Mary van Balen

My first day on Whidbey Island included praying Evensong with two Benedictine monks from nearby monastery of The Brothers of Saint John the Evangelist and a few members of the congregation. While waiting for the service to begin, I read the small prayer booklet's introduction: "Vespers is the ancient evening prayer of the Church in which we look back on the graces of the day just passed and are grateful. Thanksgiving is the theme of this Office."

I had much to be thankful for: Kathryn's friendship that called me to the Northwest from Ohio. Her husband's welcoming hospitality. Breathtaking views of Puget Sound and woods of towering Douglas firs, hemlocks, and cedars. Birds I have never seen or heard. And, not the least, blessedly cool, almost cold temperatures that had already provided respite from the scorching temperatures and humidity in the Midwest this summer.

"Give praise to the Father Almighty, to his Son, Jesus Christ the Lord, to the Spirit who dwells in our hearts, both now and forever, Amen."I made a slight bow as these words fell from my lips,remembering the Benedictine monks at Saint John's Abbey in Collegeville, with whom I have shared so many evenings of prayer, and whom I held in my heart that night.

Thanksgiving not only for the day past, but also for the promise of the days that stretched ahead. The end of one day, the beginning of a week. Prayers shared with friends. Thanks be. Amen.
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Sunday I attended Mass with Kathryn at the Episcopal Catherdral in Seattle, Saint Marks. The large church building was on its way to becoming a full-fledged gothic cathedral when the depression hit. Years later, the decision was made to leave it as it was and use the millions of dollars completion would have cost for other, more worthy causes. As a result, the church is an interesting mix: Large windows that were to be stained glass, but that are filled with rectangular leaded panes of glass; the rafters can be seen high above where the ceiling would have been; only a few columns have been surrounded with finishing stone. Behind the altar has been ornamented with one of the few additions...a modern glass scultpure filling the space just in front of the plain glassed rose window.

During the service, an announcement was made that one of the church staff would be leaving for budgetary reasons. As one might expect, many parishoners had sent notes and emails, expressing their concern. The poeple were assured that all was well and that the person and familiy were "fine." They were looking forward to a new ministry, thought as yet, they did not know what that would be. God will provide.

As we drove home, Kathryn and I discussed the theological concept of lament. Sometimes people are hesitant to share their saddness or pain, not wanting to appear to be "whiners" or ungrateful. Or worse yet, of little faith. In fact, lament is not any of those things.

"Hebrew Scriptures are full of lament," my friend said as she explained more about the idea and how it might have been additionally helpful to the people in that morning's congregation. Lament is a community experience, bringing people toegther in compassion. Sadness is acceptable. So is anger or frustration. God can handle all that, and by expressing such emotions, one is not rejecting faith, but rather acknowledging human emotions.

As in Psalms of lament, the one lamenting moves from expression of anger, despair, or frustration with a perceived lack of action on God's part, to an expression of faith. Read More 

After a longish day of travel that took me to Seattle via Tennesee, I met my friend Kathryn and her husband Gary for my first experience of Washington state. First impression? Cool, almost cold! Wonderful relief coming from parched midwest. Gary parked the car and we took a walk along Puget Sound until arriving at one of their favorite little seafood diners. All types of seafood was breaded and fried by the owner, an older man who had been running the Sun Fish for quite a few years. Kathryn and Gary had salmon. I tried scallops. Not greasy. Delicious.

We walked back by the beach dotted with white tents, closed, which sheltered all types of art work. A festival of somesort. Along the water, three groups had built roaring bonefires in large firerings. I don't know if they used driftwood, but it was plentiful. Frisbees, dogs, laughter, music, all part of the scene. But, the one who stole the show was the bubble lady of Puget Sound. At least that is what I called her. She was using poles about six feet long connected with fabric "rope," and dipped into what I can only say was amazing "bubble juice." The crowd around her grew as she raised the poles above her head, holding them about a foot apart, and walked slowly, allowing the air to create huge bubbles that twisted and grew, alive with color and movement. So alive did they appear that we were all surpised when they suddenly dissolved into white film that fell to the ground.

