The Just Us Problem

The Just Us Problem

There must be something in the grand design of things that limits our horizons.  I do not know why that is.  But I know that I have fallen victim to its effects many times in my life.

Briefly put, something about us drives us to limit our range of seeing and loving to those with whom we feel at home.  We go through life making constant circles and invite into them only those who think like us, share our supposed values, like what we do and reinforce our strong and weak points.  I suppose it is comfortable there.  No one in the4 circles challenges us to see or move beyond them.  Our points of view solidify.  In short, we see life myopically. 

The monastery is an interesting place in light of the above.

The hardest thing I found when I moved here seventeen years ago was learning to live with and learn from people I normally would have avoided prior to coming here.  I simply would have chosen not to cross paths with them.  They would have had no claim on my time, my interest, my agenda.  I suppose it was a clique mentality that I bought into many years ago, as far back as grammar school.  Like attracts like, and all that.  And when I was ordained a priest, I began to see things differently through the many couples I married, most of whom started out their marriages on the “just us” float.  They clung to each other out of a need to keep secure and forever the heady throes of early love.  I began to see that if a marriage was to stay well and reasonably healthy, the little circle of two would have to break.  Marriages can deepen in love and maturity only to the extent that a couple learns that their love is for others. 

There are similar lessons for me here.  We all need special friends, and I have them here, but the call of friendship leads one outside the confines of the friendship to a larger world.  A healthy community life is a living blend of men or women who strive to embrace the whole.  All belong.  All can learn from each other.  All struggle to live their humanity in and through the others.  It is an ongoing challenge.  It is always possible to drop out, or to show up to community life and just pay lip service.  But the invitation is always there to give of oneself in the here and now.  The community takes an exacting toll on the heart of any one member.  But it is the only way that the heart can be given back, renewed and deepened with the wisdom and life that the community alone can give.

            There can never be a time or a place where the “just us” life thrives.  It may survive for a while, but the call for growth, for expansion and a life into the new, is always just beyond the confines of the secure.  Growth is inevitable.  It may take a long time to move out of one’s carefully guarded “me” confines.  But we will all come to know the joy and promise that beyond whatever home we plan for ourselves, God has another one, one that includes those we left out along the way.  It is through them that we will always learn the ways of love and of betterment. 

Our Busy Season

Our Busy Season

We are in the midst of our busiest season.  We here at the monastery are much like the rest of the world in this season when we await the feasts of Christmas and the New Year.  But we are busily waiting.  There are concerts, cards to write and send, greetings galore and, above all, the packing and shipping of our Abbey Store items.  All the baking is done, all the other preparations are made, and so the daily routine consists of taking the many orders that come in and shipping them out.  I help with that – and I like it.  A number of monks head down to the shipping area every day and put in a full day’s work.  We have a lot of fun and the job has its interesting and, at times, funny aspects.

Some years back part of my job was taking orders over the phone.  A lot of calls came in every day and there were times I needed patience.  Some people had to go look for their credit cards – I could hear the footsteps fade into the distance and had to wait until the callers came back on the line.  The receding footsteps reminded me of the end of an old movie.  There were times I wondered if they kept their card in a neighboring state. On other occasions they got the wrong card and had to go looking again.  More than a few callers wanted to know if there was alcohol in the fruit cakes.  I told them that there was but that we were told that the damaging effects of the alcohol would have been burned off during the baking process.  Right or wrong, that little bit of wisdom did not do much good.  I guess I did not sound convincing enough and a lot of the people decided to go for the fudge – until I told them that some of the fudge contained brandy.  Well, that did not go over too well.  Other people wanted to know the exact ingredients and especially if there were nuts in the cakes.  I learned that a lot of people are very allergy conscious.  We tried to make everybody happy.  But we had no nut-free cakes. There were times I would have liked to have said the same thing about some of the callers.

But the best was when a lady called from Brooklyn and wanted to know how much it cost to ship a fruit cake to India UPS Ground.  I asked her to repeat that and when I was sure as to what she said I told her, very politely and kindly, like, really,that there is no ground between here and India.  There is a lot of water.  And the cake would have to go by air, which would cost something like seventy-dollars, the cost of the cake excluded.  She huffed and said that she could buy three cakes with that same amount of money.  I corrected her, again very kindly, and told her that the amount would pay for five with some change left over.  She never did get the cake.  Maybe they sell fruit cakes in India.  I hope so.  That was an example as to how a little bit does not necessarily go a long way. 

