Mary Bea Sullivan

Raphael's "The Alba Madonna"

“The practice of paying attention really does take time….Reverence requires a certain pace.  It requires willingness to take detours, even side trips, which are not part of the original plan.”  Barbara Brown Taylor, An Altar in the World

Refreshed from a week of reading  writers who illumine the sacred in the most commonplace, I was intent on an excursion with an eye for encounter.  And so I grabbed my bag and stuffed a composition notebook, rollerball pen, reading glasses, and a copy of An Altar in the World for a day in DC. I moved with deliberate peace–fruit of time spent with the likes of Taylor, Lamott, Thurman, and De Waal.  Somehow, their noticing reminded me to do the same.

As the Metro jostled, I sat in my seat re-reading favorite passages from Taylor’s book.  Mothers with children, couples cuddling, and i-pod plugged teens moved around me, but Taylor transported me to a farm in Georgia where “you can see the souls in pebbles, ants, small mounds of moss, and the acorn on its way to becoming an oak tree.”  Twenty minutes later when I disembarked from the train, I eagerly anticipated time alone wandering on “the mall.”  I wanted to go the National Art Gallery.  Sunshine cut through the cool air as I appreciated the rare freedom of traveling alone.  Energy necessary for negotiating which way to go, or engaging in idle conversation was freed up to notice.

On the way to the Gallery, I stumbled onto an outdoor ice skating rink. Plunking down on the cold, stone bench which encircled the rink, I relished the role of observer.  A mother and father over-eagerly encouraged their kindergarten-aged son.  He gripped the rail, slowly sliding one skate forward and then another to the chorus of, “You are amazing!  We never imagined you would do this well.”  That kid is going to need a lot of therapy when he finds out he doesn’t get a trophy just for showing up for work.  I snarkily mused.

Music blared “Nothing from nothing leaves nothing!” while a young man playfully danced in front of a beautiful and amused young woman.  Will they have a baby some day and marvel at his first attempt at skating? I pondered.  A large latino man with two barely-walking toddlers whipped his camera out to take a picture of them outside of the rink.  Before he could snap the shot, his wife snapped at him, “I don’t want their picture here.  They aren’t even skating.”  Defeated, he put his camera away and both parents missed their little girl giggling and cocking her head in wonder at the skaters.

Finally, I tired of eavesdropping and walked over to the National Art Gallery. Initially it was my intention to see as much art as possible. But after a few minutes in the impressive rotunda, drinking in the floral display, my pace slowed to a wander.  I decided to go “off road,” deeming the map in hand useless.  I was inspired by Taylor’s reminder that “The practice of paying attention really does take time….Reverence requires a certain pace.  It requires willingness to take detours, even side trips, which are not part of the original plan.”

Entering the room with 15th Century Florentine art, I was struck by the number of Madonnas.  Raised Catholic, devotion to Mary comes naturally to me.  However, recently I had not felt that familiar connection.  Drifting slowly from one artist’s interpretation after another, Mary called to me.  Lorenzo Monaco’s Madonna warily looked out at the world that waited to take her babe.  Raphael’s “Alba Madonna” was sexy, earthy even in her blue-strapped sandals.

I sat down on the grey couch facing “The Mourning Madonna.”  Pulling the notebook out of my purse I wrote, unacknowledged tears  slowly surfacing.  Something in her sadness touched my loneliness–a sense of loss in leaving my beloved husband so far away.  I waited for an answer, for something she might say.  Perhaps it was the embrace of a soft couch and recognition of sadness unknown that needed to be “heard.”

Even though people swirled around me, pressing through the exhibits, my steps were measured; as if I were at a private art show.  Mary reminded me that this was a moment I would not live again.  And so I took the time I often feel I don’t have, and gazed lovingly in the eyes of one who has known exaltation and sorrow.  One artist’s rendering embodied Mary’s seeming knowledge of the torture the world had in store for her little boy.  Other’s cast her eyes downward, emphasizing humility.  Many renditions showed the babe clutching near her breast for life.  She held and supported, but did not cling.

