All Souls

We have a tradition in our community on All Souls Day, (which we are observing today instead of two days ago): we read the names of every sister who has died in community, beginning with our founder Mother Ruth. Next come the names of all our relatives and close friends who have died... for example, my mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, etc... and finally the names of all who have died in the past year for whom we have said or sung requiems. 

It's a long list.

Names that were high points of mourning several months ago suddenly bring tears again, even though they have not been specifically on my mind since we laid them to rest. Why go through all that? Why live in the past that cannot be changed, only remembered with pain or nostalgia?

Two reasons I can think of off the bat: one... these people were important to us. My litany of names may mean nothing to the sister standing next to me, but she holds me in prayer and comfort, just as I hold her when her names are read. It's something tangible we do for each other, we remember together, pay tribute together, pray for their souls together.

The second reason was mentioned in the sermon Saturday (the part I never got to in my post yesterday.) We ask the saints to pray for us, and we, in turn, pray for them. Is this foolishness or the mysterious reality of the timeless nature of creation? I cannot answer that for you, of course. (I can barely answer it for myself.) But I know that these people I have loved live on in me... some in my DNA, some in my memory, some in their teachings that moved me forward on my own path to God.

Remembering the dead is nice, but it is not enough. I thought of my grandmother today, who always worked the polls on election days. Both she and my grandfather were working class Democrats and took great delight in announcing at supper "I voted a straight Democratic ticket." If my aunt and uncle, the Republicans in the family were there, there would be heated discussion about choosing a candidate on his own merits rather than his party. I was a child, and listened to these discussions with little interest, yet they stayed with me... even as I voted today. 

When Kennedy won the presidency my grandparents were dead. They would have had to choose between voting for a Democrat or not voting for a Catholic, and I have no clue which allegiance or prejudice would have won out. Today the issue is partly religious, but much more about race. Those who struggled hard in the 50's and 60's to bring Civil Rights to all of America see this election as a culmination of their efforts. My vote will be one that supports those efforts as well. My dear friend Robert Dubie was a freedom rider in the 60's. His was one of my names read at mass this morning. They live on in us. Of that I have no doubt.

Happy Birthday: Hortense Caswell Hall R.I.P.

My aunt was about three years older than my mother, who was twenty-eight years older than me, so if she were still alive, she'd have celebrated her ninety-third birthday today. She died several years before my mother, of complications brought on by her generation's penchant for heavy smoking and even heavier drinking. [She liked her Manhattans, and although she gave up smoking, (unlike my mother) she still suffered from the effects.]

I idolized my aunt when I was a teenager. She was everything my mother wasn't... wealthy, sophisticated, interested in art and antiques. She gave lavish parties, had her friends over to play bridge. She had been a nurse, and still filled in occasionally at her local hospital. She had the whole outfit: white dress, white hose and shoes, starched cap with black band. Nurses don't dress that way anymore, just as most nuns don't dress in habits. We sometimes bemoan the passing of the "uniform"... the clothes that confer a recognized status, a familiar and comforting illusion.

As a child I vowed (again and again) I would not grow up to become my mother, but I did. While I am uncomfortable with the term flamboyant to describe myself, it's definitely a term I'd use to describe my mom. She liked loud colors and bright prints, She bleached her hair platinum blonde and laughed a lot. While my aunt played bridge, my mother went bowling.

My mother and aunt were rivals, but they were also close friends. When blood needed to be thicker it was... my aunt (and her wealth) rescued us when my dad deserted us, her bankroll funded my mother's purchase of a beauty shop in the boondocks of New Hampshire, and her sense of family brought us to her house every Thanksgiving and Christmas to celebrate together. She was the Episcopalian. That and a love of tissue paper with sparkles are the tangible things I have to show for her considerable influence.

I am (occasionally) wiser now than I was at fourteen, when my love affair with my aunt's view of the world was so at odds with my relationship with my mom. Much of my aunt's sophistication was pretense... an effort to seem to be more than she was... My mother was exactly who she was... if you didn't like it, well "tough titty" to use her expression... one my aunt would have deplored.

I owe my life to both influences. They are inextricably mingled... one in my DNA, the other in my environmental conditioning. I think of them both in heaven... chatting over their afternoon drinks. My aunt raises her Manhattan: "Well at least she's an Episcopalian, Helen. You owe me that." My mother smiles as she sips her Whiskey Sour. "Yes, but she hates bridge and likes to bowl."

the opposite of sin

Yesterday we attended Madeleine L'Engle's memorial service at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Most of the sisters from our house were there; she was a beloved friend and Associate of our community, and she often gave workshops and lectures to benefit the community's financial situation. For a couple of the sisters that friendship spanned almost fifty years, and they were eager to be there, even if it meant taking a taxi for a block and a half. The service was lovely and well-attended. The sermon preached was a loving tribute, and a reading from Walking on Water, her book that explores the relationship between art and faith, brought her spirit into the present, even though her mortal body now rests in the cathedral columbarium.

As we walked (slowly) back home from the reception, one sister told me that she and Madeleine were the same age. Not true. Madeleine would have been 89 today and my sister is only 86. (Only 86!) At that age, who can quibble? Would that I could have the vertical relationship with God that my sister has. My relationship is much more untidy. My faith comes in fits and starts. But just as Madeleine stretched my mind and my writing skills, my sister stretches my spirituality.

As Madeleine said, "The paradox of faith lies on the other side of reason." Another quote (that will give me plenty to think about on my long retreat) was: "The opposite of sin is faith, not virtue." How well she understood the paradox of opposites, as well as the paradox of faith.

Madeleine L’Engle, way more than a children’s writer, has died

Madeleine L’Engle, born November 29th, 1918, has died at the age of 88.

"Children's Writer Is Dead" said the New York Times, and yes, she wrote books that children loved. But... when my oldest son received the trilogy beginning with a Wrinkle In Time, he read the first book and immediately handed it over to me. "Read this" he said. "You'll love it!" I read it and then bugged him to death to hurry up and finish the next one so I could have it.

Even more than a wonderful story teller, she was a marvelous teacher. She gave writing workshops around the country for many years. I met her through a friend at church, after I'd been living in New York for a few years. My friend had been taking her annual workshop at the Community of the Holy Spirit (does anyone else see a divine pattern in this fact?) for a couple of years herself, and she helped me apply for the six-week course.

Madeleine was an Associate of the community. She donated the organ that sits in our chapel, and she gave the proceeds from the workshops as a donation to the sisters' work and ministry. The evenings began with vespers in the chapel, followed by dinner (with the sisters) in the refectory, and then the class met in the conference room on the second floor. I attended those workshops for three years in a row, until hip (or knee) surgery interrupted her last class. She never taught at the convent again.

She gave us imaginative assignments, practical advice, and gracious constructive critiques. We had most of the week to think about the topic... not write a word. Once we'd thought it through (several times) we were to sit down and write... nonstop for half an hour. Nonstop was the key to no more thinking. Amazingly most of my stories actually had a beginning, a middle and an end, although I wasn't always sure where or what the ending would be. Often the story wrote itself. All I did was hold the pen and keep shifting the pages.

I cherish the memories of those sessions more than any learning experience I've had. I've taken other writing classes which were okay... hers were full of her heart, her wit, her funny stories, and her excellent advice. What a blessing she was in her time on this Earth.