We have long since handed over the receiving of the calls to an outside group.  They handle the callers with grace, with finesse, with holiday cheer – the kind you do not drink.

So.  The Season is here.  May it be bright for you, and busy.  May your cakes take to the skies.  May your seasonings and condiments bring only health. It is, after all, a season of miracles. 

Theology and Life

Theology and Life

It seems to be a no-brainer to assert that there is a relationship between theology and life.  But is such a relationship a given?  There are ample indications that, on several levels, theology and life are struggling at a great distance from each other.  Many people struggle to get through life without the slightest help of illumination from theology.  And many theologians ply their trade completely removed from the concerns of people.  To my way of thinking, the two worlds meet at one juncture and one juncture only.  When a man or a woman takes the time to reflect on the messiness of life and the possibility, the hope, that God is a living part of the mess; when words from that awareness come, and maybe even flow, human experience is given windows into itself.  We are helped to see, to feel, who we are, what we suffer, what we hope for, and can then live in the light of those words and in the light of each other.

Sacramental theology is a good point of departure to suggest what I mean.  The sacraments are earthy.  They are not understandable apart from flesh and blood, water and fire, birth and death, sexuality and desire.  The sacraments live in and are revealed through life experiences.  They encompass everything – food, comfort, hope, home.  They are not removed from life.  They immerse us into life, into what we are really doing when we eat, love, heal, forgive.  They serve as markers for the holiness that is life, for the sacredness that we are and move through every moment of our lives. 

Life experience invites one to theologize.  “God language” need not be rarified formulations or graduate degree tomes.  A sensitive ear or eye or heart will be able to pick up living signs of the ways of the divine in this life.  The cry of a baby, the tears of an old man, the longing for a deceased loved one; poems and songs that hope for more, want more, that transcend the boundaries of culture and time in that they lift the hearts of millions to hope for what is yet to come. 

Church leaders look about them and wonder why people are leaving their congregations, or why they are disenchanted with them, or cannot connect with its teachings.  Perhaps they would do wise to look at themselves and ask if it is they who have lost touch with people.   The various departures are telling.  People are trying to find God in this life and the quest is on – and they will find it, in art, music, photography, poetry – places that are struggling to making the right and lasting connections between heaven and earth.  These are realms in which people labor to create, to connect, to share.  They take risks and are not afraid of failure.  If their efforts somehow fail or miss the mark, they are not afraid to try again. And again.  Something about the organized churches is too satisfied, too secure within their framework of preconceived questions and answers.  But these only seem to work for those who benefit the most from the system – the institutional leaders.  Dismay and setbacks do not seem to be a part of their experience, or even their vocabulary.  And that is not human, either.

I do not have any answers.  Perhaps there aren’t any on this side of the road.  For those on the other side, those who seem to have “arrived,” they may notice too late that fewer and fewer people are following their example.  They are looking elsewhere, and they like what they are finding.  Churches will close.  Some will turn into restaurants or galleries – places where food and beauty are shared and discussed.  A change, perhaps, for the better. 

A Memory

It was a typical morning.  Maybe too typical.  I was determined to get some things done that seemed at the time important to me.  I sat here at the computer and reached for a few letters on my desk.  One letter was from Gaetan, a monk and friend of mine.  He lives in Gethsemani, our monastery in Kentucky.  I met him many years ago and we exchange letters.  He is a wonderful writer.  He writes beautifully of simple things, things available to any one of us who takes the time or, better, the effort to look at the events of daily life.

I read his letter and want to share some of it with you.  Gaetan once lived in our monastery in Lantau, China.  The monastery is on an island and not far from Hong Kong.  He was on a boat between Hong Kong and another island, Peng Chau.   The boat was making its way to the monastery.  Gaetan writes that it was a very old boat and that he was delighted, for it was, as he puts it, “like being out of time.”  The middle of the boat was open, and there was seating along the side.  A young woman was sitting with her little boy, who was about three years old.  “A beautiful, typical Chinese kid with his hair all sticking up.”  Gaetan was gazing at the river and when he looked again at the little boy, things had changed.  The boy was standing in the open space.  Suddenly, he wet his pants and started to cry out loud.  His arms hung to his sides as the urine stained his pants and formed a small puddle at his feet.  Gaetan writes that he felt do badly for him, he felt like crying himself.  He writes:

“I felt so bad for him that I could have cried with him.  I understood him completely.  I do not know why he did not ask his mother but there is a world of mystery going on inside a little child. It was like he knew he was wrong but at the same time he could not control it and so there was no alternative for him.  Se he peed and cried.  His mother was a nice woman.  She immediately got up and kissed him while he finished what he could not hold anymore. The she took him aside and held him, speaking lovingly to him – it was all in Chinese – but the love and gesture said it all.”