The most jarring painting of all was entitled, “The Crucifixion” by Luca Signorelli.  Robed in black, collapsed in the arms of Mary Magdalene and the other women, Mary’s exhausted grief seared against the backdrop of her murdered son.  I wanted to walk away from this painting, but forced myself to stay.  Stomach churning, I wrote, “We are only vessels for the life, but theirs is a life of their own.”  I had been fighting this truth, trying to control my newly-adult children, ignoring the futility in believing I could protect them from harm.

Walking with Mary from Annunciation, to manger, magi, and cross awakened in me seeds of awareness who’s time had come.  Thankfully the pace of the past week had watered that fertile ground.  Meandering through the gallery, taking time with no agenda, allowed an uncanny sense of holy sanctuary in the midst of many.

Clearly, an entire day set aside for the “practice of paying attention” is a luxury.  Yet all of us can bring a heightened sense of awareness to one ordinary daily task–like folding laundry or walking the dog.  What one thing would you like to do today with reverence?  What inspiration awaits?

Annie Dillard

This week I am taking a contemplative writing class.  It is a luxury to conflate two of my loves–writing and prayer.  Anyway, I was assigned to write a letter to Annie Dillard in response to her piece, “On A Hill Far Away” from her book Teaching a Stone to Talk. Below is a copy of the letter.  I hope you will be able to make sense of things, even if you haven’t read the essay.

Dear Annie:

Or, should I say, “Dear Ms. Dillard?”  You don’t seem so formal, but to call you Annie when we have never met assumes a false intimacy.  You see, your writing gives me a glimpse into the depths of your soul, but you know nothing of mine.  Does that bother you, I wonder?  That people think they know your life when in fact they only know pieces?  I remember reading a quote from Anne Lamott that said something like, “People think they know me, but they only know the parts of me I choose to share.”

Ah, I’ve answered my own question.  Do you mind if I start over again?  

Dear Ms. Dillard:

Dang!  Where did you learn to write?  Ugh, there I go again, acting like I know you.  Since you probably sent this to the shredder after that dang, I’m going to move on more freely, less concerned about how you might be crinkling your nose at this note.  If you are still reading, I sincerely want to know so many things.

How did you learn to eye details like a hawk stalking mice in the field?   I sense writing is a spiritual practice for you.  But I looked on your website and saw you make a point of saying that you are not religious.  (By the way, I know you aren’t asking, but you REALLY need to hire a publicist–if that is your website I am concerned about your financial well-being.  How could someone so accomplished allow something so–I don’t know, so rudimentary represent them?  I thought that typeset was outlawed in 1985.)

Wait, is that the point?  Do you see such gorgeous detail because you waste not a moment on mundane issues like typeset and websites?  Are you unplugged most of the time?  Please don’t be offended, I’m not referring to the kind of “unplugged” which implies shifting around the kitchen in a batter-smeared housecoat with egg dangling from wiry hair.  I mean, do you turn off your phone, your computer, and your heater now and then so you can hear the silence?  Do you rock in a rocker at sunset, dissolving with the day?

I’m asking these questions because I want to know what you do to write in a way that makes me want to walk home with a little boy whose “eyebrows shoot up,” and “speaks in whole sentences.” I want to witness what happens when he’s greeted by a mother who  “works her hands” to muster up the courage to ask strangers if they knew the Lord as their personal savior.  How did you make me care?  Is it because you do?  What  brutal pain broke your heart open such that you have come to savor simple encounters?  Perhaps it wasn’t pain that broke you open-but love.  Richard Rohr says something about love and pain being the two paths to the Divine.  I could look it up, but I’m getting into that unplugged thing.  So, was it pain?  Love?  Both?

A friend of mine teaches writing workshops.  Sometimes she takes this irritating schoolmarm tone, waggles her finger and says, “Show it, don’t tell it!”  You, Ms. Dillard are the goddess of the show it!  I could smell the roast in your oven, I squirmed for both of you when you stood outside your neighbor’s screen door.  Tell me, do I abandon the realities of my world when immersed in your words, because you have abandoned yours?

