writing wednesdays: meet the lutheran geek!

Now wait a minute, before you accuse me of name-calling, consider that Liz has given herself this nickname. I believe her about the Lutheran part but I'm not really buying that she's a geek. I've found her to be a talented, smart, down-to-earth gal. And I've featured her on my blog today, so do stop by to read and be inspired by this "new" writer on Peace Garden Writer.

If you have a little more time, visit An Atheist and a Catholic, where we're asking our readers a question today. It's a good one and we're eagerly awaiting your answer!

what i saw in the south part i (rellies and riverboat)

Mama Mondays went on hiatus this week. I was off in the Deep South these past five days while taking in New Orleans, Mississippi and a whole lot of relatives (rellies). It had been exactly thirty years since my sister, Camille, and I had been down to that part of the world, and what a phenomenal time we had together! Our second-cousins Joe and David picked us up from the airport. The minute we got outside we could feel the hotter, stickier air.

But I knew without a doubt we were in the South when we rolled into the driveway of our cousins' home. Here our rental car and the rusty rig bearing an abundant amount of Southern charm meet up.

Not to worry, though. The owners of old "Rusty" are a class act, truly charming and characteristically hospitable.

If the front of their home is any indication...

Here's the front room where we spent quite a bit of time sipping cool drinks and catching up.

 

 

The magnolia and banana trees out back were another reminder I wasn't in North Dakota any longer:

 

It's these folks right here, Pat and Charlie, or...Charlie and Pat (depending on whom you want to please, right Charlie?), who wooed us to the part of the country where cicadas sing.

Pat is my mom's cousin, which makes her four children our second cousins, and all our kids third cousins with each other. Fifty years ago, these two lovebirds, who met on a blind date, celebrated the Sacrament of marriage.

My mom (second to right) was a bridesmaid. Sadly, she was supposed to go with us on this trip (rather, we were to accompany her) but she was kept back due to a health scare of my father. (He is holding his own at the moment...)

Pat's mother is my Grandpa Joe's sister, my great-aunt Jane (after whom my mother was named). Though she left us quite a few years ago, I remember her well. She was one classy lady; she always wore high heels and drove a red convertible. Here's a photo of her and her hubby, my great-uncle, Jimmy Guthrie.

Camille and I stayed in Charlie's and Pat's home two of our four nights there. Our family has a history of Japanese connections. On the paternal side, our father spent time in Japan in the service, as did our Uncle Jimmy on the maternal side:

So the room where we slept was filled with pieces of this history:

Our second night was spent at the Riverwalk Hilton in Downtown New Orleans.

In the lobby, we began meeting more of the extended family, including our second-cousins-once-removed (there's a lot of curly hair on this side of the family -- these two aren't brothers but first cousins):

Camille and I were 23 floors up:

Thus began the "event" part of the trip -- the 50th wedding celebration and reunion, which focused on a dinner cruise aboard the Creole Queen with 50-some relatives from England, Florida, Texas, other parts of Louisiana.

There was a little time for schmoozing and snapping family photos before boarding.

Camille and I were the lone representatives of North Dakota, the state where roots of the Byrne side of the family run deep. Great-Aunt Rae was the oldest of the group at age 90. Here she is with her boarding pass!

Finally it was time to board...

The band (including a singer who sounded just like Louis Armstrong himself)...

After a dinner of tilapia, beef brisket, shrimp pasta and bread pudding, a lot of us found ourselves wandering out on the deck...

Where more cousinly reunions took place.

We began closing out the evening by gathering at the hotel, where a group of us decided to continue the night with a jaunt along Bourbon Street to experience the French Quarter at night.

That's all I can muster for now, after a long and wonderful adventure and 430 photos in all, but stay tuned for the next installment of my Southern adventures in the coming days. Until then, all y'all have a good day, k?