The story stunned me.  I put the letter down and thought about all the supposed big and important things I had to do.  I thought of the littleness of that boy, not just in terms of his size, but his helplessness and his utter dependence on his mother. 

We like to think we grow.  We like to think that there is a way to realize, once and for all, independence.   We make our plans, arrange our schedules, make all the lists of what we do or think we should do.  And then, the day comes when we can no longer control our lives and have to let go.  We feel a pressure and then the warmth running down our legs.  Things fall apart.  We need help.  And we realize that we were always like that – our independence was illusory.  The first and last word of human existence is more like a cry, a plea for some good and loving other. 

Gaetan writes that the memory is of a ride on a boat that sailed a river twenty years ago.  And it has stayed with him all these years.  He learned wisdom, the ways of God, from a mother and her son.  He did not understand a word that was shared between them.  He could only see and understand a cry, and a loving response.  The truth of salvation, on a small boat in between islands. 

The Stubborn Lock

The lock on the door to this room where I write has been problematic for a long time.  When I stick the key into the lock, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.  On good days, it works smoothly.  On bad days, I have to wrestle with the key, turning it and jiggling it until it turns and then it is very difficult to remove.  But it always works, give or take a few extra seconds.  I do not mind.  It gets the job done.

Augustine told me recently that he wanted to make extra copies of the key and that Alphonse would be coming by to check the lock and the key.  He was here a little while ago.  He could not open the door.  Well, he finally did, with no small amount of difficulty.  He told me that something was wrong with the lock.  I told him I knew that.  Then he said he would send Alex up here to put a new lock on the door and that Alex would then make extra keys and give several to me. 

Then Alphonse started talking about the lock and what might be the matter with it.  Some words I knew.  Most words I never ever ever heard of.  Well, let me qualify that.  I heard of most of the words but what they mean in the lock and key context is beyond me.  And two words baffled me.  A tang?  A cam?  And the rest – a dead bolt, inner and outer panels, pins, a spring – they were somewhat familiar to me in that at least I had heard them before.   Interesting.  But way beyond me, as to how they fit together and work so as to secure a no-entry or easy-entry door.

You do not know, I realize, Alex, Alphonse and Augustine.  They are great men, very handy with tools and machines and getting big and little jobs done.  They have been a wonderful help to me.  Like I said, I would have continued to spend years rattling that key in the door until it turned correctly and the door opened.  I think it drove Alphonse crazy this morning when he could not get the key to function.  I would have told him that all it takes is a sense of, a “feel,” for the right way to twist and pull.  But it was better that I kept silent.

I was writing something about God when Alphonse came in.  Putting words together on this computer, big words and little words, a twist here and a jangle there, all in the hope of writing something nice about a being I have never met and whose existence is behind the door that leads to the next life.

I have no key to that.

I admire Augustine, Alphonse and Alex.  I think they like my writing.  They have told me as much.  But something tells me that they are onto something that I tend to ignore.  There are all sorts of doors and keys, locks and cams and tangs in this life.  We are very adept at making them, and keeping things secure.  We make sure that some come in and others stay out.

But A, A and A know how to get in and out of all kinds of places.  I believe Paradise has a lockless and Pearly Gate.  And, if Hell has a lock, A, A and A will find a way to open it.   I think that is what angels are about.  And I think that is what God is about, training us to do what we can to open doors, turn keys, turn hearts.  I hope I do that with my words.  I know three men who do that with a smile, a kind word, and maybe a jiggle.

Belmar

Summer is upon us and the warmer weather has a way of enticing my memories of long gone summers.  When I was younger I used to spend many summer days down in Belmar, New Jersey.  It is a small town on the Jersey shore.  It has long had a reputation as a summer haven for high school and college kids.  I am sure it still enjoys that reputation.  I would go to a small bungalow on 15^th Avenue, which was owned by close friends of mine.  We would spend hours on the front porch, which had a hammock and chairs.  At night, we could see the passing cars and passersby.  People walking their dogs, or young couples walking along and holding hands.  Older people, too, would walk by, taking in the cool of the evening as they headed in the direction of the boardwalk.

