.” He swore he had broken every bone in his body—at least once.

Wayne was smart; he knew his business; he knew life, he knew people. And the smartest thing he ever did was to marry Clem. They became a single word: ClemandWayne. They were surely a single heart. Clem was a city girl. She had to learn to be a country wife, and she did, managing it while continuing to look like the girl he married, her hair perfectly coifed, her clothes beautifully chosen. Imagine seventy one years of being ClemandWayne, and you are calling up an incredible love. How many people in the history of the world can match that?

Seventy one years of marriage means two long lives, and long lives mean the diminishments that come with age. They accepted, they made do and made a rich life within the limitations of physical pain and incapacity. When it became obvious that their little home in Sonoita was not enough for their present situation, they moved on peacefully into the fuller facilities of the Manor at Medfield. “Will you like it there?” “We’ve made up our minds to be happy there.” They didn’t even ask to see it beforehand. It was enough that those who loved them had found it the right place.

And it surely was. Their daughter-in-law Priss had decorated it, and Clem was eager to show off the charming setting in which they now lived, and tell us of the advantages of their new home. She didn’t have to worry about Wayne, for there was someone on call if he fell. He loved the ice cream socials, and they made many friends. Of course, for they had a genius for friendship. Wayne, whose arthritis was getting the better of him, had a chair that helped him rise, and with utmost good humor he would watch the TV programs of whose sound his hearing disability robbed him.

I have to mention Wayne’s eyes. I think they were blue, but it didn’t matter. Wayne’s eyes were a window onto God. It was as if God had borrowed those human eyes to tell the world how much he loved it. They were luminous, simple, and brimming with humor. You would walk into their living room, and there was Wayne in his chair, with those eyes that were more than a welcome. They were an epiphany, a disclosure of the God who loved him and loved us through him.

One day in May, Wayne had a fall, resulting in a broken hip. It was thought afterwards that a small stoke had caused it, but the Parkinson’s took over, and he went from St Mary’s Hospital to its hospice unit. His friend Jim called us, and Vic and I scooted off to bear to him the love and prayers of his Santa Rita sisters. He was there with the smile and the glorious eyes.

Clem’s great wish was that he not suffer. I’m sure the discomfort and the isolation were not easy, but he knew it would not be long before God came for him. His friends and family came--Ken and Priss, John and his family from New Mexico, Jim with whom he had chatted every day in Sonoita, Debbie and Frank, Geri…One day and then another, until on the feast of the Great Precursor, John the Baptist, after a visit from Clem, he passed peacefully into the heart of the God whose love he had so faithfully mirrored.

The last words we heard from this great man were, “Tell the sisters I love them.” And “I love you.” Indeed. That was Wayne, a greatness hidden from the world and a childlike goodness.

It was our great privilege to welcome a chapelful of friends and family to his memorial Mass. Our dear friend Father Ed Carscallen gladly presided. After Mass, I counted forty cars, and some had left before the count occurred to me. We put in extra chairs and still had some standees, too shy to come into choir with us. Clem looked an angel, with her halo of white hair, wearing a black and white dress. Her daughters-in-law, Bonnie and Priss, did the arranging and saw that all went smoothly. They gave a lovely reception in our parlor, with heart-tugging photos of the family. The one that graced the chapel was enough to draw tears—it was so Wayne. Atop the flowers rested his Stetson in glory.

Wayne has not left us; he has entered the Great Heart of the world, in whom we live and move and have our being. He is closer than ever, with his twinkle, his joy, and his gentle soul of charity.

10 June 2006

 We have become a nature preserve for swallows. The air is thick with swallows. One has to be brave. They are like Roman drivers. They will not hit you. Do not swerve and duck. It will confuse them.

 We have cave swallows and barn swallows. They are differentiated by their tail formation if you meet them outside the nest. Of course if your acquaintance with them is confined to heads poking out of nests, there is no problem. Nests differ. Behavior in gathering building material also differs. To understand this, one has to understand what we do to irrigate the non-native trees.

 Around the base of each trunk, a sort of well has been constructed—a circle bounded with a rim of built-up earth. Within this circle hose water is run. Now picture our swallows congregating on the rim, poking their little beaks into the soil to collect beads of mud for construction. But look closely: during this operation, the cave swallows are constantly fluttering their wings like over-sized butterflies, while the barn swallows go about their collection with businesslike simplicity.