She blew into the swirling film and created bubbles inside of bubbles, holding us all, young and old, spellbound. I remembered making a much smaller version of the bubble poles for my children and to use in school settings, but I had not developed a bubble solution as fullproof as the bubble lady's. When she was taking a rest, I walked over and began a conversation. She sells the "bubble juice" that she had developed far beyond my own dishwashing liquid and glycerin. She also photographs the bubbles and hopes to sell large prints to those decorating office buildings. (You can view her bubbles at Big Dipper Bubbles

"My bubbles are art," she said. Kathryn, Gary, and I agreed. Art in the moment, and art caught by a camera. We didn't have the opportunity to see the photos. Disappointing. I will check her website. But what a perfect way to begin a week-long visit with friends: Celebrating life, its simplicity, its beauty, its serendipity. The bubble lady set the tone for this trip to the Northwest that would nourish my spirit with joy and prayer as well as my body with as much seafood as I can resaonably put into it!
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The day had been long. Work. Haircut. Doctor's appointment. Late dinner with friends. I had met them at a restaurant I had not been to before and had difficulty finding a parking place downtown. When I returned to my car I found a ticket on the windshield: The spot was in a residential permit area. Sigh. I'm not used to thinking about residential permit areas. Mom's words came to me: "In a year you'll never know where that money went. Don't worry." Thanks, mom. Worrier extraorinaire over some things, she was right about this one.

I had had a wonderful evening, been treated to a marvelous dinner. So, why obsess about a small parking ticket? So, I didn't. On the drive home, instead of worrying about $40, I recalled parts of the conversations. One of the dinner party, Vicki, is a rabbi, and she shared the story of finding the torah for her new congregation ten years ago. An amazing story of a Polish rabbi in the 1940's giving the torah to a Catholic friend to keep until the deported Jews would return. Of course, they never did. The torah came to the US and using the internet, Vicki found a few members of that Polish congregation who had come to live in Brooklyn, not far from her congregation. This story goes on.

Another story: Among the nine of us sitting around the table, two had recently learned of the transsexuality of either a relative or friend. With my daughter, that made three. We shared stories. I promised to let them know when my book on the topic is published, and I wondered how many others in the restaurant that night might have similar stories. Harold had a good way of expressing the need we all have: To become more "wide minded." Indeed.

By the time I arrived home, I was thankful for the richness and fun of the evening. Then I opened the door.  Read More 

"There was the work hard, play hard Eden of childhood truths and treats. Run out in the rain, my Czech grandmother would say urgently, run quick! I flew out the back door, naked, screeching with demented joy, to stand under the drainpipe, rainwater sluicing down my tadpole body."


..................................from "The Florist's Daughter: A Memoir" by Patricia Hampl



Sometimes, in the midst of news of wars, poverty, illness, and hateful rhetoric, something comes along that reminds us of the human capacity for joy, sheer joy. Often simple, it arrives unheralded, breaking into the quotidian of life or the darkness of suffering or despair.

On Saturday I attended a pool party given by a counselor friend who includes a large number of transsexuals in her practice. I had never ventured into the pool at these annual gatherings, but did last week. My swim suit fit a bit tighter that I remembered, but, oh well. Pride aside, I caught my breath as I waded deeper into the water. Laughter filled the evening as people executed dives, some better than others, tried silly stunts, and slipped under the water as they tried in vain to keep a ball in the air. Nothing amazing. Just fun. Fun, food, and conversation shared by those touched by challenges of transsexuality. I stayed late, but was not the last to leave by far. Who wants to let go of such moments?

No. We open wide and suck them in, gulping down the sweet delight.

Sometimes joy comes with a joke, or a dry one-liner during a game of euchre. My dad was good at that.  Read More 

"I have a prayer request for you," my sister said. "A young man, twenty-six, discovered that he has stage four lung cancer." Never a smoker. The prognosis is unknown, but it does not appear likely that he has long to live.

"It seems I am being constantly reminded of the fragility of life." my daughter said when I told her of a friend of ours who was hit by a car while riding on his bicycle and sustained serious spinal chord injury.

"There is one word you will never hear around here," my friend in the nursing home told me: "Death."



She was right. At least from what I heard when I visited my father there. I suppose we were all trying to make the last years or months of life as full as we could. Conversation was often difficult since many of those living there were hard of hearing or very tired. Around the dining room table we talked about the food and about family or friends who had come to visit. When someone from the small group died, no one told the others. The absence of the table mate spoke for itself. Once, when I asked about someone who was gone, the aide whispered that he had died. They didn't usually tell the others because they didn't want to upset them.

I am sure this is done with all good intentions. Perhaps the news would upset some of the people there, but the unwillingness to talk about death struck me as strange in a place where most people go knowing they will likely die there or in the nearby hospital. Read More 

"You're a natural contemplative," a priest/friend once told me in high school. A few months before, I wouldn't have known what he meant. Raised Catholic and having attending Catholic schools from the start, one might have imagined I would have already learned about the rich tradition of contemplative prayer in the the Church. No. Perhaps at that time, such knowledge was deemed unsuitable for the person in the pew. Or perhaps the diocesan clergy were not practicing contemplatives themselves: You can't give what you don't have.

