Oldering Prayer

I hear the swishing sound of rolling walkers moving towards me. I know that the bells calling us to worship will begin to ring soon, and it will be time to pray with the sisters of Our Lady of Grace Monastery.

My day begins before the sun rises. The Oblates of our Lady of Grace have early breakfast before joining the sisters for Morning Praise.

The old coffee maker has been replaced by a newer version that now offers three choices–mild, regular, and bold, with parallel decaffeinated options. It is a better beginning to the day.

After breakfast,

we pray in community,

we do lectio divina on a portion of the Rule of St. Benedict,

we have time for quiet,

we pray again,

we eat lunch,

we give back to the Monastery with an act of service (for me, cleaning the walls of the dining room),

we do lectio on another chapter of the Rule,

we pray again,

we eat again.

Tonight after supper, we’ll play games with the sisters and pray one last time in community.

Then sleep.

In the over fifteen years I have come to Our Lady of Grace, most often twice a year, more sisters have died than have professed Monastic orders. The average age of the sisters is 72. The priest who serves the Monastery is nearly bent in half, and celebrates Eucharist sitting in a chair. As are those who worship in our churches, we are all oldering.

In the Monastery, all serve. At Noonday, the average age of the sisters leading worship must near 90.

Yesterday, at Noonday, I heard a quiet voice during the lengthening silence between the chanting of the Psalms, She’s asleep. So while the celebrant dozed, another sister took her place and began the next section of prayer.

Another sister who I look fondly upon, perhaps because she reminds me of my mother with her sweet face, white hair, and blue top, was prepared for her part in the liturgy of reading the lesson. She had placed a special lamp on the the lectern before worship began.

At the appointed time, she carefully stepped to the lectern using her walker, carefully repositioned herself to read, carefully placed a clipboard with a large print version of the day’s text, carefully turned on the light, and with a clear voice, read scripture.

After she finished the lesson from Daniel, she slowly turned off the light, slowly folded it up, and slowly placed it under the lectern. Slowly she placed the clipboard on her walker, slowly turned, slowly returned to her seat, and slowly lowered herself into her chair.

Care full. Slow. It was all prayer.

It is all prayer.

Community Home

When I return to Our Lady of Grace, there are touchstones that let me know I am indeed home.

Sister Mary Luke always leaves a note in my room and some Texas memorabilia she has found on one of her thrift shop jaunts.

Calligraphy on the wall of my room that is a Word to ponder for the week.

The beauty of whatever season it is– it stops me in gobsmacked joy at each window I pass, and lures me outside for walks.

And then the prayers in the Chapel. The sisters invite us to join with them in the dance of the Hours, and it is a glimpse, for me, of worship in heaven.

When we sing and pray and chant the Psalms, we are invited to do so slowly and quietly. In doing so, my voice blends with those next to me and what we hear is one voice. This is always the most challenging for us women clergy. We are used to leading with our voices in worship. Here, “we who are many are one.”

The intercessory prayers in chapel are not a long list of rote individual prayers but a litany of those who are more often forgotten–children in foster care, those who have been abused by the Church, those without health care, those who will die alone, and on it goes–and always with great thankfulness for their benefactors.

And then there is the gracious hospitality. Who goes to a place where everyone is glad to see me? I am filled with the warm welcome and smiles and hugs. This is because Benedictines believe that all they meet are Christ. Jesus shows up every time someone comes through the door.

It so good to be in my Monastery home.

Traveling. Again.

In October I went to Camp Allen in Navasota. Three times.

To Marlin, Texas. Twice. Waco. Chambersville. Tyler. Lindale. Minneapolis and St. Paul. Many miles around the Houston area.

Including traveling home to St. Cuthbert to preach and celebrate Eucharist, the parish that sent me to seminary nearly thirty years ago.

I am a Missioner, after all.

I begin November on my way to Beech Grove, Indiana for an Oblate retreat at Our Lady of Grace Monastery. A week of prayer, worship, and holy reading. Surprises of joy and play.

I am nearing the year anniversary of my departure from St. Mary’s. This is a good week for my spirit and soul to catch up and rest.

This past week I voted for the first time since moving into town. I was struck by the many colors and shapes of people that joined me for early voting. I was reminded by how much I am loving living in a city where everyday I experience the amazing greatness of the image of God.

Traveling. Again.