The construction of their nests is a wondrous affair as they place one bead after another, each strengthened by a tiny wisp of straw. Peculiarly, the caves are placed in perfectly unobjectionable spots, whereas other variety places its nest in the most inconvenient places, leading to an ongoing situation of demolition and rebuilding. “No, please, not above the cars. No, not above the entrance to the house.” Please, birds.

Tail formation: the cave swallows have ordinary tails, while the barn swallows have the characteristic split swallow-tails. We think this has developed so that the cave birds’ tails will not be cramped in the cave-like nest, whereas the barn swallow nests allow the bird’s tails to protrude over the edge.

 A pair has set up housekeeping somewhere near my office, and come often to sit on the railing of the porch right outside my window. We have developed something of a friendship. I will miss them when they emigrate.

 The other day we had a brief shower, a whopping, noisy, windy, thundering and lightning storm that produces a quarter inch of rain, but after all, that is better than nothing. The birds had two reactions: terror and delight. The terror was from the disruption of their environment, and delight from the ensuing mud. Oh boy, construction material.

 Our bunnies are also back, as I remarked last time.

 Our sister community of Our Lady of the Mississippi has elected a new abbess. Mother Gail has stepped down after many years of faithful shepherding, and Mother Nettie has been chosen to take the community into its new chapter. The Abbatial Blessing is scheduled for June 30, and most of the houses in the region will be attending in the person of their own superiors. I am told they expect 300 guests. It is an opportunity to express our unity with a community that is dear to us, and to add our voices to the liturgy that blesses and encourages a new leader and bonds her with her sisters in a new and vital manner.

Tucson is into three digits of heat each day. Because of our elevation, we are—not exactly cooler--but one might say less hot.

But the desert willows, one spectacular specimen of which we have beside the front door, are in bloom. Each blossom is like a small orchid, delicate and slightly scented. The highway on the way to Tucson is bordered with these lovely trees.

 Our addition to the Altar Bread Building is nearing its completion, as we scamper around the house seeking out furniture for its offices. I was hoping that we could have the “foyer” done by July 4, so as to use it for our picnic, but alas, not so. The foyer is the space which links the addition to the Altar Bread Building. Maybe one could call it a breezeway. As soon as possible however, it will be baptized by a picnic, even if it’s in January.

We have conferred with the architect and contractor about the Senior Wing, which is to come next. The plans look very good. After that, dorm rooms will become library with a bit of demolition and painting, then we can move the library books out of the rooms destined to become Chapter Room and wardrobe/activities room. One has to hang on to one’s nervous system and the virtue of patience.

 Happy Fourth.

14 April 2006

Out front, there is a stump. Or rather, a tangle of mesquite roots that somebody once cut. It sits on a perfect circle of small, varicolored stones, and, for the Paschal Vigil, holds an iron bowl in which we kindle the New Fire. We also gather there for the Blessing of Palms on Passion Sunday. There we are, sisters and guests and Father Matthew (borrowed from Spencer) in his smashing red chasuble and stole.

            We are supposed to begin with an antiphon that got skipped by accident his year, but otherwise we did quite well. We all hold out our palms, while Father does the Blessing. Then we burst into “All glory, laud and honor,” and another hymn about the little children singing. To this, we wind our way back into church for the Passion Mass.

 We split the Passion Gospel into five parts—four sisters and Father. The non-readers club up on the other side of the sanctuary to portray the “Crowd”. This makes it more interesting. And so Holy Week is inaugurated and we trudge on for six more days. You get to a place in Lent through which the only word is “trudge.” While scoring hosts the other day, I found myself asleep and dreaming, and realized it was time for Easter. Clare and I decided one day that the trouble with Lent is that it is two weeks too long. And then you stagger into Holy Week with blunted senses and sleepy faculties.

Of course, that is the point. One is not supposed to take in the Holy Week ceremonies bright eyed and bushy-tailed. One is supposed to bring to the celebration of Redemption the pressure of the human journey. We should be experiencing the need for salvation, and some kind of solidarity with the poor and heavy-laden, even if it is only a modicum of what they are suffering.

