Mary van Balen

PAINTING: RUTH GATHERING WHEAT by Lorie McCown

This morning I spent time listening to the Word in Lectio Divina on Ruth 2,2-3;7. Ruth, a Moabite, had returned to Judah with her mother-in-law, Naomi, after she had lost her husband and two sons, one of whom had been Ruth's husband.

Two women with no men to care for or protect them,they returned impoverished. Read More 

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
After nine hours of selling bras and underwear and cleaning out dressing rooms, I looked forward to getting off my feet. Hot humid air blew across the parking lot as I looked for the little Civic with an Obama/Biden sticker on the bumper. I collapsed into the driver's seat, turned the air conditioner on "high" and started the long drive home.

Traffic wasn't bad. I popped a voice therapy CD into the player, started taking deep breaths, and progressed through the four exercises that are helping combat chronic hoarseness. Eleven minutes and miles later I was cooling off and feeling less like a dishrag and more like a person. Read More 

Photo: Mary van Balen
Thirty minutes of sitting quietly in God's Presence doesn't sound difficult, but when I am out of spiritual shape, I can't do it. Signs of spiritual laxity have been evident for a while: lack of energy and focus, interior turmoil, and dwindling hope. Yesterday I decided to do something about it.

First, I decided to let myself sleep until I was rested, a simple thing I have consistently neglected.  Read More 

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Some days when life seems overwhelming, I am drawn to the bane of healthy eating and common sense: Comfort Food! We all have this unique food group that spans those recommended by nutrition czars who devise pyramids and pie charts to keep us on the straight and narrow. Read More 

Watching dark plumes of oil and gas rise like dirty clouds from the broken pipe at the BP oil site makes me sick. My stomach turns over when I think of millions of gallons of oil fouling the earth every day. The thought that this will happen day after day for months is unfathomable.

Anger rising from my heart is as dark and dirty as the oily clouds. Read More 

PHOTO: A U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Employee

Waiting for Dad to don pajamas and prepare for bed, I sat on a couch tucked away in a nook off the nursing home’s wide hallway. I checked voicemail, made a few calls, and then looked out the window beside me and watched a spider working on her web. She was large, her bulbous abdomen marked underneath with an orangey hourglass shape, and her long legs were darker at each joint. She waved them about until they detected a strand of silk, then she hurried along it to the end. Once there, she dropped quickly to another point along the window frame where she attached the new thread, then began waving her legs around again.

I looked at the web from a variety of angles but could see no pattern let alone the familiar radiating design I expected. Read More