Mary van Balen

Pay attention, come to me; listen, and your soul will live.


Mid Morning Prayer (Terce) Isaiah 55:3






Isaiah's words from today's Liturgy of the Hours are short and to the point. Why does something as simple as "pay attention" need said, especially when the result is vitality of spirit? Many times my columns, articles, and blogs include references to being present to the moment. Writer, Don Murray, says writers have a few "themes" that provide a core for their works.

Being present to God in the moment is one of mine. Why write about it, coming at it from different directions over and over again? It resurfaces because as much as I know its importance, being faithful to its practice is difficult.

Attentiveness needs time to bear fruit, like planting a seed and watering it. The sprout does not appear immediately, but without water, it will not appear at all.

Lent calls us to attentiveness. God's Spirit may lie quiet and unnoticed in our souls, like plants resting out of sight all winter long. Taking time to be with the Holy One in the stillness of our hearts, in quiet moments snatched from a busy day, nurtures God’s life in each of us and promises to bring it to bloom.
© 2011 Mary van Balen Read More 

PHOTO: SAINT JOHN'S ABBEY
Life’s twists have turned me into a vagabond, and my Benedictine spirit is rebelling. A large canvass tote packed with a change of clothes, calcium pills, and a notebook sits at my bedside, ready to go. My purse holds a toothbrush and phone charger as well as more standard fare. I have deodorant and a Ziploc of herb teas on the nightstand at a friend’s house and have to look at my planner to remember where I need to be the following night.

This morning, I walked into the kitchen of my father’s home, switched on the electric teakettle, and felt an overwhelming need to cook. I wanted to fill the refrigerator with foods like eggplant, sugar-snap peas, and chicken. I wanted to stay put instead of shuttling between the house I am preparing to sell, a friend’s where I crash after I’ve packed a day’s worth of boxes, and the big home where I grew up. I carried a mug of tea into the upstairs bathroom where I sank into a tub of hot water and read a few pages of Anne Lamott before realizing that what woke me at 6am was the same thing that had dogged me for a couple of weeks: My monastic soul longed to stay put. I needed to cook, to pray, and to be faithful to the writerly life. Why didn’t I? Read More