I read on your website that you don’t read letters from admirers anymore.  Since I am now positive you aren’t reading this, I’m going to ask something bold of you.  (This begs the question, if I know you aren’t reading this, why am I writing it?  It’s the kind of question a good therapist would ask.)  Anyway, “Can we go to lunch?”  You seem so real, I think I would really enjoy being with you.  And you’re kind, I know that because even though you were freezing, you chose to pull up your jacket collar and spend a bit more time with that lonely boy.

I know you don’t consider yourself religious, I hope you won’t be upset, but you are a Christian.  Not only are you kind, you are grateful.  You related your choice to shiver with a soul that needed tending, to those who have stood with you.  From the snippets I gather, that Falwell-following neighbor is nothing like you–but you listened to her, treated her with dignity, and respected her.  I’ve met enough judgmental religious people to know, (in fact sometimes I am one) that you my friend, do Jesus proud.

This is so cool.  I am really glad you aren’t reading this.  In a way, I wish no one was, because it has been so freeing not to write for a grade.  I’m going to let these little letters streak naked across the page before the baton-weilding academic police return next week.  Hell, I might even write to Anne Lamott and Barbara Brown Taylor for the sheer joy of it!

But you know much more about the oppressive side of writing than this seminarian, don’t you?  What is it like to have the pressure of a fan base?  Deadlines?  What do you do when the well runs dry and gaggle of admirers show up with their buckets–thrusting them toward you?  What nourishes you such that you can open your eyes to see “golden foals running to keep from falling?”

I have a confession to make.  I have heard about you for a long time, but never read your work.  As you know, lots of great writers quote you.  “Annie Dillard this, Annie Dillard that.”  For the longest time I have thought, I need to read Annie Dillard.  But who has the time?

Is that what you help us to remember with your keen observations?  That the only way we will notice if a boy calls his parent “Father” or “Dad” is if we take time; time to listen–devoutly.

Bless you Ms. Dillard, Annie, Goddess of the Show It!  Thank you for emptying your heart out into the world and onto the page.

Love, (I can say that because you’re not reading this).
Love, love, love, Mary Bea

NOTE:  I learned in class that even though Annie Dillard says she is not religious on her website, she was raised Presbyterian and converted to Roman Catholicism as an adult.

Do not fret–it only leads to evil.* 

So says the Psalm.  I wonder, did the psalmist ever birth a child?

I have seen mothers bury daughters-their own flesh in the ground.

I have seen mothers visit sons in cells-traverse the road from silver spoon to tin cup with nary a frown?

How in the world does one not fret in a fraught and fragile world?

Do not fret–it only leads to fear…Do LOVE –it always leads to Good.

Do not fret–it only immobilizes…Do LOVE–it always emboldens.

Do not fret–it only sucks life…Do LOVE–it always breathes anew.

Do not fret–it only builds walls…Do LOVE–it always builds bridges.

Do not fret, and yet, at times I do.  So I won’t fret about fretting, and instead invite LOVE into my begetting.   

Last Sunday I had the opportunity to offer the sermon at Grace Episcopal Church in Cullman, AL.  If you would like to read the text, you may click here for a transcript of the sermon.  I hope it is as meaningful for you to read as it was for me to write and share.

Below are links to books or people that I reference:

Lost in Wonder by Esther De Waal

Roger Ferlo at VTS

Sr. Joan Chittester

Well, I am slogging through a Clinical Pastoral Education application so that I can work for free in a hospital this summer.  Can you tell I don’t have a great attitude about this?  Anyway, my poor opinion of spending the summer as a volunteer chaplain-in-training is a bit mortifying to my dear, chaplain husband.  In order to be accepted into a program, I am required to rehash lots of life’s adventures and glean what has been learned along the way.  Since I am a bit sick of myself and my story, what should be intriguing, is not.

