Mary van Balen

The Lord's voice shattering the cedars;
The Lord shatters the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes Lebanon leap like a calf
And Sirion like a young ox.

The Lord's voice flashes flames of fire.
The Lord's voice shaking the wilderness,
The Lord's voice shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.
The Lord's voice rending the oak tree
And stripping th forest bare.
Ps. 29





The Psalm said the Lord’s voice shattered cedars. I looked around the Abbey Church. We were still standing, monks and the rest of us. All in all, morning prayer was pretty calm. A few voices stumbling to follow the chant. A few more following a more hurried pace, not yet used the monastic practice of pausing a bit at the end of each line regardless of punctuation. Prayer with the monks slows me down and gives God time to move into the hiatus. I have been here before. I know the pace will soon become habitual and when I return home, church will seem rushed.

But I am waiting for my heart to be shattered like the cedars. To feel Divine Power shaking me to my roots. Then I’ll know what to be about. What words to put down on paper…or in this case to fill the computer screen. Selling bras at Macy’s, doing laundry, watering flowers. It isn’t enough. Or it seems not to be. Then there was the customer who came by on Saturday just to wish me well at the workshop. Her daughter stopped by last week and told me her mom talks about me all the time. Recently widowed, she is a bit lost, and enjoys our conversations and my interest.

“Remember the worker priests of the 50’s and 60’s?” my counselor asked. “That is you. At Macy’s.” I guess she is right. I have women who come back to see me, sometimes just to talk, like Claire who wished me well, or Katherine, the sweet old woman in a wheelchair who told me she was so glad that she met me and had me fit her for bras. We spent forty minutes picking out three. There was the young woman who worked in the same department. She is a writer, too. Life had been beating her down lately. Assault. Illness. Separating parents. Medications. She missed too much work and was let go. I am sorry for that. She was great with customers and worked hard putting bras away, a thankless and futile exercise. We connected. I read her poetry. We hugged goodbye.

(Hmm the dragonfly at my backdoor. Does he want back in after I rescued him from the bathtub this morning? Or maybe just saying ‘thank you?’)

So, where is the soul-shaking I long for? Read More 

PHOTOS:Mary van Balen
I live in the house where she and dad raised my four silblings and me. I sit on their couch, launder clothes in the washer she'd used for years and gaze out the dining room window, watching squirrels scamper up and down the grand pin oak in the front yard. Just like mom did, and her mother before her. Over the past two years since she died, many things remind me of her and I miss her face, her hugs, her love.

Thanksgiving preparations put an ache in my heart, a deep-down "missing mom" that lingered over dinner and remained as I fell into bed.

I used her rolling pin to make pie crusts.

"There's nothing to making a pie crust," she always said. Her mother, Becky, who lived with us, had said the same thing. I believed them and have made my own pastry since I could reach the counter. With every handful of flour, every pass of the rolling pin over the dough, I thought of her and tried to put as much love as she had done into each pie.

"Mom," I said, "I could use one of your smiles, or comments that everything will be fine. Read More 

PHOTO:Mary van Balen
Yesterday was a struggle. Perhaps, as my spiritual director suggested, this year's holiday season will be difficult. When she mentioned that a week ago, I was quick to respond: "Oh, I don't think so. I have been living on my own for close to two and a half years. Besides being legally recognized, not much has changed. I'll be fine."

She smiled, and knew better I suspect. This time last year my three daughters joined dad and me for Thanksgiving. This year, Dad is in a nursing home, and I baked a ham tonight to give him an alternative to turkey when my daughter and I have dinner with him at noon on Thursday. Later my daughter and I will visit one of my brothers and his wife. I need to be in bed early to be ready for work in at 4:45 am on Black Friday (Stay tuned for that one!).

Many times all three daughters have not been able to make it home for Thanksgiving. What is different this year is that there is no family home for them to return to, and there will not be again, at least not in the traditional understanding of "family home." Read More