Q4U: Where did you last celebrate, and what?

faith fridays: meeting abby johnson

Me and Abby Johnson, Downtown Fargo, ND, June 2011

For the past year, I've listened with rapt curiosity about a new and vibrant force on the pro-life scene. Her name is Abby Johnson. Some of you might know her as the best-selling author of Unplanned. For those of you who have not heard of Abby, she's a former Planned Parenthood director who, upon observing an ultrasound-assisted abortion (through which a 13-week-old boy actively avoided the probe, backed up until there was nowhere to go, and inevitably lost his life) made the decision to leave her position and the pro-choice side altogether.

I've been captivated by Abby's story because, like me, she's a mother who wants to do the right thing by her child and all children, not to mention humanity. And she has a deep compassion for women who struggle with big decisions like unplanned pregnancy. She's also a seeker of truth and goodness. Abby's decision to volunteer for Planned Parenthood years ago stemmed from her compassion and desire to seek truth and goodness. She believed she'd found those very things in her new-found mission at Planned Parenthood. She bought into the idea that the organization existed as a nonprofit to help women and babies, and that the crazy people out on the sidewalk protesting the abortions had it all wrong.

But as Abby recently shared with a standing-room only crowd at the Radisson here in Fargo, ND, those sidewalk folks eventually turned more and more prayerful, and when that happened, everything changed. Instead of the surrounding residents feeling sorry for the abortion facility workers and clients, they began looking at things from a different angle. And as the public began to question what was truly going on in that "clinic," Abby's heart began to slowly question it as well. In particular, there seemed to be a push for "more and more abortions" because money was at stake. That was a huge red flag for Abby. Wasn't the job of Planned Parenthood to work toward eliminating abortions? Wasn't it a nonprofit? That's what had sold her on the whole thing after all.

There was one gal in particular -- a young Catholic woman named Elizabeth McClung -- who had tried talking with Abby through the fence that divided the sidewalk and abortion facility, had prayed for Abby, and left her, at one point, a card with a Scripture verse and some flowers. Abby kept the card for two years. She was a Christian, after all, and something about those small gestures had resonated, even if she wasn't yet ready to absorb all of what she would come to understand.

But that fateful day watching the ultrasound screen changed everything, and Abby, a mother who knew well the excitement of looking at an ultrasound screen and meeting her child for the first time, knew in an instant she couldn't continue on her current path. The power of a visual.

What has amazed me about Abby is not just her change of heart but the rapidity of her vocalizing the change from the opposite side of the fence. There's no doubt in my mind, especially having heard her talk in person, and having had a conversation with her, that she's moving on the breath of the Holy Spirit. Pointing to the depth of her conversion is the fact that Abby has now joined the Catholic Church as of this past Easter.

Once truth is revealed, the path becomes clear. Abby Johnson is a living example of this, and I've been inspired and newly convicted about the cause. Somehow, I was fortunate to sit at her table the night of her talk here, and the next day, talk with her in front of North Dakota's only abortion mill, where we had gathered to pray for those whose lives would be irrevocably changed that day.

Meeting Abby Johnson in person as I did was an unexpected joy. I'm hoping it's not the only time our paths will cross. I recently interviewed Elizabeth, Abby's flower-giving friend, on Catholic radio. I sense, through these two women and others, a revitalization in the pro-life movement. More women are seeing the truth, and saying, as Abby did a couple weeks ago, that "It's not pro-woman to be pro-abortion. It is pro-woman to stand up for life." She hit the nail on the head. Now, we must do what we can do to help transform hearts, through compassion and love, the very way that Abby herself was transformed.

Abby has energized me. She said that if not for the sidewalk counselors, she would not have made the switch. Their love and consistency made the difference. It's not for everyone, but realizing how important the faces are, the presence of love, has made me think long and hard about whether I've been doing enough for life.

Q4U: What are you doing to stand up for life? Is it enough?

writing wednesdays: shining the spotlight on snickers

This Snickers?


No, no, not that Snickers.

This Snickers.


Go here to see more!

PGM

happy father's day 2011!

Happy Father's Day to all those Dads, Da-das, Daddies, Pops and Papas out there!

