Santa Rita Abbey

ABBEY JOURNAL...................................2004

27 November 2004

 I hope you all had a beautiful Thanksgiving.

 There is a small, transplanted cottonwood directly outside my window. Its leaves are still yellow, like so many gold coins being tossed about in the wind. The mesquites farther out hold onto old-gold needles, and in the early morning sun, they also glow.

 Sr. Clare’s nephew was involved in an extraordinary accident, when he collided on his bike with a trailer truck. The wheels ran over his pelvic area. He is miraculously still alive and receiving treatment in Rhode Island Hospital. Clare has been receiving daily bulletins, passing them on to us, as his marvelously close family gathers to support his parents and one another. Clare is invoking the patronage of our new beatus, Fr Joseph Cassant. Clare has chosen not to go east, since she is not a good hospital person, and figures the others might wind up caring for her.

 By synchronicity, Martin was anointed by the son of an old family friend who “happened” to be in the hospital at the right time. Although anything more desperate than this drawn-out situation could hardly be imagined, you can see the growth in closeness both there in the family and in our community. If you would like to join us in praying to Blessed Joseph, everyone would be grateful.

 Sr. Jean’s two sons visited her in the middle of the month. Ted’s wife gave up her place to let Paul come. It was great fun. Not only did the boys (grandfathers both) get to spend time with their mother, they also were able to spend time with one another. Believe it or not, though they live in the same city, and belong to a very close extended family, they had not had this kind of one-on-one bonding since each was married.

 It was inexpressibly sweet to see tiny Jean walking between the two men. Jean and I go over the roster of young ones fairly often, attempting to keep them straight. It’s not the grandchildren who confuse us, it’s the next generation.

 On Sunday we will be celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of Dom Bernard’s Ordination, with a brunch in the family Guest House. His cousin and our good friend Dr Glenn is hosting the festivities and providing a lovely display for the sanctuary. Our Sunday congregation has been invited, We hope to salute the jubilarian with hearts full of gratitude for those fifty dedicated years.

 28 November. We are having a Very Gray Afternoon. A few drops of rain actually spat at my window. I think there are ten leaves clinging to the radiant flowering crab.

 The Mass for the First Sunday of Advent was “enhanced”, as Fr Bernard put it, by a gorgeous yellow floral arrangement in the sanctuary, white vestments with a lavish colored stole, and the addition of a second set of prayers—those for a priest on the anniversary of his ordination. I wonder how many congregations have fallen in love with Fr Bernard in the course of those fifty years. Ours certainly has.

 The family Guest house was full, as Vic and Dr Glenn hosted the table. Grasslands, the local provider for Dr Glenn’s festivities, had done itself proud, and a great time was had by all. We had a presentation: Esther was inspired to work a pencil portrait of Dom Bernard. It is a likeness to the life, and during the course of the celebration we drew back its veil for admiration. Glenn immediately asked the location of a framer’s.

 Now we are immersed in an afternoon of reflection, beginning the most poignant of liturgical seasons. Last evening the first candle of the Advent Wreath was lit, to the accompaniment of a prayer to the prophet Isaiah. Each of this year’s candles will have its prophetic patrons.

The sun has come out of course, and the crab tree’s branches, which got a little wet ten minutes ago, are all aglitter. The remaining leaves on the cottonwood beyond the Altar Bread Building are ditto, although they have the added attraction of a light misty aura and a backdrop of still-gray sky.

 Sun and gloom are having quite a battle out there.

 We are expecting Fr Eddie Fronske for his week of retreat. He is a family friend, a Franciscan who administers three parishes on the Apache reservation at Whiteriver, AZ. It is always a tremendous relief for us when he can get away for a rest.

 Have a wonderful Advent!

November 2004

 Well, it is almost Thanksgiving, and most of our yellow trees have dropped their leaves or been stripped of them by our enthusiastic local winds. Believe me, we have WINDS. A beloved little sister-retreatant was knocked down last year. She is such a good sport, but our hearts were in our mouths just thinking of it.

 The nice thing about our deciduous trees is that they are each one a picture in themselves. Not like New England where you have the full palette all at once, and the world becomes wholly glorious. Here, you have individual Arizona Walnuts or cottonwoods or a few exotic immigrants standing alone in all their yellowness, with the sun turning the leaves to liquid gold. You stop and gaze at one tree at a time, because there are so few. 

What was I doing at the Beatification of Blessed Cassant? We do not, of course, hop up and take off for Rome from southern Arizona at the first whiff of something interesting. The Order has been holding seminars for “recently elected” superiors, and the one this year was for English-speakers. If you don’t speak Spanish or French, you were included. Some really did have to struggle or avail themselves of translation. And even those whose first language is English had to listen carefully to get everything through the accents.

 But it was a marvelous experience.

 We had Asians—Japanese, Korean, and Chinese monastics. We had Africans from our various houses there, Americans, English, Irish, a Scot with an Italian name. There are many Italians in Scotland, I am told. The cultural mix was a great blessing. The opportunity to be with one’s friends and make new ones was also great. Email is wonderful, but it has its limitations.

 Anyone could have profited from the conferences. The Abbot General spoke on spiritual  accompaniment, Dom Francis Kline on formation. Dom Peter McCarthy on the abbatial ministry, and Dom Armand and Mother Gail on separation from the Order. Dom Armand gave some profound stuff on temporal administration. Dom Timothy and the Abbot General spoke about the current situation of the Order. We went to the generalate,  a walk down the road from our meeting place, the abbey of Tre Fontane) and met with the Abbot General's Council, being served into the bargain with a nice lunch.

 I could not complain about want of opportunity to walk. It seemed that exercise was rather concentrated rather than spread across the three weeks, but that was OK. I have memories of walking down Via Laurentina in the shade of lovely trees. I have no idea how those trees flourish in such a traffic-dominated city (read fumes). They must have a special charism. You peek to the side as you go, and behold!-- beautiful houses behind iron fences, with the most luxuriantly green grass you can imagine. I do not see green grass very often.

 We patronized a near-by gas station for Pizza. Italian pizza is thin and crunchy. At least Roman pizza. Since Mother Rosemary of Tautra is a graduate of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, she and I went to visit Trinita Dei Monte and paid a visit to the image of Mater Admirabilis. It was pizza that day from one of those little street-side stalls. Excellent and inexpensive. In case you don’t know it, my friends, the dollar has sunk way below the euro, and looks to be going lower.