Holy Thursday, we gather at five for a commemorative supper. Traditionally, the menu features scrambled eggs and hot cross buns. Then we proceed after the wash-up to Mass at six. It is so simple, the Foot-washing taking place after the Gospel reading. Ceremonially, the prioress washes the feet of all her sisters. I made inquiries at one point about including some of the guests, but they were shy. This is the Mass at which the bells are silenced after the Gloria. If we used an organ, it too would be silenced until the Paschal Vigil. However, we are now into a cappella singing and like it.

After the Mass, the sisters process to a small room (our new novitiate quarters this year) in which a lovely, simple setting has been prepared for the reservation of the Eucharist. We take turns watching until Midnight with the agonizing Christ, and then the door is shut, a symbolic stone being placed before it. We are to experience the empty tabernacle of Good Friday.

 Our Good Friday liturgy is as simple as it can get. We participate with unshod feet throughout. After following Father into church, we prostrate together and then sit for two very meaningful readings, then stand for the general intercessions for the needs of everyone the Church can gather into its heart. We follow the same pattern as Sunday’s Passion narrative for St John’s Passion this time. When you are part of the “Crowd,” you feel something special when you cry out, “Crucify him!” You accept your own responsibility for the slaughter of God and of his innocents. My laziness, my self-preoccupation, my choice to ignore my sister’s or brother’s pain…

Our celebration of reverence for the Cross is very simple. Singing, we just go up and kiss it, as Father lowers it to our kneeling selves. We are grateful. We are sorry. We present our accepting selves to the Mystery of human life.

The acolyte flanked by candle-bearers, goes off to retrieve the reserved Eucharist. Upon their return with the Lord, we and the guests surround the altar to receive Communion. After Thanksgiving, the guests go home, and we wander in to Supper, very welcome, since the other two meals of the day were minimal. Now for Holy Saturday, the most important day of the monastic and liturgical year.

The Paschal Vigil, which takes place in our monastery a little before the usual time for the Service of Vigils, is called the Mother of Vigils, the night watch which opens out onto the dawn of Easter Day. From the end of the Good Friday Service until the Great Vigil, we celebrate the Divine Office at its usual times, but there is no Mass. We wait. The waiting of Holy Saturday is full of meaning. We go about our necessary daily chores, preparing for the Great Night. We pray, but the prayer is different and special. It carries a sense of expectation, but also of attentiveness to that which is beyond our limited vision. Christ lies in the tomb. His people wait in the womb of their own impotence and of reliance on his coming victory.

 A Vigil means waiting. Originally, the Christian people occupied themselves all night long with psalms and biblical readings while the bishop conferred the Sacraments of Initiation. He welcomed the new Christians—the agni novelli, the new lambs--into the Baptismal waters and sealed their union with the dead and risen Christ. They were anointed with the Chrism of Salvation, but also as St Bernard puts it, with the joy of the Resurrection. We do not now celebrate all night long, but the service must begin in the dark and work toward the new day, the definitive Day of an unending sunrise. In our monastic church, we do not celebrate new converts, but re-consecrate ourselves to our Christian heritage.

 At 2:30 AM, we wake up, preparing to gather first in church, whence we move quietly out in the dark to the famous stump, where Rita has set the New Fire. With an almost full moon lessening the light of the stars, we attend to the Blessing of the Paschal Candle. We and our guests stand in a circle again, encircled in our turn by the material and spiritual darkness of a people in need of salvation. Pam carries the Paschal Candle, symbol of the event we are celebrating, and Father Matthew traces on its perfectly unadorned surface the ancient Greek letters and the Holy Cross. It receives the New Fire, and the night receives the first call of “Light of Christ!” On the church porch, we light our own candles from the great Paschal flame, and continue back to choir for the third and last of the three proclamations: “Light of Christ!”As we surround the Paschal Candle in the sanctuary, Vicki’s beautiful, God-given voice rings out in the Exsultet, the great song of triumph which Merton has called “all of theology,” and we settle down for the long series of readings which detail the history of salvation and which culminate in the wondrous Alleluia of Holy Saturday. This is the Eucharist that wells up out of the deep center of the liturgical year. Christ is truly risen.

7 April 2006

 Let us see, what has happened since the last issue of our journal.