Yet I did unearth a gem in mining my past– time with Flossie and Florence.  So, instead of writing my application, I’m going to tell you about these two fabulous women.  I met Flossie and Florence in 1983 during my junior year of college.  I went to the University of Dayton, a Catholic school, and one of the requirements was a semester of service learning.  For reasons I cannot explain, I chose to be a Hospice volunteer.

Florence was dying of cancer and her sister Flossie was her caregiver. The first time I drove up to their house, I was afraid. Even though I had been given basic training from Hospice, I wasn’t exactly sure exactly what it would be like to be with someone who was dying.  It didn’t help that they lived in one of the seediest neighborhoods in Dayton.  I remember sitting in my little white Pontiac Sunbird afraid to get out of the car.  The broken metal gate swinging on its hinges in their front yard seemed like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Eventually I mustered up the courage to ring their door bell.

As soon as I entered their home I was struck by two things–the strong odor of their many airedale terriers, and Flossie and Florence’s loving welcome. Thankfully, the latter overpowered the former. Flossie and Florence were characters.  They had actually been vaudeville performers in their younger days.    They laughed frequently and were grateful to have a new audience for their wild and bawdy stories. I was not, and am not, a prude, but some of what they shared probably wasn’t appropriate for my young ears.

I loved Flossie and Florence.  They opened me to a side of town and a dimension of life that I had never known.  Sometimes it was hard to see them suffer.  As Florence’s condition worsened, Flossie’s humor and care carried them both.  I admired their bond.  They required little of me,  simply wanting me to show up.  It seemed important to them as they relived their glory days, that I witnessed all they had shared.

On the night that Florence died, Flossie called for me to sit with them by her bedside.  It was late and I was nervous about going into their neighborhood, about being with dying.  I stayed for a few hours, caressing Florence’s parched lips with vaseline and ice chips.  Her lungs rattled for hours, the Hospice nurse was surprised how long she hung on.  Finally, he said to me, “I have been with many folks who have died and when they wait like this, usually there is a reason.  I could be wrong,” he said,  “but I think she doesn’t want to die in front of you Mary.’  Relieved and saddened,  I left.  Fifteen minutes later, when I walked in the door of my home, my roommate greeted me with a hug and the news that Florence had died.   (This was pre-cell phones folks.)

Little did I know Flossie and Florence would prepare the way for me to be with others in their dying.  Little did I know that Flossie and Florence would be the foundation for my starting Project Compassion, an end-of-life care non-profit  15 years later.  And now, as I reflect on this story I am given two brand-new gifts from Flossie and Florence.

First, if I just got on with it and write this application, I will be in a position to meet many more Flossies and Florences this coming summer. 

Second, my children, Brendan and Kiki are in the exact same year of college that I was when I embarked on this adventure.  My mom would’ve freaked  if she knew how bad that neighborhood was, or how late I would go to their home.  Sometimes I cringe at the risks that Brendan and Kiki take.  I want to protect them from bad neighborhoods and people I have not vetted.  I’m not saying I think they should disregard common sense (this is my disclaimer in case they ever read this, which I seriously doubt), but it does me good to remember the risks I took to be with Flossie and Florence and all the good that came from that experience.

When did you take a chance?  How were you rewarded (or not)? Is there something you are resisting in your life right now?  Feel free to share your thoughts below.

Cutchenmine Trail at Lake Guntersville , AL

Yesterday,

my beloved

walked beside me

in the woods.

Silence,

crinkling leaves underfoot,

blue herons aflight.

Shafts of light

pierce

hearts on fire.

All is calm,

all is bright.

Amen

I bent down so the priest could lay her hands on each side of my face.  “For what would you like me to pray?” She asked in a soft, soothing voice.  “My back is killing me and I am just so stressed out.  I’m exhausted.”  I replied.

It was the Monday of final’s week, I was one of many who had come to receive healing prayers during the noon Eucharist service.  Shuffling forward one by one, we students and faculty were bleary-eyed from reading beyond comprehension, and physically exhausted from stretching our bodies beyond what is reasonable.  Many of my classmates coughed and sneezed their way to the altar.

