What is the Monastery of a Cloistered Heart?

 

The Monastery of a cloistered heart is the person's own life.  A monastery is a place consecrated to God, a place of prayer, a place where God is loved and served. Our lives can be all of these things. Just as any building can become a monastery by being dedicated to God, so our lives can become "monasteries" by such dedication. 

This is more than a nice daydream.  It is simply truth.  

"Even now we are called to be a dwelling for the Most Holy Trinity.  'If a man loves Me,' says the Lord, 'he will keep My word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him, and make our home with him.' (John 14:23)"  

(Catechism of the Catholic Church #260)

"O my God...grant my soul peace. Make it Your heaven, Your beloved dwelling, and Your place of rest. May I never abandon You there, but may I be there, whole and entire, completely vigilant in my faith, entirely adoring, and wholly given over to Your creative action." (St. Elizabeth of the Trinity, quoted in Catechism of the Catholic Church # 260)

As imperfect as we are, Our Lord actually desires to live within us.

Imagine. 

"Humility and charity are the two main parts of the spiritual edifice. One is the lowest and the other the highest, and all the others depend on them.  Hence, we must keep ourselves well founded in these two, because the preservation of the entire edifice depends on the foundation and the roof."  

(St. Francis de Sales)

Text © 2012 Nancy Shuman. 
thecloisteredheart.org   

And In the Wind

There is change in the air as a storm approaches.  The wind picks up, clouds gather, there may be a distant clap of thunder.  As lightning flashes around us, we race for shelter.

Monastery grounds and walls are as subject to storms as those of any other building.  They get slapped with rain, pelted with sleet.  Inhabitants of the cloister might find themselves standing at a window looking out, maybe with a touch of concern.  What are those chunks of hail doing to the roof?  Are the windows secure against the wind?  

The monastery of my life is vulnerable, too.  I face storms, at times, of great magnitude.  Sickness, sudden disaster, an unnerving news report.  It helps me then to remember that I’m in the strongest cloister possible – the cloister of God’s loving embrace.  Everything that touches me must first come through His hands, through His “permissive will.”  I can do as St. Francis de Sales advised, and say amid my contradictions: “this is the very road to heaven.  I see the door, and I am certain the storms cannot prevent us from getting there.”

"The Name of the Lord is a strong tower; the just man runs to it and is safe.”  (Proverbs 18:10)

“Happy is the soul established in God ... The winds of the storm are powerless to shake her.” (St. Jane de Chantal)

"When you hear about wars and threats of war, do not yield to panic.  Such things are bound to happen, but this is not the end.  Nation will rise against nation, one kingdom against another.  There will be earthquakes in various places and there will be famine.  This is but the onset of labor.  Be constantly on your guard.... because of My Name, you will be hated by everyone.  Nonetheless, the man who holds out till the end is the one who will come through safe."  (Mark 13:5-13)

"O Jesus, I am locking myself in Your most merciful heart as in a fortress, impregnable against the missiles of my enemies.” (St. Faustina Kowalska, Diary, #1535)

The cloistered heart is a place of refuge, no matter where I happen to be. A portable fortress, a place inviolate, where I can remain with Jesus in the midst of storms, traffic jams, persecutions, illnesses, fires, floods. It is an appealing idea. It is also (this being most important) theologically sound. "The heart is the dwelling place where I am, where I live... the heart is the place 'to which I withdraw.'  The heart is our hidden center,  beyond the grasp of our reason and of others; only the Spirit of God can fathom the human heart and know it fully. (Catechism of the Catholic Church #2563)

The cloistered heart is the heart of David dancing before the ark; of Mesach, Shadrach and Abednego in the fiery furnace; of Paul in prison, Daniel in the lions’ den, John on Patmos, Peter in chains.  The world is not safe from evil – even the body isn’t safe from harm – but within the cloistered heart there is refuge.

My heart, as long as He is in it, is safe.

(The above is a combined repost from our archives)

Utterly for God

Sometimes
words are 
unnecessary ...























Hat tip to the Institute on Religious Life for passing along this beautiful video!

The Exact Right Address

Arriving for my first-ever retreat inside an actual monastery, I could not find the building. Nor could the friend who'd come with me, and who was doing the driving. We were at the right address, looking at the spot where the monastery should be, yet for the life of us we could not spot it. All of the buildings in the neighborhood looked, to us, the same. Most were rowhouses, standing shoulder to shoulder along the narrow city street.

