News stations have a countdown clock ticking off minutes as the deadline to raise the United States debt ceiling approaches. Tuesday is the day, and many Americans are watching to see what will happen. Will the US default on its debts? Will our representatives and senators be able to transcend their philosophical differences and compromise?

Jim Wallis of Sojourners suggests that someone other than politicians, the American public, and financial experts around the world are watching the process: God is watching, too.

Read his blog God Is Watching; it expresses my feelings and those of many around the world. I cannot understand a political philosophy that is comfortable with keeping tax loopholes for huge corporations and tax cuts for the richest Americans while proposing huge cuts in Social Security and Medicare as well as funding cuts for numerous social services and education.

When push comes to shove, Jesus sides with the poor and those on the fringes of society. We are told to care for the poor, widows, and orphans. I pray for wisdom for our government leaders, for compassionate hearts. A phone call our senators and representatives might help. (Find yours here: Senators; House of Representatives)

The countdown clock is ticking.

Portrait by Berthold Pluum He was listed under “Other Saints” on the Universalis:Today site that designated today as simply Wednesday of week 17 of the year. I had never heard of Titus (Anno) Brandsma, but his birth in Friesland, Holland (place of my family’s origin), work as a journalist, and contemplative spirituality (He was a Carmelite priest.) piqued my curiosity. I googled his name and found numerous sites that provided information on this man who, along with the Dutch Church, refused to accept Nazi orders for Catholic newspapers to print Nazi articles and who eventually paid for public resistance with his life.

Perhaps journalists who work for Catholic newspapers or magazines know of this man. If not, I will do my part to introduce him. An interesting biography including photos appears on a Carmelite website. The same website hosts a series of short essays or meditations on his life written by social worker, Jane Lytle-Vieira, a member of the Carmelite’s Third Order and a graduate studying theology.

Titus (Anno took his father’s name for his religious name.) was a man of deep spirituality but, like Karl Rahner, did not find mysticism something reserved for the few or for those called to cloistered life. His relationship with God, nurtured by contemplative prayer, enabled him to live involved in the world, its politics, and its need. He understood life to be lived in service to others, and according to those who knew him, he gave freely to all with a joyful spirit. Some saw his generosity as a fault. He gave so much that one friend said if everyone lived as Titus lived the rich would soon be poor and the poor would become rich!

Blessed Titus was an educator, receiving his doctorate in philosophy from the Georgian University in Rome. He became a founding member of the Catholic University of Nijmegen in 1923, and served as President, of the University in 1932-33. After this the bishop appointed him spiritual director to the staff of the thirty Catholic publications throughout the country. Later, Titus toured the United States, lecturing at all the Carmelite foundations in 1935.

Not many years after returning home, Titus along with the rest of the Dutch people began suffering under the invasion of the Nazis. In both his writing and preaching, Titus refused to follow their directives. When the Dutch Church decided to instruct the editors of all its newspapers and magazines to refuse to publish Nazi articles and propaganda, Titus insisted on informing each editor and staff himself.

This very public display of resistance resulted in his arrest, imprisonment and eventual transfer to Dachau, where he was beaten, tortured, and after being part of medical experimentation, was put to death by lethal injection.

The links I have provided will take you to sites that include comments about Titus during his lifetime and his time in Dachau by fellow prisoners. As Jane Lytle-Vieira suggests in her meditations, Titus has much to say to Christians living in 2011. Whether the issue is politics and religion, serving the poor, prayer, life in prison, or capital punishment, this marketplace mystic speaks to us through his life. I encourage you to read about him and celebrate the grace God has given through him.

This blog is named after the symbol for pilgrimage that had its beginnings with the great pilgrimage to the cathedral of Santiago de Compestela in Galicia in Northwest Spain: The scallop shell. The connection of this shell with pilgrimage is rooted in both use and legend.

The legend surrounds Saint James the Greater, whose feast we celebrate today. Along with his brother John, James identified in Scripture as one of the sons of Zebedee. Jesus called them “Boanerges,” or “sons of thunder,” giving us some idea of their temperament! (Mk 3, 17). The mother of James and John, most likely Salome, asked Jesus to guarantee her sons places at his right and left hand when he came into his kingdom. After receiving their assurance that they could drink of the same cup that Jesus would drink, he promised them not places of honor but a share in his suffering.