We don't always give you enough credit for all of the unspoken requests that you fulfill, the hands you hold, the lawns your mow, and the strength and security you provide us as you carry out your fatherly role. So, from all of us to all of you, thank you!

This will constitute my Monday post as well, since I'll be busy the next couple days getting my daughter ready for camp and myself ready for a trip to Louisiana with my mom and sister. Do stop by Wednesday again if you can for more on our newest addition (pictured here with Daddy Troy).

For now, off I go to the pool with the kids so Daddy can rest for a couple hours.

Blessings in your week ahead!

Peace Garden Mama (Roxane)

faith fridays; the slow richness of the carmelite life

A few days ago, I read this on the blog As I Went Walking: 

"In the South, they must conserve their energy, moving slower so they are not worn out by the long, hot days."

Christina, the author, was sharing an account of her trip to the Southern part of the United States, but something about it resonated deeply and I soon realized why. Rather than the South, it seemed she was describing my recent week-long visit to a Carmelite monastery here in my home state of North Dakota.

This was my very first impression of Carmel:

You have to love a place that greets you with a heart-shaped floral "hello."

Beyond that, the first evidence of the interior life of Carmel was shown to me at the 7 a.m. Mass the next morning. The whole of the Mass unfolded much more deliberately, much more slowly than what I'm accustomed to. At first it felt strange, but it wasn't long before I was following suit and enjoying the revised pace.

I can't help but smile at myself like a knowing mother does her child for being initially stubborn about having to rise a little earlier than I would have chosen to attend daily Mass. Yes, I like to take my mornings slow, but I was amazed at how this early infusion of grace carried me through the first day there...and the next...and the next.

The first morning, I sat in the pew for quite a while after Mass was over. I was unable to move -- like in a dream when someone is chasing you, only I wasn't afraid at all. I just couldn't get up. Some unseen force was holding me there, though not against my will. It knew, and I sensed, too, that I needed a little more filling-up before I could go about tackling the work that had brought me there.

Throughout the week, I found myself smiling a lot, whispering "Thank you, God" a lot, and after three days of silence, talking to myself a lot. In that, I discovered that I don't mind myself for company.

Each day when the chapel bell would indicate it was time for Mass or for one of the two hot meals that had been prepared, I would start off from the guest house down this road to the main monastery building.

Since it was such a short distance, I could take my time. No one would be waiting for me to sit down to eat; I would eat alone. In the quiet.

In the distance on the way there, I could see the statue of Mary.

I would visit her several times before my visit was over, including the very last hour, to say goodbye, but without words. Only a gaze and a smile, which seemed to be returned in kind.

Experiencing the slow, richness of the Carmelite pace, I couldn't help but make the comparison to the time I arrived in New York City by train from Princeton, NJ, where I was working as a summertime nanny. I'll never forget the feeling of an immediately increased pace upon stepping foot on the streets of the city. I was struck by how the pace of a place can be so different, one location from another.

At Carmel, the pace is purposefully slow. There is no rush about things. Except, perhaps, the rush to rise at midnight for prayer, as the Sisters there do. They do so, I read, because night time is when most evil begins to stir. Their prayers begin, then, when evil is at its most active. I find it reassuring that the Sisters are just rising at the time I'm heading to bed. They've got the bases covered; their prayers are like a huge blanket that unfolds over the faithful at night.

I mentioned in an earlier post that I didn't pray with words as much as I thought I might while at Carmel of Mary. Instead, each moment felt like a prayer. I was in constant communion with God, who seemed to be holding me up, moving me along my path, leading me further into my work and the life of Carmel.

One of the writers whose work I studied while there -- St. Teresa Benedicta of the Cross -- once said that we must quiet ourselves to hear the still, small voice inside us. It was at Carmel that I realized, perhaps for the first time, that God isn't something we look for outside of ourselves. God is within. Rather than seeking Him in some exterior place, the most certain way to find Him is to hush the distractions around us and listen..to that still, small voice.