There was an enormous nightclub several blocks away which catered to the young crowd.  The place was always packed and from the porch we could hear the howls and the laughter as the crowd there moved into full swing.  The name of the club was Bar Anticipation.  It was and still is the place “to be” in Belmar on a hot summer’s night.

I was there in the winter a few years back. The town was deserted, since most of the houses were summer rentals and were closed up.  The boardwalk was closed for the winter months.  Main Street had a some places open, since there is a resident winter population in the area.  But the streets near the beach were practically deserted.  I stayed a few nights in the bungalow on 15^th Avenue with Bill, friend of mine.  His family owns the bungalow. We had a heater and some blankets, so the nights were fine.  In the evenings, we sat on the porch with the TV on in the room behind us, the volume turned low.  A bottle of wine was opened and we toasted each other and talked about old times, all the summers we enjoyed in that house, the memories flowing as easily and as readily as the wine.

The little bungalow is the kind of place that we know well at a particular time in our lives, and then we move on and leave it behind.  Yet its simplicity and its comfort is something we look for again and again all during our lives.  Many new places are silently compared to the elegant charm of a modest beach bungalow in Belmar.  It is as if it was a place that good memories were born, and it would be something of a miracle to reduplicate that process in all the later places of our lives.  But memories that glow are born from special times, special places.  I am fortunate that I can go back and savor the times that were, in the very place those memories came from.

When I was last there, Bill and I sat on the porch late into the night.  Bill wanted to go out, but I talked him into just hanging out there and chatting.  He asked me several times if things were okay, if I was sure I did not want to go out.  I told him no, that it was good to be there, to be at peace.  I could hear the ocean, its waves rhythmic, even, marking time with each roll on the beach.  Like days and years, as they come and then go.  But that night, all seemed still, and good.  Time rolling on, the taste of wine, a good friend, a return to what is beautiful and good in this life.

The Receipt

I have taken pictures all through the years.  I have my slides, prints and negatives.  I have been scanning them so that I can share them with my family and friends.  It is taking a long time, but it is worth it.  I am glad I kept everything – there must be something good said for the pack rat side of me.
Every so often, I come across something that more than sparks an interest.  It can, if I let it linger, light a bonfire of memories. This morning I came across one such thing.  It is a photo envelope from Plains Pharmacy, in Fairfield, New Jersey.  I was a priest in the parish there at the time, which, according to the date on the envelope, was August 10, 1977.  A roll of film cost $8.62 cents to be developed and printed.  It was Kodacolor film and there may have been two rolls, since there are two sleeves in the envelope that held two separate strips of negatives.  I scanned the negatives, which held memories galore.  There I am, hosting a car wash given by the youth group of the parish.  We had the wash behind the church.  I recognize the kids – now grown with families of their own.  I am still in touch with almost all of them. Looking at their faces, one by one, I can see now what they could not have seen.  Good times and bad.  Healthy and hurtful relationships and marriages.  Sickness and, in some cases, way too early a departure from this life.
There are pictures of the church as it was decorated for Advent.  Big colorful banners hang from the walls of the church.  I recently saw the woman who made them and asked her about them.  She said they were long gone.  Her name is Mary Anne and she looks well.  I will send her pictures of the banners.
And New Orleans.  I went with a couple at about that time.  It was a convention of sorts and I tagged along.  I visited family while I was there.  There is a nice shot of the couple standing next to a street car.
There are a few pictures of friends I sailed with on the Queen Elizabeth II.  We sailed from England to New York.  What a great trip that was. Some of the people in the photo have left this life.  Some are still here.  It was good to share a voyage with them across the sea.
There is the receipt.  Receipts have not changed that much.  There is a date and charge number, my name and address and the name and address of the pharmacy.  Charlie ran the pharmacy and Claire worked the register.  Charlie had a good sense of humor.  When he saw me, he used to say “Someday your prints will come in,” – a play on the similar phrase from Cinderella.  I got to know Claire’s family very well.  I am still in touch with them.
Some years later, Charlie lost the store and struggled a bit till he found another line of work.  I think he hoped to keep the store but could not keep pace with the deals being offered by the then up and coming big discount drug stores.  I still hear from him at Christmas.
There is a lottery ticket in the photo envelope from the store.  A “snap and win” lottery ticket.  I scraped off the gold on top of the numbers but in the process scraped off the numbers as well.  Maybe I won, maybe I lost.  But it makes no difference since in the small print on the back of the card, it reads that all prizes had to be claimed by December 15th, 1977.
Maybe I could have been a rich man.
But maybe I already am.
I need be still, and look at the pictures, and realize with some humility and gratitude how many people have befriended me.  I hope I have been as good and as friendly to them.  All kinds of people – photos do not differentiate between religions, creeds, beliefs, color or nationality.  Everyone has a beauty and a magic.  We each hold the charm of life and hopefully learn to share it, and, with a photo, keep it to remember.  While I have some life, some years left to me, I will take pictures, and keep the negatives, and pass them on.  They really do have something of a life, even after I am gone.

