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.

PHOTO: Public Domain
Sunday morning when my cell phone alarm began to ring, I fumbled with it until I found the “snooze” button. I had driven all night to return home from a family wedding reception and had set the alarm to wake me for early Mass. My legs did not want to move and neither did the rest of me, but I forced myself out of bed and made it to church a little late. I was glad I did.

“Someone once said that you need three things to have hope,” our pastor said as he began his homily. “Someone to love, something to do, and something to hope in.”

As I listened to his words, I thought of my life. I had been feeling discouraged. My path had not turned out as I thought it might and its direction was lost in the mist of uncertainty. Still, I had someone to love. No husband, but children, family, and friends. Yes, I am blessed with three daughters, with friends from across the country and around the world: GED students, authors, care givers, professors, and poets.

I have something to do.I am a writer, as my daughter reminds me. I work as a retail associate to make ends meet, but I am first, a writer and I have books to finish and projects yet to discover. I have a father to love and care for. I can be present to my daughters. I have a part to play in God’s work of brining the Kingdom, and though I do not often know just what that is, I believe with Thomas Merton that the desire to please God does indeed please God.

And hope? Many things can be hoped for, but, as Fr. Denis reminded us that morning, our reason to hope is Jesus Christ. He has revealed the Love and Compassion of the One Who Created All. He gave us the Spirit of that Great Love to dwell within our very selves. What work we have to do, we are empowered to do. What love we are called to share, we will have to share. That includes me.

After the homily, I walked from the back of the church and slid into a pew, sitting by a friend. We share the hymnal, sang our hearts out, loving “You Are Mine” and “Jesus Christ Has Risen Today.” Receiving the Eucharist fed both my soul and my body. By the time Mass was over, my friend and I both felt like Easter.

Hope had found her way into my soul and was shaking her feathers and singing her wordless tune.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son… “Then he sent some more servants and said, ‘Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.’ Mt 22, 1-2;4

“I’m too frazzled!” my older sister, Jan, said as she walked back into the front door of her home a minute after having left. “I’m looking for my phone. Have you seen it? I’ll call my self. If you hear it ring, bring it out to the car. I’ll go out as see if I have it somewhere in my purse.”

She disappeared through the door again. I heard no ring, walked to the front door, looked out, and saw her giving me a thumbs up. I walked back to the kitchen, hung up the phone and smiled as I looked at the cake and supplies waiting in the family room for pick up.

My sister’s youngest of five children (and only daughter) had been married in Texas two months ago. Today Jan and Howard are having a reception for the new couple in their hometown for family and friends who were unable to make the trip to Texas.

No wonder Jan was feeling frazzled. Despite a troublesome back and a full schedule helping with grandchildren, involvement in an outreach to the poor in a crowded urban city, and various commitments to her church community, Jan had managed to bake her wonderful carrot cake into a large, three tiered wedding cake.

She and Howard left to cart other paraphernalia to the reception site: pop, wine, plates and flatware, decorations, signs for the guest book and a pile of glow necklaces and sticks (always thinking of things to keep the young children happy and occupied), tea, coffee….the list seems endless.

Other family members are pitching in too, chauffeuring the couple from the airport to homes, helping transport children, as well as supplies, and setting up in the party room. A sister and brother are on their way from a neighboring state, gathering to celebrate another wedding.

We may no longer slaughter our fattened cattle and oxen (well, the Texas couple may when their turn to celebrate a son or daughter’s wedding comes around), but putting together the wedding banquet is a major undertaking. Months in the planning, countless late nights, errands, and “frazzled” moments, money spent, and homemade touches witness to the deep love and joy my sister and her husband take in their daughter, her new husband, and their commitment to married life together.

This gives us a glimpse into infinite love and joy God takes in each of us. The Holy One gives all to preparing the “banquet” for us. And there is more. Not only are we invited to share in Divine Life, we have been invited to help prepare the “banquet” for all God’s people. We have been called to continue the work Jesus began on earth, to bring the Kingdom.

Weddings are a grace not only for the newly married couple, but also for those celebrating with them. The gathering of family and friends remind us that whether in our love for one another or in our commitment to bringing the Kingdom for all, we do not labor alone. We have the support of other and the Spirit who dwells in each heart.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “Hurray,” I shouted.

“It’s on!,” my neighbor said.

I was never as happy to see a headlight shine bright as I was tonight. My daughter and her friend had taken me to dinner and while driving home I remembered that I had two new headlight bulbs in the back seat for her to install. I called. She said the owner’s manual would give me directions and the job should not be difficult.

“If you can’t get it, I can help tomorrow night.”

“OK. I’ll give it a try when I am home.”

I turned into the driveway and pulled close to the garage incase the job lasted longer than the evening light. The manual made it sound easy if I could figure out what the “hold down wire” was and if the power steering fluid holder came out easily. In just a few minutes I had the new bulbs out along with a packet of some sort of grease that the salesman said I could put on the connectors.

Pulling off the plug was easy. So was removing the rubber weather seal. The “hold down wire” that looked mysterious in the manual’s diagram was the only problem. I found a little wire with my fingers and pushed it this way and that. I am not sure what I did, but suddenly the wire moved and the lightbulb almost jumped out.