James was beheaded in 44CE by Herod Agrippa I, who was trying his best to appease the Jewish population that was upset by the increasing number of followers of the Way, of Jesus. Legends abound about the remains of St. James. One claims that his body was miraculously transported to Northwest Spain and finally resting in Compestela. Here begins the legend that connects James with the scallop shell. Some stories have his body transported in a boat without a crew, or even a sarcarpchogas, arriving covered with scallops. Another claims that the arrival of this mysterious boat coincided with a wedding on shore. When the boat appeared, the grooms horse was spooked and plunged into the sea only to return with its rider, both covered with the shells.

Whatever happened, the scallop shell became the symbol of the pilgrimage to the place believed to hold the remains of the saint.This became the most famous place of pilgrimage during the Middle Ages, with people following paths from all over Europe, Britain, and other parts of the world to pay homage to St. James. Along with a walking stick and gourd, the scallop shell was standard pilgrim equipment used for identification of the traveller as a pilgrim, used as a scoop for food and a cup for drinking.

Today, thousands of pilgrims continue to travel the well-worn paths, and the scallop shell has become the universal symbol of pilgrims.

As I ponder Saint James and modern pilgrims, I am reminded of a poem by Deborah Chandra, “Grandpa’s Shoes.” It is the first in her collection of poems titled “Rich Lizard and Other Poems.” I loved it the moment I read it and used it often when working with children. It hints at the life journey of the man who wore them, who was softened and gentled by the paths he trod.

St. James was witness to both the glory of the Transfiguration and the agony in the Garden. He knew heady moments of joy and hope as well as paralyzing times of sorrow and fear. His journey brought him to a violent death, but one, I imagine, that was embraced with hope and acceptance.

I think of my father, grandfather to my children. I think of his shoes. I remember heavy boots he wore into coal mines when he inspected equipment he helped design and spoke with the men who used it. I remember his “regular” shoes, black with laces, worn to the office day after day. I remember his slippers that gave his tired feet a rest, and his canvas shoes he wore when he took us fishing or walking along a creek.

Dad’s shoes were part of his pilgrim equipment as he made his way through life, walking with his life partner, Geneva, and their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

We are all pilgrims. We know joys and sorrows, hope and fear. We find God walking the path with us. We experience the Holy One in special ways that remain in our hearts and minds: birth of children, times with special friends, suffering, illness, return to health. A special place along the beach or in the mountains, or in our backyard.

Today, pilgrims all, we remember St. James and the scallop shell, and ponder the reality it reveals: Many paths, one destination: The embrace of the Holy One.

By the time my daughter picked me up at my destination, the cell phone mystery had been solved: I left it at home when I put it down on the kitchen counter to hang up my keys before leaving. WIthout the worry of having lost it, I have had a wonderful few days without it. I can’t call home and no one can call me. No phone conversations while shopping, riding to the beach, or visiting with my daughter.

Since nothing drastic has happened, I feel no need to communicate with folks back home. One advantage to not having a cell phone is the ability to be unavailable. Years ago, I wrote a column about the dangers of being available all day, every day. What was once a novelty has become a necessity. I have heard people complain when the person they want to call does not answer.

“Why have a cell phone if you don’t answer it?” they ask. I know another person who turns off her cell phone for part of every day.

“Sometimes, I want to be by myself. At other times, I am busy with something and don’t want to be interrupted.”

That might be considered rude by many. Not me. Technology can control us instead of the other way around. One can be exhausted by receiving and responding to phone and text messages.

My week without a cell phone has been a gift. Since I am one who usually answers the phone whenever it rings, or can think of reasons to call someone else, I have been better able to be present to the moment.

I arrived at the airport in plenty of time. My flight was delayed, enabling me to grab a quick breakfast. While waiting for the food to arrive, I decided to check out my cell phone. It had to be SOMEWHERE in my black carry on, I told myself as I rummaged through it. No luck.

I unloaded everything. Still no phone. The only other customer at Max and Erma’s was a kind man who lent me his phone. I called my sister, suspecting that the phone had fallen out in her trunk (still my hope). No answer. I left a message.

“Try calling your phone,” the man suggested. Of course!

“It’s ringing SOMEWHERE,” he said with a smile.

“Yes. I hope it is in my sister’s car’s trunk, or maybe on my couch.”

After thanking him and eating breakfast, I retraced my steps, even had assistance from the policeman at the Lost and Found department.