THE BEATIFICATION

I didn’t look forward to it. That has to be said at the beginning. It was to be a day of getting somewhere and sitting somewhere and partaking of a long ceremony. I am not much for ceremony. I am very weak on ceremony. However, you had to think that this day was not a day for individual piques. It was a day to slip quietly into the embrace of the entire Order, and into the heritage of this little spiritual giant, and say thanks. We were privileged to be there.

 PROLOGUE

 We began as usual with Lauds recited at 6:30 in Tre Fontane’s Chapter Room. Of course, “beginning” might be counted from breakfast at 5:30, and if you were provident, you took enough bread and cheese to sustain a long morning. At supper the night before, we had been issued little silk scarves, white with red “Diocese of Toulouse” printed on them. What were these? Damien thought they were napkins for wiping the tables, and went to work with his. Wiro pointed out to us that Fr Cassant’s monastery of Desert is in that diocese. So we should wear them the next day, expressing our union with the universal Church via the diocese of Toulouse.

 WE ARRIVE

 The Beatification was scheduled for 10:00, but we were to meet our bus at 7:30. It was a large and comfortable bus, and well populated by us, and by some more Cistercians who had been picked up at another spot. I sat next to a monk from Viaceli who didn’t speak English. It was awkward and I have come to the conclusion that if you were dropped into a place in which no one knew your language, YOU WOULD LEARN. You would not be ashamed that your French was barely understandable, or that instead of complete sentences and proper verb tenses and exact nouns you were stammering baby talk. You would need to talk and you WOULD. Unfortunately, I have not been so dropped for long enough to test this theory.

 I admire so much the monks and nuns who are speaking a second language slowly and carefully and who struggle with comprehension, stumbling over the various accents that can turn the tongue you learned in school into a dark and bewildering jungle.

 Our bus progressed through an urban residential district, which means apartment house after apartment house, each little apartment with its own balcony, crammed with greenery, and sometimes the wash on a line. Everything was crowded, neat and warmly colored—really lovely. No battleship gray concrete block, but more in the line of terra cotta, beige, and blush. Black after block of little streets off the main street, on all of which snuggled more apartment complexes.

Finally we reached the section of Rome whose signs bear arrows indicating the way to San Pietro. Shortly after our first glimpse of the dome, we traveled along the walls of the Vatican Museum and slid into the underground docking station for our bus. We proceeded then to the first of our hikes. We were to do a lot of hiking, which was a benefit on the score of having been deprived, for a week, of one’s daily walk, and less of a benefit on the score of its all coming in one day.

Up a staircase, and down a staircase and around this and that, and how in God’s name were we to find our way back to the bus at the end of the day? Stay together, don’t let yourself get separated by the crowds. Hold on to one another. Oops, there goes one of us elbowing her way through, and don’t lose her or you’ll be sorry. She must have experience with Roman crowds.

Just before we reached St Peter’s, a little band (a music band, friends!) dressed in blue and gold marched up the street beside us thumping its drums and clicking its heels on the cobbles in time to the beat. They carried banners as large as their obvious enthusiasm. “Are they part of the ceremony?” I asked Jacqui, who has been attached to the generalate and was a major source of information on things Roman. “Oh yes, they love that kind of thing.” This group of pilgrims wore a yellow scarf and had come from Malaysia in honor of Fr Pierre Vigne, a missionary and one of the day’s beati.

 SAINT PETERS

 The moment of emergence into St Peter’s Square zapped my lack of enthusiasm and turned me into a humbled participant in this wondrous moment. Wow. I had been to St Peter’s two years ago, and was rather too blasé about a new acquaintance with this great monument to Renaissance architecture. But oh my. St Peter’s Square, Bernini and all, is a colossal stage setting. Talk about drama. And this was a Big Day, a day on which to realize and show off all its potential.

 Beyond the fountain, the space within barriers was crammed with chairs. There were more chairs beyond that enclosure toward the front. And that is where we would sit. Please to situate yourself in imagination facing the great façade. You are standing or moving or being pushed along the level of the square itself. Closer to the church, you are looking at a series of steps up to the great portico, with a ramp to the right for you-will-see-what later on. A kind of wooden canopy shelters an altar on the floor of the portico. On either side of this, two more banks of chairs are ranged. (Who gets these, you wonder.) On your right and high up, picture a kind of balcony, which will later be crammed with people overlooking the ceremony.

 Most of the chairs are empty as we arrive and make our slow way through security, clinging hard to our shrimp-colored invitations. Jacqui keeps meeting people she knows from her Roman days. Oh God, we can’t lose Jacqui.

 Our places will be in the section just before the steps up to the platform, and the nuns from our group find seats together about four rows back. Well, here we are, about to be sitting almost in the Pope’s lap. Realize that it is about eight o’clock and we will be waiting until ten. I had brought a book, but there was no need of it. There was more than enough to look at. Each of the groups attending for a particular beatus wore a different colored scarf—five colors. We had some very nice Austrians before and behind us, (in green scarves) coming to honor Emperor Charles of Austria-Hungary, who died in 1922. I bet to myself that there must be political overtones to this beatification, and later find out that there are. But I’m sure he was holy all the same. And after all, he must have performed a miracle.

 The sky is a glorious dark blue, and interesting people keep arriving. Pigeons fly over. Every church square has its pigeons. Fortunately, there is a little breeze as the day grows warmer. I am sorry I did not bring my hat to Rome, but settle on parking a canvas tote on my head, and hope that I will not be on TV. (I have an umbrella, but figure that putting it up would be unkind to the people behind me.) All sorts of black-clothed men are walking around, some of them security people, and some of them journalists with cameras of various sorts. You can tell the security people because they do not kneel ever and keep facing in the same direction. They are not interested in the ceremony but in preventing an insurrection or an assassination.

 The section of chairs beside the altar begins to fill with black-clad men and women. They are obviously dignitaries and must have come for the emperor. Later the nice Austrians behind us tell us that half of them are government and the rest Hapsburgs. The bank of chairs on the opposite side of the altar is filling also with what is probably lesser Austrian dignitaries. They all come through the church, not through the crowd as we had.

Above the altar, on the façade of the church, five large portraits have been set against rather worn-looking tapestries. These are the traditional portraits of the beati, and right now, they are covered with pale blue silk hangings.