Charlie

WARNING: As Hurricane Irene batters the East Coast, federal disaster officials warned that Internet outages could force people to interact with other people for the first time in years. Residents braced themselves for the horror of awkward silences and unwanted eye contact. FEMA advised: “Be prepared. Write down possible topics to talk about in advance. Sports...the weather. Remember, a conversation is basically a series of Facebook updates strung together.”


The above was written by a Charlie, who is a friend of mine on, uh, Facebook.  Actually, I knew Charlie when he was a little kid.  I was his parish priest in Fairfield, New Jersey.  His mom and dad were great people – they worked for the parish for many years.  Charlie would often come with his dad, who ran the parish bingo operations.  As I remember him, Charlie had a wonderful smile and was as friendly as a kid can be.  His dad worked hard, as did his mom.  I think they had trouble making ends meet, but managed through the years to raise a fine family.
I found Charlie on the Facebook site shortly after I signed on.  I looked at his pictures.  He had been a Marine and is now married and has a beautiful wife and kids.  He works in construction and the above was posted on his “wall” a few days ago.  I think it is funny.  It is typical Charlie – I do not know if he wrote it but it sure is “him.”
There are times I miss the interaction I enjoyed with people when I served them as a parish priest.  Charlie and his family were and still are a gift to me.  I can see his mom and dad in my mind’s eye – how proud they were of their kids, and how very proud they must have been of Charlie.  He has lived a good life.  He is a good and giving man.
Say what you will about the pros and cons of Facebook.  It has enabled me to touch base with a lot of people I knew over the years.  Being in touch with them now reassures me that the only reason we are born to this life is to know each other, love each other and help each other. Maybe some day, I can return the kindnesses given me by Charlie and his family.
The world is shrinking, due to marvels like Facebook.  We really are in the process of becoming a global village.  People reach out all the time via social networks.  We might tend to over do it a bit, so the above quote might be for some close to their  experience.  But the human heart calls us back again and again to what is good and real in life.  To flesh and blood people, their smiles, their hopes and dreams, their need for human contact.
Facebook links people in Cyberspace.  I have a feeling that someday, I will see Charlie and his family again.  The internet offers a way to really connect.  It offers a way to embrace those we love and somehow lost touch with along the way.  It brings back good memories, good times, good people.

Some Religious Thoughts about Subway Riders

On my last trip up north, I rode the New York subways a lot.  My aunt was in a Brooklyn hospital and the easiest way to get there was by taking the train from New Jersey and then walking a few blocks from Penn Station to catch the N or the R subway to Brooklyn.  All in all, it took about an hour and a half to get from New Jersey to Brooklyn.
I like the subways.
I was thinking about the people I saw on them as I was falling off to sleep last night.  Maybe that is a kind of prayer for them.  I hope so.  I realize prayer is supposed to go directly to God with no stops or detours.  But the subway train and its riders were on my mind last night.  The people almost swayed in my thoughts as I pictured them riding the rails beneath Manhattan.  So I caught another ride with them, and I think that is close to God, too.  For he must have been in the subway, too.
There was a Chinese man whose little daughter squeezed in between his legs.  He sat next to me, by the door.  His daughter looked up at him and pointed to a plastic bottle he held in his hands.  She wanted a drink and he would smile and slip the straw in her mouth.  She would finish drinking and then rest her head in his lap.  She looked at me and smiled.
A young Latino mother sat across from me.  Her little boy, who looked to be about five, couldn’t stay still.  He would run from her, and then turn and laugh, and then run back.  She would try to grab him but he was quick.  He’s be off again before she could get her hands on him.  I had the feeling that the boy would have been in big trouble had not the others on the car been looking on.  The mother was careful to keep her cool.  And the little boy knew it.  And loved it.  And exploited it.
A young black couple were holding hands and kissing.
A lot of people had iPods, iPads, Kindles, MP3 players and other devices that had games on them.  In fact, I would say most people were absorbed in those things.
One lady sat across from me and when I looked at her I had to look away because I could not tell if she was a man or a woman.  There was something about her or him that was vaguely undefined.  Hard to tell, these days.
And old Chinese man was reading his paper.  The paper was in Chinese and I could see a page from how he held the paper.  I think it takes a near genius to read Chinese.  He smiled as he was reading.  And I wondered what made him smile.
A young guy got on with a CD player and his buddy was right behind him.  When the train started to move, the guy turned on the music and the buddy started to dance and twist, and then got onto the floor and spun around and around.  The music was good – I think it was something about sex by James Brown.  It was a fast, popping kind of song that made me want to move, to dance.  But as it was, I sat there.
The more I write this, the more I remember.  All the people, so handsome and beautiful, living life as best they can and moving beneath one of the greatest cities in the world.  All of it made by God, though God is always discrete, hidden, living as he does in all living things.  In the dance, in little thirsty babies, in kids running up and down the aisles, in the smile of an old man and the kiss of the young.  It is there every second of every day.  They say Manhattan is a city that never sleeps. God doesn’t sleep, either.  He rides.