So far, the phone has not appeared. I should walk to the gate and be ready to board in 15 minutes. Keep checking this blog, not so much to see if the phone turns up, but for updates on a week without a cell phone. Something almost unthinkable to us today, but unheard of when I first began traveling. Our dependence on technology is taken for granted. A missing cell phone is a strong reminder!

This sonogram was shared by a friend whose daughter is expecting her first child. The baby in the picture is about the size of a quarter. Amazing, both the detail of the sonogram and the clearly developed features of the tiny baby.

“I think I will be feeling some kicking before long,” the young mother said. The baby does look like she/he will be pushing the boundaries in this photo. I remember the first time I felt new life stirring within my womb. A sacred moment when the baby makes it’s presence known. “Was it gas?” I wondered at the strange feeling in my abdomen? Not long after the kicks and stretches were unmistakable.
One of my children was an acrobat, I think. She turned around in the last month and made her appearance feet first. In the midst of the morning sickness, final months endured during summer heat, or bed rest required by complications, a mother might lose sight of the privilege of nurturing the little one until it is able to survive on its own.

The wonder returns and now, as a mother of three young adults, I look at them, amazed that they began their life’s journey within the protection of my womb.

In my job I see many young expectant mothers, sometimes accompanied by their husbands. Sometimes the parents are pushing strollers and have other older siblings trailing along.

Families are easy to take for granted. Becoming a parent is so common that for those not immediately involved, the process slips from their minds filled with other concerns and agendas. This photo from my friend reminded me of the glorious invitation we women have to be special partners in bringing new life into the world. The reality may be commonplace, but it is also awesome.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Here is my kitchen counter, built by my brother, brightened with flowers from my sister, dish towels from my cousin in the Netherlands, and the framed print from my student. Little reminders of people and places, of love and support. Last night, my daughter lent me a cable to upload the photos from my camera. I trust my cable will show up as boxes are emptied.

As I unpack clothes, I am lightening my load. I look at all my “things” and wonder if I have accumulated too much. My sister assures me that I have not. “If you spread these things around a house instead of a small flat, you would have loads of room left over.”

I think she is right. For a sixty year old woman, mother of three, I guess I have a modest collection of things. Still, I think I can pare down some.I feel better when every space need not be filled. I am not a big decorator, preferring instead a simple look. Just mini blinds, no curtains. I can’t bear to put the small microwave on my new counter, so I am on the lookout for a tv stand with a bit of storage that can slip underneath the counter and hold the microwave. I won’t mind bending down a bit to use it.

A good thing about moving a number of times in the past few years is the opportunity to realize how little I really need to run a home. So, as I empty boxes I fill others with donations for Good Will or St. Vincent’s. One thing I will keep though, impractical as it is, is the van der Graff machine. If nothing else it’s a great conversation starter and on dry days, it makes your hair stand on end!

Please excuse the long gap between blog posts. I have been moving and though progress has been made, boxes abound and my office looks as if its contents were dropped into place by a windstorm. I took a few photos to use today, but can’t find the little usb cable I need to connectcamera to computer. Thus the clip art!

Despite the lack of time off to put my new place together, I have managed to make the flat livable, even pleasant, in the time I have had. Family and friends have provided unending support from spotting the apartment, to moving boxes, hanging prints and a mirror, and building a seven foot long counter high enough to double as an eating place in the kitchen.

Today, along with the Post Office confirmation of my change of address, I received a house warming gift all the way from the Netherlands! Our family stretches far and wide, and even though she and I will not be able to sip tea together any time soon, my cousin sent two beautiful dish towels (the Dutch ones are my favorite; the cotton is perfect.) to “dry your tea cups that you’ll share with other friends.”

Moving is more than transferring residence and possessions from one place to another, it is also creating a sacred space, a place where one can rest and be aware of Holy Presence. Such a space allows one to receive God’s Grace and share it with others, offering hospitality and a calm spirit.

In the midst of transitions, life can seem anything but calm and grace-filled. Uprooting from the familiar to an unknown is full of stress as well as opportunity. During the past few weeks I have lost any routines that I once had, including prayer routines. This morning I began Lectio again. Ruth 2, 12b caught my heart.

“…a full reward be given you by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge!”

No matter where we are on our journeys, whether we are physically moving to another place or adjusting to new life circumstances and stages, we can feel adrift and alone. This verse reminded me that our true anchor, our true “place” is in God. We can move across town or across the globe, we can loses a spouse, a job, a family. We can be uprooted by natural disasters, war, or oppression. Yet, one thing remains constant: God’s love and presence.