 A small group of Austrians in native costume and antique military uniforms sit below the dignitaries. Another, like group will come marching in soon and sit opposite these. The only trouble with this is that with such extreme costuming, they do look a bit as if they will burst into Sigmund Romberg any minute. Beyond the crowd at the left, about a dozen Austrians in costume ride horses up to form an honor guard. They leave during the Mass, but will return at the end. Two women equestriennes are among them.

 Contingents of Cistercians from Italian houses arrive and Jacqui recognizes her friends. We wave. Then we see Dom Emmanuel Coutant. There are seats for cardinals in the front row up on the left side of the altar, and several arrive. Our beati of today are, in addition to Fr Cassant, Sister Maria Ludovica dei Angelis, who died in 1962, Anne Katherine Emmerich, the stigmatic, Pierre Vigne, the missionary, and Emperor Charles. Anne Katherine and Fr. Vigne died in the 19^th century, and the rest are contemporary.

Finally the concelebrants file in from behind the altar—in green vestments because it is Sunday. Bernardo is one of them. I’m sure the abbot of Desert must be also, but I do not know him. Several Swiss Guards arrive to decorate the scene as they take up unmoving positions. I’m sure Michelangelo was not joking when he designed their uniforms, because they are part of the drama, and now that the Sistine murals have been cleaned, we know that Michelangelo had a dramatic sense of color. In addition to spears, they have swords in their belts. What on earth good this weaponry would now be I can’t imagine, and when has a Swiss Guard defended the Pope from contemporary attack weapons. However, they are pretty.

One of the guards seems to be new at the job, since a master of ceremonies is giving him instructions. The point of course is that when the Swiss Guards come, you know the Pope is near at hand. They are all very thin and you hope they get enough to eat. From what I hear, the life of a Swiss Guard is rather austere. They must be glad to get back to Switzerland when their tour of duty is over.

THE HOLY FATHER

 Five representatives of the beati come to the mike and read off the account of their person-to-be-honored. Applause from the various groups as their man or woman is announced. The dignitaries do not cheer. They are dignitaries, after all.

 When the readings are completed, we hear cheers and applause from the end of the plaza. The pope is coming along the passageway which divides the crows in half. He is seated on his chair which has been secured to a white open car driven by security men. Two of them—in black inevitably--are in the front seat, and I seem to remember a monsignor behind him. Even though you have seen pictures of the Holy Father, his appearance comes as a shock. He is slumped and almost inert. Disease has diminished almost beyond recognition one of the most vigorous men of the past century.

The applause is polite but not overwhelming. I remember the storm of recognition that greeted him in Boston in his younger days. There we were in the pouring rain, screaming our heads off. There is no comparison this time. The car moves slowly up the ramp and around to the back of the altar, whence he appears again on his chair. They have made efficient arrangements for his infirmity, since the chair on which he is rolled to the front of the altar is the same in which he has sat during his ride. It is not an obvious wheel chair, but a dignified and simple chair on wheels, operated, not by the patient, but by his attendants. And they can transfer chair and all, without requiring that he be moved from one chair to another.

He is immediately assisted by four priests in cassock and surplice, who set stools beside him for a couple of prelates, and place a reading table across the arms of his chair. The impression given is just a little jarring. One of us said afterwards that it is painful to watch him. What I imagine to be the Sistine Choir sings an anthem, and we proceed to the ceremony of beatification.

THE CEREMONY BEGINS

 The five postulators, each with the bishop of the diocese from which their particular beatus comes, present the request for beatification with a short account of the person’s life and virtues. This is Sr. Augusta’s first completed case, and she has had a hard time becoming established, since the Holy See was not happy to have a woman postulator. They did not know whom they were dealing with however, and she is still doing the work with great skill and determination. The postulator for Emperor Charles seems from his habit to be something like an Augustinian and he has two bishops of course—one from Austria and one from Hungary. He has with him also a man in black who might be of the royal family, since he gets a special blessing at one point.

 The Holy Father’s speech is very slurred, and deliberate from a manifest breathing difficulty. A horrible thought: does Parkinson’s eventually choke off your breath until you smother to death? He gives the formal declaration of beatification, and the blue veils on the portraits are swiftly and quietly drawn up, There they are—Sister Ludovica, Fr Cassant, Fr Vigne, Anne Katherine, and Emperor Charles. Every time I look up at Fr Cassant, I get tickled. Here he is, this wonderful little nobody, this dumb guy who practically couldn’t make it to the priesthood, the kind who would be so scorned or patronized by the intellectuals of the world, this saint of the ordinary, up on the façade of St Peters with the Emperor of Austria, two missionaries, and a stigmatic.

THE RELICS, ETC

 I can’t remember how many little processions emanated from behind the altar, regrouped and marched up to the stage. (“Stage”--I am taking this seriously as drama!) This time, representatives of each beatus carried a relic up to the stand which I had originally taken as the ambo. It was composed to two gold columns and a piece across the top, and may have been some hold-over from the 15^th century. This is an environment in which you have ancient and beautiful pieces mingled with the most atrocious kitch, and it’s a bit disconcerting. The last persons in that procession bore flowers and candles to the stand.

 The canopy over the altar, by the way, is not elaborate or expensive-looking. It serves its utilitarian purpose.

 The last part of the beatification ceremony saw the five postulators with their bishops again emerging from behind the altar and reverencing the Pope. Then he was wheeled to the side and faced the altar for Mass.

 THE MASS

 I imagine the readings were of the Sunday, but since they were done in the various languages of the beati, I cannot swear to anything. I have a note that the responsorial psalm was done by a Cistercian, and that is probably accurate, since I kept taking notes all the way through. The Pope leaned his head in one or both hands throughout. Wiro mentioned to me later that the disease has robbed his face of expression. He can’t smile, and so he looks not only depleted but terribly detached.

 A young, red-headed priest proclaimed the Gospel, in which language I can’t remember. He looked nervous. The homily was a joint affair, with mention of each of the beati and a few words on each end by the Holy Father. There was a time at these things when the Pope himself would eulogize the newly beatified at some length, and you would read it in L’Osservatore Romano, but that time has been swallowed up in Parkinson’s. Gail whispered that English seemed to be the forgotten language. German, French, and Italian covered the five we were celebrating. It is time for an English-speaking saint. Maybe Fr Tansy was that, although the Ibo must have their own language.