There was no sign reading 'monastery' or 'convent.' Brick sidewalks stretched almost to the doorways. There were no front yards. The only monasteries I'd been to before this were miles away from towns, separated from the 'outer world' by fields or forests. Could we have been given the wrong address? I wondered.

Eventually we found an entrance to our destination and yes, here was the monastery - just a few feet from the street. It sat surrounded by cars, pedestrians, and lots and lots of noise. Its outside blended in perfectly with every other building.

'Their thoughts are fixed on God, not on the world; still less on the casual street that runs by their door.' wrote the Lathrops of this exact spot. 'A narrow strip of grass, railed in by a light iron fence, separates their dwelling from the sidewalk, and gives them an added safeguard in their retirement. All this is in accord with the aims of a community like that of the Visitation. Their object is … to prevent the intrusion of careless, worldly, noisy people, who may be inclined to invade the seclusion and sanctity of a life wholly ordered and consecrated to spiritual purposes. (A Story of Courage, p. 7)

'The countenance, then, if one may so describe it, of this building is calm, neutral, neither repelling nor inviting... it is in no way demonstrative. From a distance you cannot even distinguish it from other buildings. It does not dominate them. It does not tower up, or threaten, or warn you away...  It simply stands there, and waits..' 

As one striving to live 'cloistered in heart,' I look upon my life, even my body, as a 'monastery.' I can be a place where God is loved, served, lived for in the midst of the world. I do not stand out from people around me. I look like members of my family, dress like other women my age, talk like everyone else. No one passing me on the sidewalk would cry out 'why, look at that - there goes a walking monastery!' My prayers and babysteps toward holiness happen, in large part, right in the midst of everyday life.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with others, in the middle of the world all around me, I'm situated precisely where I need to be.

I am at the exact right address for a cloistered heart.

This is a repost from our archives. It is linked to Reconciled to You and Theology is a Verb for 'It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday.'





Photo at top: Georgetown Visitation DC, 2002, N Shuman 
Photo at bottom via Pixabay

theCloisteredHeart.org

Advent: We Begin in Song

To our e-mail subscribers: this post features a video, which can be seen by going to the blog itself

Your Monastery

'You must know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, Who is within - the Spirit you have received from God.'  (1 Corinthians 6:19)

'Monastic life,' wrote Louis Bouyer, 'is nothing else, no more and no less, than a Christian life whose Christianity has penetrated every part of it.' With this in mind, I'd like to take a deeper look into what it can mean to 'be' a monastery in the midst of the world. 

As before, click on any line below to open that post. 


And Our Monastery Is...

The Right Address

In Substance the Same

Let Me Be a House of God




Samuel van Hoogstraten painting, digitally altered

The World For Which I Was Born

I was recently reminded of something a friend wrote to me some years ago. 'Sitting in a monastery of nuns,' this woman said in a letter, 'I knew I didn't belong in their life and yet I didn't belong out in the world either. The closer you get to His Heart, the farther you get from everything else, which is really as it should be... I felt that the problem with being in the world is that so often you are distracted from loving Him, which is all I want to do. When you are in the monastery, everything reminds you of Him no matter what chore you are presently doing. But His will is mine, so wherever He wants me is what I really want too. What I fear is taking Him for granted and becoming lukewarm.'

My friend's fear is one I know well. Taking Him for granted. Becoming lukewarm. How I wish I could say these things have never happened to me, but I cannot. Lukewarmness can seem normal, even cozy, and I sometimes find myself settling down in it and feeling right at home. Being distracted from things of God doesn't seem like such a problem then, when the world around feels eternal and entrancing and like it must be the forever-world-for-which-I-was-born.

But the truth is: the world around is not The-Forever-World-For-Which-I-Was-Born. 'God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in Heaven.' The Baltimore Catechism said it well.

'When you are in the monastery,' wrote my friend, 'everything reminds you of Him.' While monks or nuns enclosed inside walls are not yet in the Forever-World, they live twenty four hours a day inside a reflection of it. Their time is entirely spent on the pathway to Home. They wash dishes on that path. They do laundry on that path. They eat and sleep and garden and pray and laugh and sing on that path. They live in an entrance foyer to Heaven, and everything around reminds them of where they're headed and for Whom they were made.