Goodness as Revelatory

I have known Donnie all my life.  We were friends through school and then I moved away from town and did not see him as frequently.  I did see him recently.  I went back home and made it a point to get in touch with him.  He is a retired fireman.  I did not spend much time with Donnie during his working years.  We were both absorbed by our life callings.  I was a priest in the same town where Donnie was a fireman.
When I saw him this last trip, we covered a lot of ground in our conversations.  One night, we sat beneath an awning in a church parking lot.  It was raining, but we did not mind.  We drank red wine until the wee hours of the morning, and talked and talked.  He loves many of the same things I do – black and white photography, street scenes, the works of Diane Arbus, Vivien Meier, Cartier-Bresson.  I told him about other photographers I thought he might enjoy, like Milton Rogovin, Helen Stummer and Helen Leavitt.  Donnie absorbed everything I said.  He goes to Manhattan a lot.  From what I gathered, he heads into the city on a weekly basis, taking in all kinds of scenes – music, museums, book stores, art galleries, photo exhibitions.  He is a walking encyclopedia of Manhattan culture – high, low, and in between.  He loves Italy and has gone back many times over the last twelve or so years, making contacts with relatives and friends over there.  He hosts parties for his family and friends that number in the hundreds – just from the immediate area of our home town.   He cooks – I see his delicacies on Facebook.  He never married – he lives in a big house that sounded like an open house to me.  Friends come and go and stay if need be.  Donnie has offered his home, his meals, his warmth to many a man or woman in need.
I remember Donnie as a gifted athlete and outstanding student.  He was an only child and I remember, too, how proud his parents were of him, and rightfully so.  He was always eager to do good and be good, and to share whatever he could with others.  I do not know it all came easily to him.  All I know is that he made it look effortless.
At one point in our conversations, he must have felt he made a lapse in something that he said.  He looked at me and said, “I have never been religious…I do not go to church.  When I was a kid, it all seemed so narrow to me, I needed some space, some way out of that l box.”  I said I understood and refrained from trying to encourage him to see himself in a different light – the light with which I saw and see him.
But now I can take a stab at it.
Donnie told me that he likes my writing.  It comes naturally to me.  I do not make a big deal out of it.
I like what he does not make a big deal of.  I like his naturalness, his goodness, his willingness to go out of his way to help others.  And think nothing of it.
One day while I was in Manhattan, it poured rain.  It really came down.  I was soaked.  And on top of that, the trains to New Jersey were cancelled.  Something about a derailment on the Jersey side.  I finally made it home by bus.  My cell phone rang the next day and it was Donnie.  He said he had tried to call me to see if I needed a ride from Manhattan – he had heard about the derailments and wanted to come in and get me.  I got the message but did not play it back until he told me that.
I am in my monastery now, a place where we ponder spirituality and the place of God in this life.  I suppose that a church secures for some a sense of God.  But for me, a phone call like Donnie’s assures me that I am in the right place.  And I am glad that Donnie moved along in life along the lines he loved – I sense he finds God there, too.  And gives him away, through a call, through his love of beauty, through his open house and great food.  It all somehow fits, even though we cannot always see it.  A bit of rain helps, along with a good friend and some red wine.