Chinwe contributed the only English of the day as she participated in the Prayer of the Faithful, and Josepha took part in the Offering of the Gifts. I kept looking up at Fr Cassant’s picture and smiling. If he had dreamed in his discouragement that his image would be hanging on the façade of St Peters, how he would have laughed. It also occurred to me that he is a fine patron for our Order’s precarious houses. What else was he, all his life? He reminds me too of Fr Paul Heide of Azul, who had to wait so long for the priesthood because of his difficulty with the studies, and whose spiritual simplicity and depth are so like Fr Joseph’s.

 A multitude of Priests (including some of our own), processed out to give Communion, which was managed surprisingly well, One of our priests told me later that many did not receive, and he was left with hosts left over. The Austrian horses clopped back into the side aisle, and the last prayer was said in three languages, one of which was Hungarian.

 AFTER THE MASS

 At the last, the Hapsburgs from the right side of the altar came up to reverence the Pope. Queen Fabiola of the Belgians was among them in her white dress and mantilla. Queens of Catholic countries have the privilege of dressing in white in the presence of the Pope. I think she must have Hapsburg connections—she is Spanish. Blessed Carlo’s oldest son is still alive, and he came last. Carlo never abdicated. He was exiled by the government, so Otto could be considered emperor in exile, I imagine. The nice Austrian behind us said Otto is 91. I remember reading in America many years ago that there was question of his being reinstated, but in a referendum, the Austrians turned down the prospect. The beatification seems to have energized an existing emotional polarization.

Blessed Carlo had eight children, so the descendents are numerous. It must be an uniquely thrilling experience to witness the beatification of your father or uncle or grandfather. I do hope that King Bauduin of the Belgians will be canonized during the lifetime of his wife. Gail said she should be canonized right now.

 After that, the Pope was re-settled in his car, which drove off down the middle aisle, and around the side in place of the horses. More applause, but not terribly loud. I saw several Ladies of Malta minding their charges who sat in wheelchairs along the middle aisle.

 I can’t say that we fought our way out of St Peter’s Square, but there were an awful lot of people, and we hung onto each others’ belts or hands for awhile. Once free of the other People of God, we went hiking off in search of our lunch, and after disposing of it, found our way back , wonderfully, to the bus station, where we waited for our chartered vehicle to arrive. Home at last.

NEXT DAY

Next evening, we had a Mass of Thanksgiving at Tre Fontane. Cardinal Echeveray was principal concelebrant, and the French took over. After all, Blessed Cassant is a French saint, so they got to add another to the long roster of French holy people. The Cardinal was archbishop of Marseilles and head of the Pontifical Office of Peace and Justice, and has a very kind face. The Bishop of Toulouse assisted, and another empurpled cleric whom I didn’t know.

 A celebratory dinner had been arranged for us at the nearby guest house—with real tablecloths, lamps in the darkness and bountiful Italian dishes. The pilgrims from Toulouse attended, and the ambassador to France. So ended a beautiful celebration.

22 September 2004

 We have participated in the second of our ventures into the Santa Cruz County Fair. Pam and Cybele set up what has become our usual booth, with the monastic products we offer for sale. It’s nice if people appreciate and purchase them, but that is not our principal reason for going. We really take up our stand in that booth so that our friends and neighbors will realize how deeply we feel ourselves embedded in this place and tied to its wonderful people.

 You realize how needed this is, this once-a-year statement of love, when you are giving directions to people for whom we are an unusual presence: “Where are you, sister?” “Well, you turn off 83 at the small sign for Gardner Canyon Road—it’s a very primitive road—and turn right at the sign for Fish Canyon, and go up some more bumpy road to a fork at which you can see the abbey. Go on up to the front door of the monastery and ring the bell. The portress will come.”

 This year’s crowd was less abundant than usual, due to Javier. Javier came up from the south and turned the sky black and the wind cold. We got—imagine—3/10^th of an inch of rain out of him. But the unpleasant weather was enough to dampen general enthusiasm for the Fair.

We saw several policemen in black pants, white short-sleeved shirts, and straw Stetsons, with lots of artillery on their belts. Since the usual force at the Fair consists of under-sheriffs, we wondered who these new people were. They turned out to be Arizona Rangers. When I asked one of them how they were connected to the usual organs of law enforcement, he told me they were directly under the governor, and were sent to various places in the state as need arose.

 There is something not only exotic but also oriental in the beauty of a Mexican woman. The skin color is luminous, the eyes slightly Asian. And the little ones are adorable. It is so much fun to watch the young families, many of whom come up from Nogales, which is also in Santa Cruz County. Nogales is like an old European town, with streets all higgely-piggely around sharp hills. On our side of the barrier is US Nogales, and on the other, Sonoran Nogales.

 Bands played country western music rather constantly. One little group of four was terrific, and the rest just as good. Jim, who manages the entertainment end of the Fair and also plays guitar, did a wonderful job of enlisting first-class talent. Jim is our local nurseryman, and always gives me a jolt because of his resemblance to Robert Duval.

You should have seen the quilts. I was glad I was not a judge of quilts. They were spectacular. I know that had I been a judge, my objectivity would have surrendered to my passion for a certain black and white print with red interlacing stripes that didn’t get a prize. Or I would have been so bewildered that I’d give everyone first prize.

It seems absolutely beyond question that every man should wear his straw Stetson. Inside and out.

 Every year the Gray Hawk Nature Center puts up its display in the far corner of Pioneer Hall, near the door. The first day of the Fair is a Field Day for schools. And the Nature Center is very popular, since they give an education in reptiles, let the kids handle harmless snakes, and warn them about touching any they find in the wild. They also include a grisly photo of a hand bitten by a rattler.

They set up a series of glass display cages, marked with the name of the particular reptile within and whether it is harmless of venomous. You are struck by the beauty of the reptiles. Maybe God made them so gorgeous because he knew they were going to be unpopular. Three different varieties of rattler coexist in one display cage, and seem quite at home with each other. There is also a sidewinder. The number of harmless snakes far outnumbers the venomous ones. They have also a Gila Monster, which is protected. You cannot keep one in captivity without permission—which they have.

Vic achieved a great feat of courage. She marched over and made herself handle a snake. They even draped it around her neck. She was so proud of overcoming her fear. We have a picture to prove it.

 On the ride back, I wondered aloud how intelligent snakes were, and whether they would make good pets. “No, Miri,” said my companions, almost in unison. “No, you cannot have a snake.” “I was only wondering…”

 We have been urged to invite the Gray Hawk to give a demonstration here. Perhaps we should go there and be educated. They must have more animals than the ones they bring in big white plastic pails to the Fair.