As a laywoman in the world, I too am called to the pathway. But mine is not so clearly marked. I have no monastic schedules to keep me on the trail. I don't spend every moment of every day with a community of people all focusing in the same direction. If I listen to friends or co-workers or celebrities who don't know or accept why God made them, I can even lose sight of my own awareness of the truth.

Probably this is why some of us can feel more at home in a monastery than in the world.
Because really - we are.


(When I start to lose sight of my real pathway, I am helped by what several saints have had to say about this kind of thing.  A few of their exhortations can be found by clicking here.)


Painting: Jan van Helmont

As a Fiery Light

'As a fiery light shone in the night's darkness upon those wandering in the desert, so those who dwell in the spiritual monasteries are often lightened by the rays of a supernal light, which dispels the darkness of fleshly passions and bathes them in the brilliance of inward contemplation.'

St. Peter Damian

Consecration of a Monastery

 

I think the following is an ideal prayer for those of us who want to go through the world as 'walking monasteries,' living for the glory of God. 

Praying through this, line by line, leads me to an examination of conscience, into repentance, and toward a renewal of my decision to live for Christ.

'Dear Lord, The indwelling in me of the Holy Spirit implies that like the Church, the Altar, the Tabernacle, I am consecrated to be the temple, the house, the home of God Himself. My body is set apart, dedicated to God's use as something holy, never to be profaned by worldliness, by selfishness, or by sin. 

'My body is the Spirit's chosen dwelling place, 

a privileged altar. It must then not be looked upon as 

a market place for the transaction of business, 

or a school for study, 

or a playground for amusement. 

It is none of these.  

Indeed, it is not really my property at all, 
but Your very own...

'I must never dare to bring the God dwelling within me 

into contact with things which He abhors. 

'O God, hidden within me, forgotten and neglected on so many days, during so many years, I ask You to forgive my carelessness, my irreverence, my infidelity....

'Joyfully I consecrate to You my body, with all its members and all its senses, 

my hands and feet, 

my eyes and ears and tongue, 

my powers of seeing and hearing and speaking, 

my impulses and instincts and appetites and desires. 

I make them over to You by deed of gift; 

to be absolutely and forever Yours, to be employed always in Your service, never to be used against Your will.

'O God, take this body of mine, 

consecrate it, 

let it never be defiled by sin. 

Let it never become the abode of evil, 

nor be used against the best interests of any of Your children.' 

(from "Listening to the Indwelling Presence" by a Religious, Pellegrini, 1940, pp. 24-26) )

 

Paintings in US public domain due to age

The Right Address

Arriving for my first-ever retreat inside an actual monastery, I could not find the building. Nor could the friend who'd come with me, and who was doing the driving. We were at the right address, looking at the spot where the monastery should be, yet for the life of us we could not spot it. All of the buildings in the neighborhood looked, to us, the same. Most were rowhouses, standing shoulder to shoulder along the narrow city street.

There was no sign reading 'monastery' or 'convent.' Brick sidewalks stretched almost to the doorways. There were no front yards. The only monasteries I'd been to before this were miles away from towns, separated from the 'outer word' by fields or forests. Could we have been given the wrong address? I wondered.

Eventually we found an entrance to our destination and yes, here was the monastery - just a few feet from the street. It sat surrounded by cars, pedestrians, and lots and lots of noise. Its outside blended in perfectly with every other building.

'Their thoughts are fixed on God, not on the world; still less on the casual street that runs by their door.' wrote the Lathrops of this spot. 'A narrow strip of grass, railed in by a light iron fence, separates their dwelling from the sidewalk, and gives them an added safeguard in their retirement. All this is in accord with the aims of a community like that of the Visitation. Their object is … to prevent the intrusion of careless, worldly, noisy people, who may be inclined to invade the seclusion and sanctity of a life wholly ordered and consecrated to spiritual purposes. (A Story of Courage, p. 7)

'The countenance, then, if one may so describe it, of this building is calm, neutral, neither repelling nor inviting... it is in no way demonstrative. From a distance you cannot even distinguish it from other buildings. It does not dominate them. It does not tower up, or threaten, or warn you away...  It simply stands there, and waits..' 

As one striving to live 'cloistered in heart,' I look upon my life, even my body, as a 'monastery.' I can be a place where God is loved, served, lived for in the midst of the world. I do not stand out from people around me. I look like members of my family, dress like other women my age, talk like everyone else. No one passing me on the sidewalk would cry out 'why, look at that - there goes a walking monastery!' Yet my prayers and babysteps toward holiness happen, in large part, right in the midst of everyday life.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with others, in the middle of the world all around me, I'm situated precisely where I need to be.