I found that reassuring this morning as I looked at a pile of boxes and papers that will take more than my day off to organize. Slowly, this place is becoming my sacred space, and the most important task is not unpacking boxes. It is taking time to remember and receive the Grace that IS home.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Lord, it is night. The night is for stillness. Let us be still in the presence of God. It is night after a long day. What has been done has been done; what has not been done has not been done; let it be…

from the New Zealand Prayer Book

After dinner, Dad and I took a walk around the grounds of the nursing facility where he lives, Dad in his wheel chair, me pushing him along. We stopped to wave to a friend who called down to us from her balcony. Dad, always the gentleman, tipped his hat and waved back. Then we were off to the pond. He spotted a couple of geese as we approached and pointed out the “red faces,” muscovy ducks that were settled along the walk that circles the water. Excited by our arrival, the large ducks heaved themselves up with tails wobbling and crowded around us. When they discovered we had come empty handed, they settled back into the grass like lawn ornaments.

Dad pointed out the Canada geese and their fuzzy goslings pulling up grass on the other side of the pond. We headed that way. I remembered four goslings from our last walk. Perhaps the coyotes that live in the woods and surrounding fields had taken two. Last year none survived. One of the adults arched his neck down to the water, took a gulp, and then stretched out his long neck straight up, pointing his bill to the sky. I could see the dark feathers move as the water moved beneath them. The goslings watched, and as children will do, imitated their parents.

“Would you like to sit and watch for a while?” I asked.

“That would be nice,” dad answered, so parked his wheelchair beside the bench and we sat, holding hands and watching the evening come. I saw a frog swimming to shore. I tried to show dad, pointing and then walking toward the frog until I was too close for comfort and it jumped back into the water.

“Did you see him jump, Dad?”

No, dad had eyes only for the geese and the “red faces,” things big enough for him to see. So we sat. I watched the frog make its way back to the bank. Big goldfish (are they Koi?) swam along the shallows and occasionally an orange fin or open mouth broke through the surface. A dragon fly skimmed the water’s surface and a few birds circled one last time from tree to tree. With a flutter of wings, a group of mallards who had been sitting together on the grass to our left rose as one and flapped their way past us. Dad saw that.

He kept his eye on the geese and goslings as they waddled their way around the walk. The light slowly faded. Bugs became a nuisance. The moon rose above clouds that had threatened rain off and on all day.

We sat holding hands, thinking our own thoughts, content to do nothing more or less than join the other creatures and witness the slow deepening of evening as it crept toward night: Our silent night prayer, Compline.

The High Road Gallery The sun beat down on artists, poets, and gallery visitors gathered for the opening of the “Language of Art” exhibit that featured twenty-five selected pieces of art and poems written in response to them. One by one, poets took center stage and read their works. I sat in a plastic lawn chair and watched, noting the variety of forms poets take: young and old, men and women. Some women readers wore pumps and dresses, others jeans and t-shirts. One walked up and halfway through her poem her hands began to shake. She put one behind her back while the other shook the paper.

“Such a small group,” I thought, “and she is so nervous. She must not be accustomed to reading her work before an audience.” I admired her commitment to her art. One man wore a sports jacket. Others were more casual. Each was given rapt attention and applause when they had finished. All of us sat, listened, and sweated together until the last line was read, when we moved back into the gallery to cool off and study again the art and poems displayed beside them.

How many similar events are held across the country in small towns and big cities? I thought of my friend, Kilian McDonnell OSB, who will publish his fourth book of poetry in time for his ninetieth birthday this fall. I thought about artists in general, those who work with pigments and clay, fabric and paper, words and ideas. A few are well known and financially successful, but most are like those gathered at the small gallery on this Sunday afternoon. Faithful to their work, eager to share it, grateful when it is received with open minds and hearts.

Artists of all types invite the rest of the world to slow down, look closely and feel deeply. They remind others to wonder, to connect the unlikely discovering truth in the process. They elicit smiles, laughter, tears, and questions. They grapple with big questions, enter into mystery’s darkness, and plumb the soul’s depths. Then they share what they have found with any who will listen. They do these things because they must. Money or not, success or not, being an artist is not something one does, it is who one is.
“Waiting” by Laurie Van Balen

As I walked outside to my car, holding a bit of cheese balanced on a cracker, I gave thanks for the gift of artists in our midst and the grace and courage they bring to the world.