 One man brought a Chicken that, every six weeks, lays a 3 ½ ounce egg. The question was, “What is inside this huge egg?” Seven yolks? The egg was broken on the last afternoon: Inside were a regular white and yolk, plus another whole egg, shell and all. The poor chicken. It wasn’t very big to produce such a prodigy. The TV people intended to come to the Fair if the Chicken could lay its egg “on demand”. Wally, its owner was incensed. On demand, indeed.

 News note. We have been more or less forced to move to Voice Mail. Our poor old tape machine kept breaking down. You know: “Please call me back at 520...” Or “I need to cancel my retreat. My name is…” The portresses had a demonstration this morning. Of course it costs something—what doesn’t?—but at least we will get all the calls.

 Gabe has finished cutting the grass for this year—a magnificent job. She did run into a wire fence at one point but is now recovered from her bruises. Somebody wrecked our van’s bumper in the Costco parking lot and went off without so much as a by-your-leave.

 We expect the architect the day after I get back from a seminar in Rome. He is anxious to get started. We have enough money to go ahead on two of the phases of our plan, and will improvise on the rest for now. Please pray that my trip is not disarranged by any hurricanes on the east coast. It seems almost selfish to mention “disarrangement” after so many people are dealing with such immense devastation. Our poor brothers and sisters in Florida and the Gulf Coast.

 5 September 2004

What happens after a funeral? Is it over, or does it rest in the heart asking questions, laying its hands on the hurt and helping to carry it away into a darkness that is inextricably mingled with light?

 To be a monastery in a mission diocese is to have a peculiar privilege. We are not a parish. The parish to which Sonoita belongs is St Theresa’s in Patagonia. Once so far, the car of our Sunday priest suddenly broke down, and some of us went over to St Theresa’s for Saturday evening Mass. The rest joined the congregation at the Sonoita firehouse, served by St Theresa’s on Sunday. The Dominican sisters in charge of the parish are our friends, their priest comes up from Nogales for Masses.

 So in a way we have our own local church, considered a chapel of St Theresa’s. Our friends come to Mass Sunday after Sunday, like the singing and the monastic feel of our church, and love the sisters as we love them.

 When Dr Bill Scott received his terminal diagnosis a few weeks ago, the medical people offered him the medical alternatives. He said, “I have a better idea. I’m going home.”

 So Bill went softly from one home to another. In the incredibly beautiful house which their son had built for him and his wife Cary, Bill went through the door of what we call death, into another home, the one of which their own had been a symbol, an image of the eternal, a place built of love and sensitivity to the beauty God has put into that magical canyon. Years ago, they had lived in a trailer on the property while they and he had worked together to put together a psalm in stone and wood and glass. “Can you feel the love in it?” Cary would ask when it was done, anxious for its warm beauty to convey the human truth within and beyond mortar and tile, beyond the craftsmanship that embraces the outer world in an inner vision.

 In this new time of waiting, we and then Jeri Brink, both hospice nurse and Eucharistic Minister, brought him the Sacraments. Jeri brought to Cary as well the understanding of a woman of faith widowed herself not long ago. The family came, the friends came, until one morning in the dark, Bill went quietly through that door where light itself was waiting for him. It was Saturday the 28^th of August.

 He had said, “You can plan my funeral for Labor Day.” He knew. On Sunday, the Sisters and Cary and two of their daughters planned it, if not for Labor Day, then for the Saturday before.

What does a funeral tell you?

 It assures you that a human life is forever, that nothing of its history has fallen by the path, that all of it has been gathered in and cherished, that now it reveals its eternal inner core as never before.

 It touches the tears and heart-break of leave-taking with sacramental power. Like the stream flowing from the rocks in Gardner Canyon, it evokes the water of Baptism, the water of birth, of grief, of primeval chaos tamed and flowing from the heart of Christ, from hearts bound into a love that insists that death is birth and life will never cease.

 Cary planned that each member of the family would carry a rose to the table before the altar that held the precious ashes and a photo of Bill. Mel accompanied the presentation of roses with harp music, and she and Pam performed an instrumental setting of the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria for the Offertory, as family members brought up the gifts.

 Our dear Father Carscallen offered the Mass with his usual gentleness and sense of faith. He has become a beloved member of our family.

 Cary also asked that the Our Father be sung as a solo by Vicki. Vic and Melody practiced valiantly to learn Malotte’s setting, and the familiar melody fairly stopped our breath. We used Easter season texts for the Mass proper, and after Mass, the Sisters who could not attend the reception came to greet Cary with hugs and condolences. The rest of the congregation set off down the dusty road to the Scotts, where people shared remembrances. One by one, often in choked voices, the stories tumbled out.

 They will never forget. Bill’s was not only a life well-lived. It is a life that remains and deepens with each moment. It is an abiding presence. Wrapped in God, this beautiful life accompanies us in its fullness, as those by whom he was so loved reach out to him in this new and demanding form--in himself as Godly mystery, in the sacred depths of their own hearts.

 Bill dealt in birth, not only as an obstetrician, but as a whole human presence to the needs and growth of the world he touched. He was smile, welcome, comfort, enjoyment, understanding, adventure, teacher, fun. He and Cary were the couple whose love and beauty made you happy. You smiled almost involuntarily to see such a bonding, such a delight in each other.

 The roses that rested by his little casket are standing beside our altar today, flaming red except for Cary’s white one. And white is all colors.

 Cary has a lovely sense of style. She always looks beautiful, and I noticed that although she often wears black, she did not clothe herself in total black for the funeral. A black jersey over a chiffon print skirt of—yes, black—but also colors in the warm range of orange and toast and gold.  Her dress celebrated both her grief and her proclamation of hope.

31 August 2004

 It is hot again. How did that happen?

 One morning we got a flash storm. They don’t last long, but they are very enthusiastic while they are on. I rushed over from AB to pull the plug on my computer, and there, on the railing to the porch outside my window sat three very unhappy swallows. One was preening its wet feathers, and all of them were slumped in dreary misery. I thought they might be young ones for whom rain was a new experience.

 Flight school has been in session for a few days. The new candidates cling to walls and outcroppings and tops of columns until the older generation comes along to boot them off. Sometimes I go out and help the cause myself. “Go on, swallow, you can do it!” They certainly can. The air is thick with swallows.