I am at the exact right address for a cloistered heart.




Photo at top: Georgetown Visitation DC, 2002, N Shuman 

Photo of crowd from Pixabay

Text not in quotes © 2016 N Shuman
thecloisteredheart.org   



This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.

Sometimes the Same Changes

'The Convent of the Visitation in Georgetown is a large three-sided structure of brick, enclosing a great garden. Across the street is a row of cosy dwellings, standing somewhat back from the sidewalk... The city and the suburb have been gradually welded into one by a continuous and expanding web of streets and houses, so that now they stretch up to the very border of the convent demesne.' (A Story of Courage, p. 6)

This is precisely what I've met with on my visits to this convent. The looming structure, those cosy Georgetown rowhouses in gentle colors of yellow and grey, all surround a garden that I find great indeed. The city has stretched a great deal more since the above was written, so that city and suburb now wrap entirely around the monastic dwelling. Yet reading this century old book, I am sometimes astonished by what remains the same.

At other times, I'm charmed to see what has changed.

'At the southern corner of the convent, the patient horse-car from the heart of Washington plods its equine way.'  It is something I cannot imagine, this horse car patiently plodding. Sitting outside in the walled garden, I've been struck as much as anything by noise. But I'm getting ahead...

'The convent proper - or, as it is often called, the 'monastery' - is a long, plain four-story brick house...'

One thing I used to find puzzling was the use of the word 'monastery' for what I was calling a 'convent.' Weren't monasteries for men, and convents for women? When I began trying to learn which was what, I would have been happy to find an 'Internet' (I was still 'patiently plodding' through stacks of library books in my study of cloistered life). Today information is literally at one's fingertips, of course, and I found the following basic definitions (here) at Catholic Online Encyclopedia:

'Monastery: An autonomous community house of a religious order, which may or may not be a monastic order. The term is used more specifically to refer to a community house of men or women religious in which they lead a contemplative life separate from the world.'

'Convent: In common usage, the term refers to a house of women religious.'

'Cloister: Part of a convent or monastery reserved for use by members of the institute.'

As we continue this little adventure, I will most likely use 'monastery' and 'convent' interchangeably - simply because 'convent' is the word most often used in the Lathrop's book.

And I interrupt this post for a bit of news... Thanks to a new scanner, plus a lot of late night digging through old scrapbooks, I can now share 20-ish year old pictures I've snapped at the very monastery we're 'visiting,' as well as in a few other monasteries (convents) over the years.

Along the way, we'll of course be looking into how what we see and read can be applied to our lives in the world, for that is what we do here, isn't it? By the grace of God, that's what we try to do.

Photo: Cloister garden, Georgetown Visitation Monastery, 1990s, N Shuman photo


This post is part of our series 'A Story of Courage.' To continue in chronological order, click this line.

Revisiting Heroic Stones

Minute by minute heroics is a good way to cooperate with God in constructing the monastery of the heart. Each minute can provide a 'stone' of opportunity. Each can be lived well (perhaps even heroically) for God.

'Have you seen how that imposing building was built? One brick upon another. Thousands. But, one by one. And bags of cement, one by one. And blocks of stone, each of them insignificant compared with the massive whole. And beams of steel. And men working, the same hour, day after day.... Have you seen how that imposing building was built? ... By dint of little things!' (St. Josemaria Escriva, The Way 823) 

I am being given thousands, millions, of minutes to live on this earth. Each is insignificant compared to the whole .. but each one, added to each other one, is absolutely necessary to make up my life. I have the minutes, I have the mortar of free will, and I have the Architect's plan of Scripture.
  
I have recognized one seemingly inconsequential way in which I haven't been following the plan all that well. Sometimes I grab a few perfectly good, newly minted minutes, and slap the mortar on them with a harrumph. I have not considered this activity significant at all, because my harrumphs have been directed at 'things.' At inanimate objects like misbehaving computers, spoons that leap out of my hand onto the floor, remotes that play hide-and-seek.

I am anything but heroic when these items play their tricks. Huffs and grumbles and loud sighs pop right out of me in search of the offending object. 'Take THAT harrumph, you rotten, jumping spoon!'

I don't do this when others are around. At least - not when they're in the same room. Or, well, not when anyone is actually paying attention. Or, well, that's how it started. It began as a casual harrumph here, an innocent snap there. So what if it became something of a habit? It isn't as if it's hurting anything. Except, of course, a few hyperactive spoons.