A week after my departure, I found myself in a hot tub at the Y trying to work out the kinks in my strained back and neck. Yes, real life has returned. But in that whirlpool, I heard it again -- the quiet voice that deserves my attention.

I'm newly convicted that we mothers in particular must search for that voice within us and do what we can to move away from the distractions, even for a few precious moments each day. I can't stay at Carmel permanently -- I have a family who needs me. But I can keep looking for Carmel -- in fact it's imperative that I do -- wherever I find myself.

Q4U: What are the most surprising places you've found your version of "Carmel" this past week?

writing wednesdays: where i've been

There's more about where I've been and what I've learned on Peace Garden Writer today. Hope you'll visit! PGM

mama mondays: nourished by the carmelites

I'm one of those people who actually enjoys food served bedside at a hospital. Perhaps that's because the majority of my hospital stays have been for the purpose of bringing another soul into the world. Generally, I'm beyond wiped out at the end of it all and in need of a little tender loving care. So I've never snubbed the food prepared for me in advance. I welcomed not having to think up a meal and go through the measures to make it appear. As such, I always felt wistful about having to leave. It can be hard to go from being nourished to immediately being called upon to nourish others.

Until last week, I didn't know anything could top having food brought to me postpartum, but now I know of something even better.

I spent the whole of last week at a Carmelite monastery, and my experience there brings a whole new meaning to the word nourishment. At Carmel of Mary, I was nourished both physically and spiritually. For this post, I'm going to focus on the physical nourishment, because even that was extraordinary.

I really didn't know what to expect; only that I'd be on my own for breakfast after 7 a.m. Mass (not a worry since the guest-house kitchen was furnished with enough provisions to last the week ). Because the Carmelites are cloistered, I knew I'd be seeing little of them, though a few visits were arranged at different points in the week. Beyond that, the routine was as follows:

At promptly 11:45 a.m. and 6 p.m. each day, dinner (lunch) and supper (dinner) would be served. After being summoned by the clanging of the large chapel bell, I would leave the guest house and make the half-block walk to the monastery. Once there, I would ring the front doorbell, then find my way into the small dining room/nook. A few moments after arriving, I would hear a small hand bell, indicating my food was ready to be sent through the "turn." I would go to the turn and by then a tray full of hot food will have been presented (still no sign of the hidden Sisters on the other side of the turn).

This is what the turn looks like from the exterior.

(Below is a photo of the turn at the monastery entrance for the deliverance of various goods, mail, etc. The Sisters of the Carmel of Mary are wholly dependent on the surrounding community for their sustenance. In return, they offer their lives of prayer for all of humanity, and particularly for our diocese. They rise at midnight each day to begin said prayers.)

 

I would sit down, say grace, and proceed to eat...in silence...with no one wanting anything from me.

View looking out to the grounds from the dining "nook"

I never knew what food would be delivered. Everything from spaghetti to what I think was a lamb chop, from a simple broth to a heartier split-pea soup, with all sorts of varied side dishes and desserts arrived daily. I loved that I never knew what was coming. I just showed up and there it was, the Sisters only a whisper on the other side of the turn.

Sometimes, I would leave them notes in gratitude. How could I be the recipient of such kindness and not make my feelings known?  A couple times, when I changed locations for a day or two, they rolled my food onto a tray and I caught glimpses of them and sweet smiles before they dashed away again.

I loved every moment of my time at Carmel (which means flowers). Here are a few of the flowers that greeted me upon my arrival. There was definitely a purple theme going on.

But thinking back, some of my fondest memories are those that took place in that small dining room; at a time when I needed to pull away from my work. It was always such a warm welcome to find the food prepared by quiet but loving hands. Often, I would end my meal with a hot cup of coffee or tea. Those moments of being nourished in body, even in solitude, were the times I felt the most loved, and though alone, I didn't for a moment feel lonely.

Sometimes, a mother needs to be nourished. I am going to be drawing on the nourishment I received at Carmel for the rest of the summer.

 Q4U: When was the last time someone offered nourishment to you? Describe it, if you would.