A community of Carmelite nuns, opening their doors to those hungering for something deeper, gifted me with vocabulary and understanding of what I had been drawn to since a child: a quiet way of prayer that was simply part of who I was. They also provided a place where I could come and, well, pray. Sitting in the quiet chapel for a half hour before Mass, just aware of being with others in the Presence of God, was one of the most life-giving times of the week during those years. Read More 

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.



from Mary Oliver's poem Sometimes
(Mary Oliver, 1935 - )




"I didn't get your book proposal," my sister messaged and I received on my new iPod Touch.

"Sorry. I pulled up your email address. Just forgot to do anything with it. Where IS my mind?"

Where indeed. This is a "day off" and already I am behind. Sore from a night of trying out a foam mattress at the same sister's house, I have driven my car to the auto shop where repairs were completed after a fender bender, but an oversight on the door lock needs attention. I have visited two grocery stores (feeling a bit like an old lady in a nightgown as I dressed by pulling a knit sleeveless dress over my head, ran a brush through my hair, and slipped on stretched out black flats that slap the floor when I walk) finding all three ingredients for meatball appetizers (read frozen meatballs, grape jelly, and chili sauce) I am crockpotting for a swim party tonight. Did I mention that this is the first day in weeks that we will have rain? Read More 

Maybe it's because I just had a conversation with my sister about the Roman Catholic church's secrecy around its position paper on transsexuality. (Even enlisting the help of members of the hierarchy, I could not access the Vatican's position document on transsexuality issued "sub secretum" in 2000 and later sent to presidents of bishops' conferences.)

Maybe it's because I have written and talked to political representatives about passing laws to provide job and housing protection for transsexuals to no avail.

Maybe it's because I have a transsexual daughter.

Maybe it's because I have admired the Episcopalian's willingness to discuss difficult moral issues openly and to include in the conversation everyone from the Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori to the person in the pew. (Saint Benedict would be proud. See Rule of Saint Benedict, Chapter 3

Maybe it's because, like so many others, I grow tired of waiting.

Maybe it's all of the above. No matter. I am heartened by the Episcopalian decision to officially welcome and include transgender people in the ranks of clergy as well as adding transgender people to the non-discrimination canons. I agree with Rev. Susan Russell who said in her column, Episcopal Church Makes Landmark Decision for Transgender Inclusion, July 9, 2012 was a good day to be an Episcopalian.

A good day to be someone who trusts that the Spirit is dynamically present in the people of God, and that includes me and you and the two ladies down the street, and the young child who is afraid to say anything about how she is feeling about the wrongness of her body. A good day to be someone who trusts that the Spirit has something to say to the rest of us through the experience of their lives.

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(Originally published in the Catholic Times, July 12, 2012 © 2012 Mary van Balen)

Wednesday, July 11 was the feast of Saint Benedict of Nursia. Before his birth in 480, the Roman Empire was crumbling and various barbarian tribes had invaded Italy. Benedict studied in Rome during a peaceful interlude, but paganism and deteriorating conditions of the city were too much for the young man who left the city and lived as a hermit for a while in Subiaco. His holiness attracted others and eventually, he consented to become an abbot for a group of monks.

This first experiment did not end well; the monks tried to poison him! But later, Benedict did shepherd a number of small monastic communities, eventually founding the monastery of Monte Cassino. Benedict is most famous for his Rule that guided the lives of the monks. He called it a rule for beginners, but it has become the foundation for most monastic rules in the West.

I have had the opportunity to live near one of the largest Benedictine Abbey’s in the country and spent time joining the monks in Liturgy of the Hours as well as Mass. Benedictine hospitality wraps around visitors and draws us in. After a few days, one becomes accustomed to the slow cadence of praying the Psalms, pausing at the end of each line regardless of punctuation, allowing God to slip into the hiatus.

I took time this morning to reread the Rule. Written so long ago, parts are no longer applicable, but for anyone desiring to grow closer to God, Benedict offers wisdom and guidance. In the Prologue, Benedict uses Scripture (He does so throughout as did Francis in his Rule.) to assure us of God’s desire for us, God’s loving Presence, and the Spirit’s voice speaking to all “…that have ears to hear.” Famously, Benedict’s Rule stresses moderation and flexibility. He aims to “…set down nothing harsh, nothing burdensome…” but “…a little strictness to amend faults and safeguard love.”  Read More