“OK,” I said to myself, “that wasn’t hard.”

I greased the connectors on one of the bulbs, pushed it into the hole and seated the tabs in the correct places. Then came that pesky little wire. I worked and worked at it. I even went into the house, opening the door with a tissue over my now dirty, greasy hand, and brought out a flashlight. I had learned one lesson: Don’t take something apart without noticing how it went together.

Luckily, the driver’s side headlight was still in place. I went over and after a bit of tugging, slid out the steering wheel fluid canister, removed the rubber weather seal, and took a good long look at the “hold down wire.” This one was much cleaner than the other. I could see where it went, but my fingers couldn’t slide the other one into place.

I walked to a neighbor’s house and carefully rang the doorbell, managing to avoid smearing it with grease.

“Hello! How are you?” he greeted me with a smile.

“Do you have a moment? I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“Have you ever replaced a car’s headlight bulb?”

“Well, I tired once, but it got so complicated that I ended up taking it to the dealer. But, I’ll give it a try. I can take a look anyway,” he said as he sat on the steps and put on his shoes. Luckily, as it turned out, Honda had made my job considerably less complicated.

We walked across a couple of lawns to my car. I explained my trouble with the little wire, and together we looked at the one still in place. He felt around and tried. I tried while he held the flashlight. (My husband always appreciated someone aiming the flashlight at the right place. It does help.)

Finally, I managed to put the wire behind the tab to secure the bulb. I can’t claim a lot of method. I just kept moving wire with my fingers until it clicked into place.

“I had to push it UP. That is what did it.”

The rest was simple once I reread the manual after unsuccessfully trying to replace the weather seal AFTER plugging the bulb connectors into to plug. As my neighbor had gently observed, the hole in the seal was not big enough to go over the plug.

“OK,” he said, “let’s see if it works.

Replacing the driver’s side bulb went smoothly. My neighbor slid into the car and tried the lights again. Two bright spots (extra bright, if one can believe the bulbs’ packaging) appeared on the garage door. Success!

Having someone to hold the flashlight and talk to as we figured it out was a help. It made the job pleasant. Good neighbors are one of life’s blessings; success in a new endeavor, one of life’s simple joys. I went inside, wishing I had some of that smelly orange soap that was always in our basement to clean up after greasy jobs. Soft Soap citrus worked. I used a dental bridge brush to clean under my nails. I have to sell bras and pj’s tomorrow and can’t have grease monkey hands.

I called my daughter to share my success, opened a box of Junior Mints and turned on the TV to watch the Red Sox play Cleveland: 14 – 2, Sox. A good evening to celebrate.

Last week, the current issue of The Christian Century arrived in the mail. On Saturday morning I brewed a cup of tea and took the morning to read it. One article after another

https://staging.maryvanbalen.com/the-scallop/1227/

PHOTOS: Public Domain or used with permission from Freedom Rider David Fankhauser, PhD I intended to write about some thought provoking articles in The Christian Century, but I clicked on the television to check news and watched the PBS special on the Freedom Riders instead. I was eleven in May, 1961, but remember news broadcast images of the Civil Rights struggle including some of the Freedom Riders. Watching the special last night was both horrifying and inspiring.

I know people who have marched with MLK Jr. in Selma and one who worked with the bus boycott in Montgomery. As a teenager, I joined in protests for the Farm Workers Union and marched in protests against the Viet Nam war. Facing National Guard bayonets on my college campus, I experienced rubbery knees and covered my nose and mouth with wet towels to lessen the effects of tear gas.

None of these actions of mine required the raw courage of those college students who became “The Freedom Riders.” Trained in non-violent resistance, these young people knew they were likely going to face beatings, arrest, and possibly death, yet boarded the buses anyway, intent on calling national attention to the immortality of segregation and the need to change Jim Crow laws.

Seeing adult whites, police, and public officials stand and watch (or participate) students ruthlessly beaten was chilling. White women holding babies calling out encouragement to those doing the violence and governors smiling as they proclaimed the violence was the fault of the out of town “rabble rousers” seemed unbelievable.

I learned more about the Kennedy administration’s reluctant involvement and eventual support of the movement and the Freedom Riders’ meeting with Martin Luther King, Jr. The threat of burning 1500 blacks as they gathered in their church to support the students and to hear MLK Jr. finally forced the governor of Mississippi to declare marshall law.

If you have the opportunity to watch this documentary, do it.

While we can look at this as history, we also must remember that the ignorance and fear that engendered such horrific acts is alive and well in our country and in the world. Racism is not gone, as can been seen in the “code talk” by politicians and pundits (for example, Trump’s questioning of how Obama…who Trump asserted was not a good student…was accepted into Harvard, insinuating affirmative action granted him the opportunity).

Racism is not the only example of hatred and discrimination in our land and across the globe: Homosexuals, transsexuals, women, and the poor are often targets. Actions may not be as blatant as beatings and killings (Though some are. Did you read about the transwoman who was dragged by the hair from a restroom in a MacDonalds and was kicked and beaten?)

Violence today is often done “cleanly” with political policies, job discrimination, and uneven application of the law.

We ow much to the Freedom Riders. We must honor their courage and convictions by acting on the best of our own.