 A road runner just scooted by.

 The other day I almost stepped on the most amazing creature—a lizard the exact color of the concrete walk it was sitting on. Its body was about a quarter of an inch long, with a tail the same length. It froze. I spoke to it of course, but it did not warm up socially. When I went back to check, it was gone.

While waiting at the dentist’s for my ride—my sisters had another appointment—I finished a small fund-raising brochure for our renovation. There you sit, laptop on lap, on a concrete bench outside the office. The dental office’s degree of air-conditioning is a bit much for me. The question now is where to send the brochure, once it is printed.

Maybe I will put it on our website also, so you can enjoy it. I hope you will enjoy it, that is. And pray for the last amount to come in.

 Have you noticed the glorious night sky? I guess you aren’t up at four, but maybe you can enjoy the other end of the night. Venus has hung there like a little moon for ever so long. At one point, a genuine crescent moon joined it for a few days, and wow! Right now we are getting a three-quarter moon on the other side of the sky, and its brightness casts sharp dark shadows along the path.

 Last night, most of the sky was cloud-covered, but Venus stuck her bright head out anyway.

For the last two months, we’ve had the privilege of a chaplain the rest of our sisters envy us—the former Abbot General, Fr Ambrose Southey. He is practically transparent to Christ. We have his abbot’s permission to welcome him another year for two spring months. What a beautiful gift.

There goes a deer with her fawn. We have also encountered those Colorado Toads. They dinner-plate size, and practically prehistoric. They must have missed out on evolution somehow. You never saw anything so shapeless. And they are poisonous to boot. I like almost anything in the animal line, but Colorado Toads exceed the boundary of my affections.

 3 August 2004

 There are times when, regardless of what you have to do, restructuring your quarters has to come first. After a certain point, a cluttered environment makes impossible an attack on those piles of what-has-to-be-done. You stand there or sit there, the disgruntled prisoner of lassitude. Therefore, this morning, I switched desks and rearranged a few piles of mail. The only thing wrong with the original desk was a drawer whose front panel would never stay attached. After a few years of its coming loose in your hand when you try to open the drawer, this gets to you.

 We are expecting a storm. If I heard correctly, it is coming from Texas, though our storms (when we get them) always come from the west. Some things in life are too mysterious to quarrel with. (Sigh--it did not come.)

 If you want to distinguish a bunny from a rock, look for the ears, especially when the sun is shining through them and they look like small fireworks in action. Of course, if the rabbit is trying to convince you it is a rock, this is not a sure method. The ears will be laid back, and the whole rabbit persona will have changed.

 This morning as I was heading for the door next to the refectory, behold, a bunny sitting right before the screen door, not at all disturbed by my imminent arrival. “Look, bunny, I have to get out.” Eventually it moved about a yard to the right, and continued with its breakfast. As I returned, there it was, only a few more feet away, nestled into the cool soil behind the bushes. Pam says, “It’s their house. We are only tolerated.”

 Wouldn’t you know, our TRUCK got to the state of, “If we have to spend any more money on repairs, it would be cheaper to get a new vehicle.” That might be slightly unfair, because all it needed was a new engine, and someone who makes engines probably bought it. The dealer was in awe that Gabe could have driven it in at all. Anyway, it just so happened that a nice white 2003 Dodge had been turned in, and now we have a replacement, one to which we are all, but especially a few of us, ecstatically attached.

 It is so high that a small stool had to be purchased to make entry possible for the shorter of us. And no one can attempt the climb in a narrow skirt.

 We have had a few inches of rain (like four), and the grass, which gets hysterical at the mere suggestion of moisture, has turned green. Unfortunately, a few inches are hardly adequate to the need, and fires are still burning in several areas of the state. Let alone California.

 We were able to celebrate the entrance into eternal life of the mother of our friend Geri. It was a lovely requiem Mass, and almost all her family could be present, including several absolutely darling children. Our chapel might be called user-friendly. It is small, white, and wonderfully simple, with a spectacular view of mountains and foothills through the front windows.

 12 July 2004

 We have just had one and one-half minutes of loud rain. There is a genuine puddle in the back yard, into which a few desultory drops are dropping. The mountains are getting it. Tucson is probably getting it. Why does it rain in Tucson? Every year this happens and it seems so unfair.

 The brethren of our monastery of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia, have recently elected a new abbot, Francis Michael Stiteler. Now, Georgia is not next door, but Francis Michael is a very special friend, and there was no question about whether I would attend. I only wished we all could go, though that would have strained a very large guest list.

 I left from here Saturday morning at four AM, and returned Monday at about 11AM. The best part was being welcomed back by the sisters when I hadn’t expected anyone even to know I was gone.

I enjoy Tucson International. It is homey and—although growing by leaps and bounds—still small enough to feel confident about. Now Atlanta Airport is a different kettle of people. It must be one of the largest, if not the largest airport in the world. I thought I had it more of less down pat. You take that train with the computerized voice from where you land, and you go to the entrance, and there you meet the people who are picking you up. Simple, right?

 We came in to B35—the last gate on the B Concourse, and from there you hike. But where to?  Where-is-the-train, where-is-the-train, where-is-the-train? I had forgotten about levels. The train is on the lower level. B Concourse splits in the middle into a kind of indoor mall, and gives onto a set of escalators. If you don’t take the escalator, you are faced with Gates B18 to B1, and that didn’t offer much in the way of a future, so I took the escalator even though I didn’t need the baggage check, and there downstairs was the train. I asked a lovely official woman how to get out of the airport, and she pointed to the train and told me to go three, no five stops ahead.

 Which left me looking for the CLOCK under which I was to meet my unknown pickers-up. Thank God I was totally conspicuous in a veil and a very un-summery navy jumper. The lovely couple who had come for me are friends and members of the monastery’s advisory board. We had a beautiful ride to the abbey. (Georgia is green, folks!) Only a few hours later did I begin to wonder how I was going to get back and out of Atlanta.

 I have been several times to Conyers and am at home there. After parking my little duffle, I went looking for friends. A group of us wound up at the family guest house to meet Francis Michael’s darling father and his sisters. I think Mr. Stiteler is 91, and delightfully sweet and spunky. It must be very unusual for an abbot or abbess to have a parent present for their Abbatial Blessing. It was obvious that Francis Michael could not have been happier at his presence. And the rest of us fell totally in love with him.