For me, the stress had manifested where it often does-smack in my lower back.  Screaming for attention, my back would not allow me to sit comfortably, sleep soundly, or even stand in one position for very long.  There is never a good time for chronic pain–finals week is particularly inopportune.  Yet, isn’t that when we are most vulnerable to poor health?  When we have ignored the needs of our bodies and souls and pressed on denying basic care?

I do not remember exactly what Kate Sonderegger said as she gently placed her soft hands on my cheeks.  There was something about remembering the rest provided in Jesus Christ…honestly, it wasn’t what I heard so much as what I felt  that mattered.  Kate has a particularly pastoral presence, she exudes peace and love.  Yielding my over-stuffed head to rest in her loving palms was the beginning of healing for me.  I walked back to my seat with the a smile I had not felt for days. 

A couple of days later I noticed that the pain in my back had subsided significantly.  Was it Kate’s healing prayer?  My finally listening to my body and taking time to stretch and walk each day?  Was it the reminder that I could bring my pain to God and trust that healing would come?  All of the above?

I don’t know.  What I do know is that many of us probably are feeling that same sense of exhaustion now.  That post-Christmas weariness that is antithetical to the message that Christ came to share. Maybe you are one of the few who has found a way to avoid the holiday exhaustion-if so, please share your wise counsel.  If  you identify with my former sense of weariness, I invite you to take a moment and offer this prayer.

Prayer for healing

Loving Creator,

Healer of all,

I rest my weary heart in your hands.

Speak, your servant is listening.*

What one thing can I do today

to bring healing?

(Sit in silence for as long as you like)

May the peace of your love and comfort

surround me this day,

and all the days of my life.

May the peace of your love and comfort

surround all beings this day,

and always.

Amen

*1 Samuel 3:10

A few weeks ago I told you about my experience tutoring at Little Lights in DC.  I’d like to share with you a gift that was given to me from one of my students, and let you know how you could help Little Lights raise over $10,000 today.

On the second Wednesday of my 6-week tenure at Little Lights, “Annie” sat down beside me and began pulling pencils and pens from her backpack.  Annie is in the sixth grade, wears her hair in two high braids and laughs easily.  I had spent my first day tutoring with her and in that short hour, Annie had crawled into a permanent space in my heart.

This, our second day, she warmly greeted me.  As she nearly emptied her pack of the tools of her trade, she grinned.  Most of her arm was swallowed up by the pack and before she pulled out her last item she said, “This morning I woke up and thought It’s Wednesday.  Miss Mary is coming to Little Lights.”  I smiled adoringly at her, touched that my presence would be noticed.  “And then I remembered that you forgot your glasses last week.”  She extracted her arm from her pack and placed a blue hard-sided eyeglass case on the table.  “I brought an old pair of my glasses for you to wear if you need them Miss Mary.”

Thank you “Annie” for volunteering to care for me!

TODAY Little Lights is participating in a ONE-DAY “Give to the Max” for DC non-profits.  If you would like to help other children like Annie, please consider giving a donation of $10 or more.  Thanks!  Below is information for Little Lights website.

Link to Little Lights Give to the Max page where everyone makes their donations with a credit or debit card.  It features the videos above, pictures, stories and contact information.

• $10,000 prize for small non-profits, which Little Lights qualifies for, with the most individual donors at the end of the day.
• $25,000 grand prize for any of the non-profits participating with the most donors.
• Matching Gift #1: A friend from Little Lights will donate $1,500 if we get 500 donors on Wednesday.
• Matching Gift #2: 17 of our very own students, coming from families that make less than $8,000 a year, have each reserved $1 for a second matching gift.  If Little Lights has 1,000 donors by midnight, these amazing students will give $17 on Give to the Max Day!  It is absolutely incredible for these students to be so generous with their own money. It’s so encouraging to see their eagerness to get as many people as possible to win.