But the development of such behavior is far from heroic. It has pulled me away from 'heroism' toward a grumbling, critical habit of internal whining. If I let it, it can alter the way I look at life. It certainly is not seeing things "through the grille." Having realized this, I am asking for grace to overcome my misuse of minutes...  each one precious, each one a minute in which I have the chance to be heroic. Not just passably good enough, but heroic. I don't have to give in to big sins, and I don't have to indulge in moments of whining.

If I am tempted to grumble - why, look at the opportunity I'm being given! I can resist the temptation, and I can thank God in that very moment. Thank You, Lord, that I have a computer on which to write of Your goodness, and if that device is acting up right now, give me patience to deal with it and to turn this moment to good. Thank You, Lord, for plenty of food to eat. Thank You that I don't have to eat it with my hands.

And thank You for a nice, washable floor to catch all my leaping spoons.

This is an edited repost from our archives. It is linked to Reconciled to You and Theology is a Verb for 'It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday.
© 2015 N Shuman thecloisteredheart.org 
  

Our Monastery

'The Monastery of a cloistered heart is the person's own life. A monastery is a place consecrated to God, a place of prayer, a place where God is loved and served. Our lives can be all of these things.  Just as any building can become a monastery by being dedicated to God, so our lives can become 'monasteries' by such dedication.'    

'Even now we are called to be a dwelling for the Most Holy Trinity.  'If a man loves Me,' says the Lord, 'he will keep My word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him, and make our home with him.' (John 14:23)'  (Catechism of the Catholic Church #260)

© Nancy Shuman
thecloisteredheart.org 

And Our Monastery is.....

The Monastery of a cloistered heart is the person's own life.  A monastery is a place consecrated to God, a place of prayer, a place where God is loved and served.  Our lives can be all of these things.  Just as any building can become a monastery by being dedicated to God, so our lives can become "monasteries" by such dedication. 

This is more than a nice daydream.  It is simply truth.  

"Even now we are called to be a dwelling for the Most Holy Trinity.  'If a man loves Me,' says the Lord, 'he will keep My word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him, and make our home with him.' (John 14:23)"  (Catechism of the Catholic Church #260)

"O my God.... grant my soul peace.  Make it Your heaven, Your beloved dwelling, and Your place of rest.  May I never abandon You there, but may I be there, whole and entire, completely vigilant in my faith, entirely adoring, and wholly given over to Your creative action."  (St. Elizabeth of the Trinity)

As imperfect as we are, Our Lord actually desires to live within us.

Imagine.

Text not in quotes © 2012 Nancy Shuman. 
thecloisteredheart.org     

Painting: Fritz von Wille, in US public domain due to age

Not a Change of Physical Dwelling

'No one can approach God without withdrawing from the world. 

By withdrawal I do not mean change of physical dwelling place, 

but withdrawal from worldly affairs. 

The virtue of withdrawal from the world 

consists in not occupying your mind with the world.'

St. Isaak of Syria



Painting: Maximilien Luce (digitally altered), in US public domain due to age

These Heroic Stones

Debbie at Saints 365 has written an immensely practical series of posts on living heroically one minute at a time. One minute of heroism added to another added to another added to another.

And it occurs to me.

Minute by minute heroics is a good way to cooperate with God in constructing the monastery of the heart. 

'Have you seen how that imposing building was built? One brick upon another. Thousands. But, one by one. And bags of cement, one by one. And blocks of stone, each of them insignificant compared with the massive whole. And beams of steel. And men working, the same hour, day after day.... Have you seen how that imposing building was built? ... By dint of little things!' (St. Josemaria Escriva, The Way 823) 

I am being given thousands, millions, of minutes to live on this earth. Each is insignificant compared with the whole .. but each one, added to each other one, is absolutely necessary to make up my life. I have the minutes, I have the mortar of free will, and I have the Architect's plan of Scripture.

In recent weeks, I have recognized one seemingly inconsequential way in which I haven't been following the plan all that well. Sometimes I grab a few perfectly good, newly minted minutes, and slap the mortar on them with a snarl. I have not considered this activity significant at all, because my snarls have been directed at "things." At inanimate objects like misbehaving computers, spoons that leap out of my hand onto the floor, remotes that play hide-and-seek.