 A couple of the guests had brought their Yorkshire terrier, whose name is Maxine. Maxine was not enjoying the heat and humidity, but was the kind of pet who, as my father used to say, would lead the thief to the silverware. When she was not licking fingers and faces, and wriggling all over with the thrill of being stroked, she flopped onto the floor and pretended to be a rug.

 The Ceremony of Blessing was scheduled for eleven on Sunday morning, the Solemnity of St Benedict. They had sent out 14000 invitations, and received 600 acceptances and 300 regrets, leaving 500 questions marks. Chairs were set up for 650. When I arrived, my sisters (Mother Marion of Crozet, and Sisters Carol of Mississippi and Elizabeth of Wrentham) were across the church and beckoned. The four of us were seated in the sanctuary, at the end of the seating for priests. It was a very advantageous position.

 Francis Michael’s family was seated in the first row before the sanctuary.

 All the priests had been seated with the exception of those who were to enter in the Procession, and we were waiting, when up the aisle marched about 14 Knights of Columbus, in full regalia--ostrich-plumed cocked hats, tuxedos, capes, and swords. They stopped and turned to form a guard of honor, through which the cross-bearer and the principal celebrants advanced toward the altar.

 First came the two previous abbots—Dom Bernard Johnson and Dom Basil Pennington, both in simple mitres, then the bishop of Savannah in his simple mitre, Francis Michael bare-headed, and in the place of greatest dignity, the Archbishop of Atlanta, in a precious mitre. Their vestments were in exquisite taste---probably Holy Rood Guild--white with an emblem of the Holy Spirit front and back.

 Monks of the monastery gave the first two readings, and a deacon from Awhum in Nigeria proclaimed the Gospel. The Blessing took place after the Archbishop’s homily. Three monks brought out the archbishop’s faldstool and a couple of small benches for the former abbots. I loved it when ordinary monks joined the ceremonies, their simple habits contrasting with the rather lavish vestments, and so inserting the everydayness of monastic life into a ceremonial occasion.

 After an introduction, Francis Michael prostrated during a long litany of the saints, which included the patrons of each of the brethren of the abbey, and then received the formal Blessing of an Abbot. The archbishop conferred the abbatial insignia, and Francis Michael looked great as he turned to face the congregation, taller by the height of the simple mitre, and holding the gorgeously carved wooden crozier.

 He gave the Kiss of Peace to the concelebrants, each of his brethren, his father and family and us sisters. The most moving part was his embrace of the brethren in wheelchairs. These are they who have borne the burden of the day and its heat, and now were sharing the wounds of Christ in those of age and illness. He has enormous concern for them.

 At the Elevation, three of the Knights knelt on the Sanctuary steps, their swords held hilt upwards in the sign of the cross. Francis Michael gave a short talk after the Mass, and was roundly clapped. We sisters got to join the Recessional, walking to a tremendously enthusiastic rendition of the Ode to Joy. When we arrived at the sacristy, the organist turned out to be, of course, Francis Kline.

 A beaming Francis Michael kept his arm around his father for picture after picture, as guests milled about and then found their way to the food. The abbey’s Associates had outdone themselves in preparing and setting up the luncheon. Tables and chairs filled the cloisters where guests chatted and enjoyed the monks’ grace-filled hospitality.

 Brother Augustine (whohad expertely performed his jobs as under master of ceremonies and general helpful person) found a place in the Chapter Room for the Cistercian nuns and himself, so we had a bit of space and conversation to ourselves. And a slightly less warm environment.

 Several of us had fairly early planes the next day. Brother Callistus took two of us on a wonderfully conversational ride to the airport, and I firmly trust Fr John made his plane because it was not a sure thing at the time he whipped off to find it. I was also glad that mine was at almost nine. Because getting OUT of Atlanta was far harder than getting in. The airport was packed beyond description. When I got to the little computer that checks you in, it would not acknowledge my ticket—something wrong here? So I squeezed into line at the desk and waited some more.

 Then life became a blur of, “All gates down THERE…” and the crush of security which, because of the numbers of people going through, took three quarters of an hour. They have set up a system by which you snake round and round through barriers for what seems like hours. This is to keep the line from stretching out straight to Savannah. You finally get to the screening, take off your shoes if they have buckles, and pass through to the train and good old Concourse B. It was B15 this time, and although we had to wait some time on the runway for other planes to go ahead, I DID get home, happy and grateful, after an unforgettable experience of monastic celebration and friendship.

 14 July 2004.

 It has not rained here, though I hear Tucson lost power from a deluge yesterday.

ÓÓÓÓ

3 July 2004

 To the wall of our decrepit office building, which is next to the carport, a new notice has been affixed. “Parking for the Disabled.” Underneath said notice is parked Clare’s little red scooter, when spunky Clare is not using it, that is.

 The “back yard” has become a rabbit playground. Rabbits stretch fore and aft like cats. They roll in the dirt. They chase each other. They also find Clare’s pot garden extremely attractive. Chomp-chomp, there go the marigolds. Chomp-chomp—there go the golden cosmos. The bunnies even sit in the flower pots the better to chomp. One of them has two chewed-up ears.

 Clare has decided her garden is no longer a flower garden but a wild-life refuge. This power of adjustment is known as spiritual maturity.

 When we celebrated her Golden Jubilee, her brother-in-law, who is deeply into music, sent us three opera videos. About once a month, we have an educational video for those who wish to be educated in the various disciplines on offer. This morning, some of the gang watched a marvelous Metropolitan production of La Boheme. It was questionable whether they could come down from the heights afterwards.

 We are not exactly promised the Monsoons. It is more in the line of, “possible showers tomorrow.” And horror of horrors—“Dry storms predicted.” “Dry storms” mean thunder and lightning, and while we can take the noise, oh we do not need lightning. The Willow Fire is still raging up north, with 600 firefighters on the job. It seems to have been the product of lightning, and can certainly use a monsoon season. Some visitors from Utah just told me that the Great Salt Lake is the lowest in years.

 One of the best parts of monsoon time is the clouds. Huge whipped-cream clouds lighted from within against a china blue sky. Or, even better, a skyful of steel-blue, gray-blue storm clouds battling each other.