 Today, our wonderful workforce is out at the addition. They have hammered its first layer of roof onto the trusses, a task they do not undertake when the wind is in full swing, lest they take off for Cochise County on a brisk puff. Today they are putting the framework on the inside walls. It is to be filled with insulation. I guess they will have to cover those gorgeous trusses with a ceiling, but it’s a shame.

What is this building for? Long overdue is the demolition of a doublewide trailer that once housed the novitiate and now is the location of various offices. It is a firetrap sitting above a condominium for squirrels. So the new structure will receive Claire’s icon studio, Esther’s art studio, a music and a liturgy room, and the housekeeper’s office. Vic and Rita have moved their offices into the monastery proper, in rooms vacated by books destined for the new library, if we can fund it. CLEAR?

At the monastery, the cloister is done, more or less. We have had the legs of phone people hanging out of the ceiling, and—oh woe—a huge back-hoe breaking into our water lines. After gifting us with two waterless mornings, they decided the attic method was preferable to banging into unforeseen pipes underground. So the phone lines will lie above ground. Actually, above our heads.

The back of Rita’s computer station shows into the cloister, so it will be painted. Marg and I suggested adorning it with a mural, an enormously tempting prospect.

Claire and Kate are working out a beautiful idea for the Easter refectory. It has something to do with a huge wreath of flowers and colored eggs. Claire goes snooping for ideas in the catalogue from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which produces a truly scrumptious little brochure. Vic has baked Easter breads and is picking up two chairs today for her novitiate office. The novices’ study room is adorable—simple and harmoniously proportioned. The physical environment of monastic formation is important. Of course, the physical environment, in the form of majestic views everywhere you look, is made by God.

We had an excellent retreat, with Father Timothy Kelly of the  generalate. He was for twenty eight years abbot of Gethsemani, so he has collected a wonderful library of Chapter Talks. Each morning, he gave us a spiritual talk, and in the afternoon a verbal “tour” around the Order. We are an international Order, and knowing about our brothers and sisters “out there” is exciting and motivating. Otherwise, we foster an eremitical streak for retreats, with only Mass and the major Liturgical Hours in Church, and pick-up meals.

Do you have any rain up your sleeves?

With regard to the cloister:

            The rug, which was a substitute for the choice we had made, turns out to have profound  significance. It reminds you of the covering God has sent to the hills outside—speckled and stubbled with dry grass and the iron rich soil of our region. So there you are, walking, symbolically, on the stripped and mottled earth, feeling your kinship with the things of earth, the human condition with its violent and weeping character, its joys and celebrations. But wait. This earthly life is not all. The cloister walls rise from the carpeting, ivory white, and glowing with sun. Here we have the Resurrection, the glowing and glorious tomorrow, beyond all our tears and weaknesses.

It’s a portrait of the Incarnation, isn’t it? God stripped himself of glory in order to enter the human condition and bring it back with him into a future more splendid than we can ever imagine. And we make this journey in our hearts each time we traverse the cloister.

With regard to BIRDS:

We have—well, as usual we don’t HAVE them because they are so free—what is probably a pair of Vermillion Flycatchers. Wow. I say “probably” because the male is spectacular but the females are usually subdued in coloration and one might mistake them for lesser birds. We also have some kind of Flicker or Woodpecker with red trimming. One we saw yesterday had some yellow above its beak. Something else with a nice yellow breast.

Speaking of yellow, the forsythia is blazing beside the Altar Bread Building. The sisters brought some cutting or layers from Wrentham to continue the forsythia tradition in the West. Did you ever notice that the petals of forsythia blossoms are cross-shaped? And again the other world asserts itself when sunlight pours into and through its golden blossoms.

God refuses to be ignored.

The bunnies are back. Have you ever studied a bunny eating grass? They do not clip off the blades, but pull at them. I guess they eat the roots. Devouring a dandelion, however, is a question of crunching one’s way to the flower, crunch by crunch. One thing that puzzles me is that often they will pull away at dry grass when there is green just a few feet away.

Did I tell you about the pear tree? We have an ornamental pear in the “Garth”. It and a Radiant Flowering Crab were both—oh woe—pruned during the winter. It was heart-breaking to witness their nudity, the ravages of the pruning shears and the saws, even though you knew it was all to the good. Come spring, and lo—lovely white flowers on the few slight twigs left to the pear, and right now, one lavender cluster on the Crab. Talk about Resurrection.

