Chewing gum and baling wire

I grew up in rural Illinois, in a small dairy farming town west of Chicago. I belonged to 4-H. There was no store to make a quick run to if you ran out of something, so an expression I learned early was that things could be held together with chewing gum and baling wire. (It also means I know what baling wire is, it’s used to tie up bales of hay, and gets re-used for lots of ad hoc repairs.)

About 5 years ago my right hand got glitchy, so between books I took myself to see the orthopedic hand surgeon. His conservative (and effective) remedy was a small off the shelf splint which kept the joint stable. Lately the splint hasn’t been quite enough, and another joint has gotten into the act. A return trip to the orthopedic practice, and a consult with two amazing physical therapists who put their heads together to figure out how to stabilize the joints and still let me type and I now have two snazzy custom splints to wear when I am at the keyboard. They are fabulous, and fabulously violet. Most fabulously of all they work, so I can work. 

I feel a bit like I am held together by chewing gum and baling wire, but remain grateful for people who can problem solve.

The Spirit hovers over the chaos...and Tim Horton's

Actual photo of Holy Spirit on the streets of
Rome checking on a very tired and hot
pilgrim walking to the Holy Door in the 
Jubilee Year of mercy. 
 

"This morning, a few of the monks had their chapel service at St. Timothy of Horton's, a coffee shop down the road. After sharing prayers and singing in four-part harmony, "The Lone Wild Bird" to a shocked crowd of retirees and truckers, they prayed for the tired and weary souls going through the Drive-Thru. The Spirit doesn't just hover over altars; She hovers over coffee tables, Tim Bits, and parking lots, too." — from a post by The Unvirtuous Abbey

In the midst of the end of the semester chaos, I wouldn't mind finding a group of monks (or anyone for that matter) at Lancaster and Pennswood praying for the tired and weary souls trying to find a parking space at Acme and grab the half gallon of milk they forgot and get home in time to make dinner before the kid's concert tonight. What would happen if the Augustinians moved Morning Prayer outside occasionally, setting up the choir on either side of the street instead of on either side of the chapel, pitching the psalms back and forth over the traffic?

I am also certain that the Holy Spirit hovers over chaos by preference, breathing on it and trying to coax it into shape. This post reminds me of a line in Wendell Berry's How to be a poet: "There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places." Or maybe of the story of the desert father Abba Bessarion walking by the sea with his thirsty young companion: "God is here, God is everywhere."

I sometimes think we pull too many punches when we pray. I confess I am guilty of writing glossy but vague prayers. I pray for "the leaders of nations, that they might govern with justice and mercy" when I really mean, "Dear God, please send an angelic horde down to remind the leaders of my government that making children go hungry is a grievous sin; that mercy is due to immigrants as much as to citizens, for we are all children of God, images of the Divine; and that we should be distributing plowshares, not weapons of mass destruction. Amen?" I realize God knows far better than I just what is going on, so in that sense it doesn't matter, but the point of these intercessory prayers isn't to get onto God's to-do list. The point is, as Tomáš Halík notes in his book, Touch the Wounds, to open a dialog with God to discover just what we can (and cannot) do to address the problem.

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The Unvirtuous Abbey has been manifesting hope and humor on social media for many years. As a sometimes writing of intercessions for my parish, I appreciate their incisive and slightly sarcastic prayers —"For those who claim to know “what God intends” when most of us can’t figure out what our cat wants, we pray. " (Unvirtuous Abbey (@UnvirtuousAbbey) October 24, 2012).

Want to know more about the Unvirtuous Abbey? Here are a couple of interviews from years past. If you are still on social media (and I completely understand if you are not), you can catch them on Bluesky and Facebook.

Jesuit Post interview

Practical Catholic interview

A cup of grace

 

"You know that you are drinking a cloud; you are drinking the rain. The tea contains the whole universe.” ― Thích Nhất Hạnh, How to Eat

How much grace is there in a cup of tea? Or is it all grace? If all the universe is caught in my cup,  can it be otherwise? 

After two weeks of a Goldilocks diet (nothing too hot, nothing too cold, nothing with too much texture...or I suppose, too little) I was cleared last week to eat pretty much what I please. Despite my general inclinations toward staying firmly in Advent and not anticipating the upcoming solemnity of the Nativity, "Gloria in excelsis Deo!” was my refrain of the day.

This afternoon's cup of hot tea was glorious, definitely a grace of the day (maybe the week).  Hot,  sweet, fragrant, the cup warm in my hands, its steam swirled up like incense. There is strength in there, cloaked in caffeine's bracing bite. Like Isaiah’s parched desert steppe I come to life.

I think I like my grace like my tea: fragrant and bracing.

By Bread Alone

It is said that for the last years of her life Catherine of Siena subsisted solely on the Eucharist. Then there is Mary Magdalene, who legend says was fed daily on heavenly bread brought to her by an angel. So many saints it seemed, at least in the medieval period, didn’t need to eat, they were sustained by the Eucharist alone.

I had not given these pious legends much thought until recently, when for the last couple of weeks the only solid food I have eaten was the Eucharist (though not delivered by an angel). The rest of my diet has consisted of yogurt and mashed tubers of various sorts, with a bit of (mashed) squash thrown in for variety.  Baby food has more texture than most of the things I’ve been eating. I am definitely not a saint, as I am certain a saint would not be as grumpy about my limited diet as I am. 

Despite my grumpiness, I am grateful that yogurt and mashed yams and their ilk can hold body and soul together for a few weeks, grateful that I have food to put on the table at all, grateful that these limitations are short term, grateful that I can receive the Eucharist. Does the grumpiness give some texture to my gratitude? Perhaps. Perhaps when things are going smoothly I am less aware of what I am grateful for. 

The measure of my anxiety

 

The opening to at least one season of Downton Abbey shows the servants setting the table, using a ruler to precisely align each table setting. I am having a spot of surgery this afternoon (nothing serious, nothing major, I hasten to add) so have been trying to sidestep my anxiety by doing some prep for Thanksgiving dinner. Which we are hosting on Thursday.

I pulled out the china from the cabinet and brought up the extra silverware from the basement. I set out the serving dishes. I ironed the table runner feeling both old-fashioned, (ironing the linens?!?) and soothed. I find ironing very soothing, it's one of the things Parkinson's made so difficult and my ability to do it again a source of almost as much gratitude as folding my socks.

Was the table runner centered? I adjusted it and contemplated it from various angles. Maybe? Ah — the Downton Abbey scene flashing into memory — I have a ruler in the kitchen. Yes, in fact it was centered. Now if only I can stay centered!

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