 Our Jeannie’s oldest granddaughter died at 26 in a tragic accident last month. She and her fiancé were hiking in the mountains when she tried to cross an icy, swollen stream and was pulled by a swift current into the grip of hidden vegetation. It has been hard to lose such a vibrant young person whose life had been immensely difficult but a triumph of human and spiritual determination. The funeral was a celebration of gratitude for Mary Claire and for her extraordinary life.

 The entire family gathered to share the grief and the triumph. Since Jean was particularly close to Mary, it has been hard, and she would be grateful for your prayers.

 We are teetering on the brink of our renovation project, approaching a few more sources of funding, without which we cannot put our plans into operation.

 Upon the demolition of an ancient and fire-prone office building (double-wide trailer of uncertain vintage), we hope to move the offices into the main house, convert some library rooms into a novitiate, establish a senior wing, and construct an arts and music structure behind the Altar Bread building.

 Our arts and music have boomed, and feel cramped. Esther’s sculpture and cards, Melody’s music CD’s, and Clare’s icons need more space. They are sources of income, but also opportunities to provide the Church will beautifully different and authentic Christian art—a true ministry to God’s people. There will also be space in the new building for the long-suffering cellarer’s equipment. A cellarer, in monastic parlance, is a combination maintenance person, smoother-out of mechanical crises, and general genius about the place. Pam wears that hat, as well as several others, including liturgy chair.

 Our candle industry will be suspended this fall, after the Santa Cruz County Fair, since the candle-maker will be engrossed in a period of more intense spiritual formation. Her work is really exquisite, and we look forward to seeing old friends and making new ones in September as we display our wares. We have been offered “our” booth again. It is next to the food concession, friends!

 The new abbot of our monastery of Our Lady of the Holy Spirit, Conyers, Georgia, spent part of the retreat before his Blessing with us. He is a fervent birder, and was able to spot several new species for his list. I can attest that birding is a demanding skill—puff-puff—but very much fun. Our “abbey birds” are currently battling stiff and crying winds.

 Cybele has just returned form translating at the Central Commission meeting in Belgium, after which she was able to relax into her yearly week of personal retreat The Central Commission is a group of elected representatives who prepare the agenda for the General Chapter which will be held in November of 2005—at Assisi!

 We are preparing for tomorrow’s celebration of the Fourth of July. If anyone wants a splendid book, Washington’s Crossing  is superb. I like it when the skill of an historian and the skill of a wordsmith are united in one person. We’ve had several books read in the refectory on that period of American history—books like John Adams  and Founding Brothers help to establish reality while retaining the essential truth conveyed in a nation’s mythology.

 So happy Fourth everyone!

 ?  ?  ?

13 June 2004

 Well, dear friends, you have been waiting overlong for this journal entry. Several factors have delayed it, one of which should be obvious to you upon opening this site.

 The website is being renovated. We invite you to explore it, remembering that more is coming.  We hope for sections that will be interactive, welcoming your questions. There will be input from many of the sisters, and a section on spirituality with book lists and reviews, something on psalms and lectio…Pray for us.

 Life has been full in many other ways as well.

 We have lost the earthly presence of our dear brother and friend, Louis St Pierre, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer only a few weeks ago. Louis was half of Louis-and-Georgia, our alternate Sunday Mass-goers, the other Sunday being spent at her church. Their devotion to each other was always enough to lift the heart on a trying day, and we hold in prayer her immense loss, and the transition she faces.

 Our hearts are heavy, both because this sweet man leaves a big hole in the lives even of those who knew him slightly—he had a way of making family out of strangers—and because he was someone whose goodness has a way of lessening one’s sense of the world’s sorrow and futility. My father used to quote Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard.” (I think he had had to learn it as a penance when he was naughty.) There, the romantic poet is meditating on the number of people whose talents have been fostered by circumstance and who have been raised to public view through their achievements. Then he reflects on the unknown persons who lie in the neighboring churchyard:

                        Full many a gem of purest ray serene

                        the dark, unfathomed caves of oceans bear.

Full many a rose was born to blush unseen

And waste its fragrance on the desert air. 

As a memorial to Louis, I would replace the verb “waste.” Perhaps “spend”, even “lavish” would fit better. Or “pour out on” or plain “give to”. Louis was a giving person. He was never happier than when he could bring us some produce from the garden he loved so much and tended so passionately, or fish, or the makings for Easter dinner. But more than anything material, he gave his own gentle presence to a world that so needs gentleness.

 Louis never made a headline. Those who knew him treasured him, and those who did not know him are the poorer for it. But knowing him as even we did—and so much more as his family did--is not the whole point.  The point is that his goodness spread beyond the circle of his friends and family. Spiritually, the heart he bore into a damaged world touched and healed and upheld that world beyond any limit of physical presence. We are not limited in what the heart can reach. And the heart of a good man can reach to the ends of creation. That is not an overblown statement. Because of Louis, much more than his physical environment has been lifted to God. And in the heart of God, he continues to companion his friends on earth. Because we love Georgia and realize the depths of her sorrow at losing the man is she calls “the love of my life”, it is helpful to envision his sparkling eyes in the endless garden of eternal life, and his deeper presence with her and with all on earth whom he now calls family.

 The memorial service was held at Bring’s funeral parlor in Tucson, accessible to their many friends. It is a lovely place, with a tastefully appointed chapel. Five of us went, and a full chapel of friends and family. I counted fourteen lovely floral arrangements. One had the banner of “Grandpere”, one of “Father” and one—Georgia’s--of “Beloved.”

 The casket lay at the front of the chapel, and Louis looked as if he had fallen asleep. A great aura of peace emanated from this man of peace. Georgia met her guests in the aisle, beautiful as always, in black and white; affectionate as always with a hug and words of greeting for all.

 “Our” Fr Carscallen officiated at the brief and moving ceremony. It was a kind of Liturgy of the Word, with several prayers, readings and a responsorial psalm. Because he knows us and was happy to see us there, he asked that one of us do the first reading, for which we were immensely grateful. His comments on the Gospel—he had chosen the Beatitudes—spoke of Louis in that context: someone who had brought peace, gentleness, and love to the world. Thoughtfully, he spent much of the talk on comforting the bereaved, not only at that moment, but in their journey ahead.

 He asked those who wanted to share something of their experience of Louis to speak, and his family gave moving tributes, short because of their grief, and the more poignant for that.

 Yes, more than this has happened in our lives since the last newsletter, but let this letter stand in memory of a man we treasured and whom we have given, reluctantly but trustfully, into the hands of the God he loved and served so well.

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