I am anything but heroic when these items play their tricks. Huffs and grumbles and loud sighs pop right out of me in search of the offending object. "Take THAT snarl, you rotten, jumping spoon!"

I don't do this when others are around. At least - not when they're in the same room. Or, well, not when anyone is actually paying attention. Or, well, that's how it started. It began as a casual hrrumph here, an innocent snap there.  So what if it's becoming more of a habit?  It isn't as if it's hurting anything. Except, of course, a few hyperactive spoons.

But the development of such behavior is far from heroic. It is pulling me away from "heroism" toward a grumbling, critical habit of internal whining. If I let it, it can alter the way I look at life. It certainly is not seeing things "through the grille."

Having suddenly realized this, I am asking for grace to overcome my misuse of minutes. Minutes, each one precious, each one individual, in which I have the chance to be heroic. Not just passably good enough, but heroic. I don't have to give in to big sins, and I don't have to indulge in moments of whining.

If I am tempted to grumble - why, look at the opportunity I'm being given! I can resist the temptation, and I can thank God in that very moment. Thank You, Lord, that I have a computer on which to write of Your goodness, and if that device is acting up right now, give me patience to deal with it and to turn this moment to good. Thank you for a TV... may we use it to Your glory.  And thank You, Lord, for plenty of food to eat - I truly don't thank You enough for that. And thank You that I don't have to eat it with my hands.

Thank You for a nice, washable floor to catch all my spoons.

Painting (including detail): Henri Martin, in US public domain due to age

Singing in the City

I came across the following this morning. It's a brief reflection, scribbled in my journal in the year 2000.

I was spending time in a monastery - not hidden in the woods somewhere, but situated in the historic edges of large, busy city. As a retreatant, I stayed in the cloister. 

One of the nuns later apologized for my being housed in a cell overlooking the sidewalk (rather than the cloister garden). No need for regrets, said I. 

I was exactly where I needed to be.

"Chant, as we prayed this morning, curled around me. I was nestled, as a baby in its mother's gentle arms. Lilting voices lifted like the softest of lullabies, and I was stilled.  Now I sit in my cell, looking out the window...

The houses across the street 'look at this one,' and this one 'looks at them.' They share a narrow street, yet they are divided by a world, by an entire culture. How like a cloistered heart looking at the face of someone across a room, a street, a yard, out a car window, in a store, in the midst of a family gathering.

I watch the sky turn light outside my window. The city is waking as I write this. Cars, buses, planes, all move along their way for one more day. Birds chatter, unmindful of the ways of man, of the city of man that is this bustling metropolis, this powerful and mighty place of power among the nations of earth.

Perhaps I see contrast as much as anything as I sit here. Black branches stand in silhouette against a lightening sky. Cars rush by below me; silver, gray, maroon. Birds call out above me; silver, gray, maroon. 

Such an important city. Such human power in these houses and streets. And all the while, the sky stretches above all and is over all; unnoticed, for the most part.

The cloistered heart is a "city" sort of vision. We must learn to sing the songs of God in a land removed from Him. To sing the Magnificat even as we live the Pieta. Ours are gentle melodies in a land that has forgotten the song. Like birds calling from the treetops, like warblers who sing in the city of man, I must join the chorus.

I must sing, and I must allow God to do what He wishes with the song."


Painting: Paul Cornoyer, The Plaza After Rain

What Makes a Monastery?

'It is monastic life which signifies a monastery, 

and the fact has no vice versa. 

The most 'correct' monastery building 

in the world would not be a monastery 

if monastic life did not pulse within it.'

Mother Mary Francis PCC, A Right to be Merry; click here for link

 

I am Broken Too

From our guest-poster Trish:

"I'm sweeping my kitchen floor and my back is starting to ache a tad more than usual. I look at my broom and realize it could be my own reflection, staring up at me. 

I'm quite short for an adult, just 5 feet, and my old broom is even shorter; in fact, it's much shorter than the average broom. Have we both shrunk? Why yes, we have. It's easy to see that we've both become a little 'abbreviated' over the years. 

Been through a lot together and I'm very fond of this particular old broom-friend. It always does what I ask of it, in spite of all its obvious flaws and weaknesses, but it wasn't always so short nor so flawed. Once upon a time it was a proud and upright object that both my husband and I put to good use every day - until that one fateful afternoon! Hubby was merrily and quite vigorously sweeping along the dusty floor when we heard it.  A distinct and sickening 'snap,' and with it my proud broom was suddenly humbled in half.