When I was at Redwoods monastery, the woods were just recovering from a monster storm, and though the sisters may not cut down any of the trees, the storm had slammed a number to the ground. Therefore these windfalls could be sold, and this required the work of expert woodsmen. I remember watching as those huge trees—redwoods and Douglas Firs—were stripped of their branches, cut top and bottom as they lay on the earth, and a chain fastened around their denuded trunks. Then a small tractor dragged them through the standing trees out to a landing place where they were stacked.

I felt that I had never seen so poignant a representation of the Passion of Christ as when watching those magnificent, ravaged trunks being dragged across the earth in clouds of dust, helpless in the hands of men.

 12 March 2006

            My goodness, it’s almost St Patrick’s day. How did that happen?

            We had snow last night, Well, almost. It happened this way: we were singing Vespers. Nothing unusual had happened that day except the wind. And moisture. Precipitation. You could not call it rain exactly. It as more like being inside a low-hanging cloud, or like what the Irish call “a soft day.” Misty. But with so much wind. The forecast had spoken of “possible rain” and a snow line descending to 4500 feet—which is us, who are at 5000. One loses faith in forecasts, but one never knows…

             We are used to getting lots of wind, sitting on an exposed hill or mesa. This is nice in the summer, but now, the shingles part company with the roof, and the electricity shudders and parts company with us. That is what happened last night. Sometime during Saturday evening Mass, which was anticipating Sunday, the lights blinked, came on, blinked and came on, blinked and stayed off. Fr Greg continued bravely. I pushed down my need to do something about everything, and told myself he is a fully competent adult who will let us know if he needs a light. He didn’t.

 For an integrated Mass and Vespers, we end with the Song of Mary. Now, that we know by heart, but there would have been some trouble with the antiphon if we had not been able to pull out the flashlights we seem to keep stashed in church.

 The wind howled. The lights stayed off. The phones also went out eventually. During all of this, I was thinking with placid gratitude of our two emergency generators. We need not fear for the freezer. We were not going to have to go down the hill to draw up water directly from the well and bring it back in buckets. We would even have a place in the house to warm up in, for the refectory shares with the kitchen the mighty effects of its own generator.

 And so to bed. Some cuddled down under their blankets reading themselves to sleep by flashlight. Some just zonked out immediately, since that seemed to be the will of God under the circumstances. Vicki took in the dogs, who are reduced to wimpdom by a storm. Some of us left the light switch in the “On” position, so we would know if and when the power came back on. It did, waking the souls who could not wait for morning to get the news. Vic let out the dogs.

 In the meantime, the misty rain—if you could call it that—had turned to snow on the mountains, and left a few patches of white in our back yard.

 We had Vigils as usual, and then somewhere toward the end, the lights went off again. Some remained in the remnants of the church’s heat for their prayer. Some took refuge in the refectory to pray and read, and some must have wrapped themselves into praying mummies in their rooms. Many experienced a special sense of surrender to the dark and unfathomable work of God. Here we were in the darkness and cold of--Transfiguration Sunday.

 Church being cold, we held Morning Prayer in the refectory, as we had during the jack-hammering of the cloister. It is homey that way. Then we had a beautiful sharing on the Readings of the day. Several of the sisters told how they had experienced the readings in the context of our power-less situation, which had been a homily in itself. God bless this adaptable community.

 We had all loved  Fr Greg’s citation of a text from Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop in which she speaks of moments in which we really see what is always there but to which we are customarily blind.

 Leaving the refectory, we had to stop and gaze at the Santa Ritas in their dress of snow. Do not think “all white” because they never are. They are not high enough for that, since they are more or less tree-covered all the way up. But the blazing morning sun on mottled snow is a sufficient epiphany, and has held up all day long.

 We do not feed the birds, but they feel no need of more than nature allots them. There must be tons of seed left over from the dry grass of summer before it is cut. We have a spectacular kind of flicker, Western Meadow Larks, innumerable Harlequin Sparrows, others we can only call LLB’s, two kinds of towhee, and a couple of game birds that several swear they have seen and not mistaken for a more ordinary bird fluffed up against the cold.