'Well, that's the end of that! We'll have to get another one now,' I heard my husband say.

'"No.. it's okay.. I can still use it.'  I wasn't going to let a mere thing like that take my beloved old broom away from me! 

Hubby arrived home the next day, with a new broom.  

I continue to use my old one.

It means I have to bend down a bit more now; but still, there is no other broom I love more than this one and no other that cleans up half as well as it does.  Hubby finds it a bit embarrassing for anyone to know I use a broken broom. He thinks it should be tossed out - after all, it's broken - so why keep it when we have a new one to replace it with? 

Well, for one thing, it's a good hard straw broom and the new one is soft nylon. I like straw. And I like broken things. 

I'm sweeping my kitchen floor and my back is starting to ache a tad more than usual. ('O God, come to my aid; O Lord make haste to help me!')  

Help me to sweep without grumbling today. Help me to be grateful for dust and kitchen crumbs, and a few extra twinges. ('Lord, I offer these pains up for H, our dear friend who is battling cancer and who loves You so much!')  

Help me choose to do this monotonous housework with a light heart, even though I'd rather be reading a book or gardening! Help me to be careful not to put too much stress on my old broom today... and to remember this.. .I am broken too. So broken, You have to reach right down from Heaven itself to make any use of me. 

Help me remember how You love me, in spite of my obvious sins and failings; that You never give up on me or turn me away. You never want to replace me with anyone else.. with a new or better version. You just want... me. 

'Let him regard all the vessels of the monastery and all its substance, as if they were sacred vessels of the altar.'  Would St Benedict tell his cellarer to toss out a broken broom, just because it made the monk bend lower? I wonder...  
 
I am the cellarer in my monastery. 

I keep all the broken brooms.  

Oh yes, it's true... I live in a monastery. I am a 'monk'. My inner monastery is the Abbey of my heart.  The Holy Trinity is my community there, and the Will of God is my Rule. Wherever I am, my inner Abbey is with me. Whatever I do, I do within its grounds. I am never 'away' from it, no matter how far I travel or how long it takes to get home. 

And the community of my inner Abbey, the three Persons of the Trinity, always go with me... and I with Them. We come together each day for prayer... for the work we do together... and for sitting together in silence.  We are heart-monastics, companions, confidantes, family within Family. 

When I am weak, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are there to uphold me. 
When I am suffering, They are there to console me.  
When I am rejoicing, They celebrate with me.  
When I am wrong, They guide me back to the right path. 
When I am sick with sin, They heal me. 
When I am in my most unlovable state.... The Father, Son and Holy Spirit love me still! 

Oh, who would want to live without such a Community as this!?  

How I became a heart-monastic is a mystery, even to me. It was nothing I did, nothing I planned, nothing I foresaw happening. I just know that one day something 'snapped' within me and I fell so low that only God could reach down and lift me up. And where He touched me now burns. Flames on His altar, consuming all that would sever the embrace of our souls. 

I am broken... and sweet is the breaking within me. I am hidden... and how lovely is my enclosure. I am silent...and how loud my heart beats for Him. I am alone... and always with Him. I am called...my fiat given. I am not worthy.  

HE... is all that is!"

This post was written by Trish, who blogs at 'Monastic Housewife.'  

Paintings by:    (top) William Paxton (cropped)
                      (middle) Vilhelm-Hammershoi
                      (broom alone) Pierre August Renoir (detail)
                      (bottom) Norwid

                                 


This post is linked to Catholic Bloggers Network Linkup

No Other Foundation

               'Jesus, our Savior, true God and true Man, must be the ultimate end of all our devotions.
               Otherwise they would be false and misleading.
               He is the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End of everything...
               He is the only Teacher from whom we must learn,
               the only Lord on whom we should depend,
               the only Head to whom we should be united,
               and the only Model we should imitate.
               He's the only Physician who can heal us;
               the only Shepherd who can feed us;
               the only Way that can lead us;
               the only Truth we can believe;
               the only Life that can animate us.
               He alone is everything to us, and He alone can satisfy all our desires.
               We are given no other name under heaven by which we can be saved.
               God has laid no other foundation than Jesus for our salvation, perfection and glory.
               Every edifice that is not built on that firm Rock
               is built upon shifting sands and will certainly fall.' 

                    St. Louis de Montfort

                    Painting by Heinrich Hofmann