 I have been listening transfixed to a (remastered) Rubinstein performance of Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto. The orchestra was the BSO under Leinsdorf. Imagine being able to do that. Imagine. It does shrink one’s troubles to know such things are possible and are being done. Being cloistered, we are not concert-goers, but for those to whom such things are available, Lang Lang, Emmanuel Ax, Heidi Grant Murphy, and other immense talents perform in Tucson—in addition to our excellent local artists. We have our own symphony orchestra and chorus, a ballet, chamber music groups, and a series of visiting attractions. The university has a fine music department, and Tucson boasts an enviable vein of cultural richness.

 There is a FLOCK of those LBB’s out side my window, and a flicker trying to make something of a tree that has almost no space left from former incursions of the woodpecker family. If you study a tree the woodpeckers have got at, you will see an orderly pattern of holes. Closely fitting lines circle the trunk and branches. I am beginning to wonder whether subsequent birds re-peck the same holes for want of empty space. They have not told me.

11 February 2006

Dear Friends,

 The carpet-layers have been working for two days in our beautifully renovated cloister. Once the new furnaces have been put in, the whole of this stage of renovation will be complete and we can stroll down the gorgeous cloister in awe at the change.

The paint we chose is a creamy white which reflects the sunlight with all its heart. For some reason, the walls seem farther apart, while its length is likewise extended. The rug is darkish, with enough flecking to resist showing dirt untimely, and the abuse of little footsteps. We are simply wrapped up in light.

The addition to the Altar Bread building proceeds with deliberate speed. We can watch it from AB, peeking out the window occasionally at what is being raised from the earth. They have finished filling in the trenches they dug for plumbing, and are awaiting the concrete. We can hardly wait for the slab to be set. Dear Lord, let not the coyotes hold a midnight ball on our wet cement.

14 February 2006

            Yesterday Vicki and I went in to pick up our friend Renata, who is coming from snow country for a few weeks of retreat and helping out. She couldn’t get over the weather. Tucson is always about ten degrees warmer (or one would use the term “hotter” in the summer) than Sonoita, because of our elevation, so the temperature there was in the seventies.

We had got bananas, taken the van to Octopus Car Wash (fascinating!), and made a bank deposit ahead of our trip to the great and tastefully decorated Tucson International Airport. So having found our friend, off we came through the (sigh) urban sprawl onto our scenic wilderness road.

No matter how often you drive that road, it never becomes usual. It’s as if it were saying, “You think you know me. You never will. Look!”  The variations of light and shadow, mesquite dotting the softly rolling hills, gold grass, desert flowers in spring and summer—you catch your breath. This is our landscape, the place of our hearts.

Recommended: Landscapes of the Sacred by Beldon Lane, in the Paulist Series of Western Spirituality.

The carpet men were still here, having had some trimming and vacuuming left over from their previous two days. The heating crew had come for its first day of work on furnaces and ducts. And the contractors were busy over at the addition. I think they were digging a hole for the shower. (That sounds funny.)

Happy Valentine’s Day. For the Second Nocturne reading, we are having bits of the encyclical Slavorum Apostoli of John Paul II, celebrating the lives and work of Ss. Cyril and Methodius, whom he had appointed co-patrons of Europe along with St Benedict. Their feastday is February 14. Nobody seems to celebrate St Valentine any more except the stores, which feature heart-shaped balloons and red flowers. Also little teddy bears done up in red and pink.

I wonder who’s patron of China.

19 February 2006

            We are preparing for Lenten Reading and our annual community retreat. Lenten Reading is a communal form of lectio divina.  We give thought to choosing our books ahead of time, and they are given out in a simple ceremony on the first day of Lent. We gather in the library-Chapter Room for half an hour every Lenten weekday to ponder our texts quietly and together. It’s one of the sacramental aspects of monastic life. I have sometimes wondered whether it might find a way into lay life as well. Everyone at this point protests the busyness of life. True. Is there anyone, any family or group of friends in the whole wide world who could manage it?

Our temporary chaplain, Fr Adam, reminded us yesterday of the beautiful title used in Roman documents referring to the People of God: Christifideles. The Faithful of Christ.

Retreat, on the other hand, is well known to the Faithful, and we who