End of Fall Check Up

I’m still alive and kicking. I wanted to stop by and let everyone know this. My blog has been sparse recently for many reasons. First and foremost, I have simply been busy! I am a full time student, but I also have two jobs on campus. One is as an assistant to a professor, which can be demanding when it is time to grade tests (especially during final exams). The other job I have is in the monastery kitchen, where I am kept very busy cleaning and making sure the dining room is in good order for the monks. The job is not difficult, but it is tiring, so often when I get back to my room after a long day of class and work, I am simply worn out! The last thing on my mind is what to write about online that is meaningful to others.

We had our last week of classes and it ended Friday. Next week we will be taking exams. Luckily, I have 3 take-home exams, which means I have ample time to do almost nothing! I can’t say that my classes this semester were notable in any way, except for maybe my course on Liturgy and Sacraments. We had a new professor teach that class, and as a former Anglican priest and new convert to Catholicism, he had a great deal of insight on the liturgy and a great love of the traditional aspects of liturgy (such as ad orientem worship, Gregorian chant, the use of Latin). It was a welcomed relief from the prevailing trend on campus that seems to be gearing the piety of the student body towards something along the lines of Stubenville-style worship. Many of the folks who work closely with Campus Ministry are very much into questionable devotions, like the Medjugorje affair and the locutions of Kathryn Ann Clarke, also known as Anne the Lay Apostle. It is simply a relief to have some orthodoxy, even if it was during three 50-minute classes each week. We spent our last week of class going over the new English translation of the missal, and practicing some of the material from Jubilate Deo. It was interesting, because I was also taking a class on Ecclesiology. The course name read “The Church” because the professor didn’t want to put off the non-Catholics I suppose. In Ecclesiology we also went over, very briefly, the new translations which the professor claimed were awkward and unnecessary. We also spent part of the last class period listening to a recording of All Are Welcome, which is probably one of my least favorite hymns, as it was meant to be a teaching model on what the Church really is, according to the professor. Ecclesiology was, in too many ways, the direct opposite of my Liturgy class all semester. On the last day of Liturgy class, we spent part of the period chanting the Credo, for instance, since a better awareness of Gregorian Chant and the ability to implement it by laymen was one of the express goals of Vatican II as stated in Sacrosanctum Concilium.

During the Fall of 2008, I attempted to start the practice of Compline on campus in the newly built Adoration Chapel. If you don’t know, Compline is one of the hours of prayer that make up the Liturgy of the Hours. Compline is said at night, after Vespers, typically before retiring to sleep. Next to the Holy Mass, the Liturgy of the Hours is the most efficacious form of prayer a Catholic can participate in, and it is also the prayer of the Church. The Liturgy of the Hours is also a particularly part of Benedictine spirituality, which is why I wanted to make sure that it was available to the student body. While the monks hold and invite students to attend Lauds, Midday Prayer, and Vespers, few ever show up, but I thought that if Compline was taking place, more students might be interested, since it happens at a time when students are more likely to be awake and not busy. A friend and I continued to hold Compline in the chapel this semester as well, but we generally have no more than 4-5 people total show up, one of whom is a monk. This has been very discouraging for me.

As I go to a college that is supposed to be Catholic and Benedictine, a part of me believes it would be prudent for Campus Ministry and those Catholic students, who owe thanks to the legacy of this College’s Benedictine community for making their education possible, to make more of an effort to participate in those Benedictine forms of spirituality made present to them. We have something unique at Belmont Abbey College, and that uniqueness, the monks, is the center of the Marketing Department’s advertising: i.e., the “Got Monks?” slogan plastered on hoodies, billboards, stickers, and websites all over the place. Yet, despite this, the monks truly are not the center of the college. If they truly were, more people would put forth an effort to become involved with the prayer and piety of the monastic community in some shape or form outside of the mass. On average, including myself, only three or four students ever show up to any of the monk’s liturgies (outside of the mass) each day, and only one professor, who is also an oblate of the community. It upsets me, as I have a deep love for the Benedictine life and the monks of Belmont Abbey. Paired with the popular piety of the student body who are practicing Catholics (Praise and Worship music in the Adoration Chapel, Student Mass involving music that is nearly exclusively from the Spirit and Song book*), the lack of interest in the Benedictine tradition that this college is founded upon and advertises as something that sets it apart from other Catholic institutions upsets me greatly. I hope next semester will prove better in this regard.

As I complete my exams this semester, I look forward to the remainder of Advent and then the Christmas season. I will be driving to Indiana with a friend from Belmont Abbey who is a senior graduating this December. He is looking forward to beginning a pastoral internship at a parish in his diocese as preparation for the seminary, and has an interest in monasticism. We’re going to St. Meinrad, where I will be working with my fellow interns to interview applicants for next summer’s intern staff, and where he will be making a vocations visit, as St. Meinrad is one of many monasteries he wants to visit to get a more complete perspective of Benedictine spirituality before making any major decisions. After that, I will return to the Carolinas briefly to visit during Christmas, and then there is a possibility that my Dad and I will drive to Arizona to visit other relatives in Tucson. I really hope we do, because I have two younger cousins there that I have not seen in two years, and I always enjoy the antics we create together. Then, it is on to the Spring semester and the close of my Junior year.

*Edit: Due to a scheduling conflict, a friend and I had to attend student mass this Sunday. The music was taken out of the Red Worship hymnals and was done nicely. They even did a fine rendition of Panis Angelicus during communion. The "closing hymn" was from their booklet of lyrics from contemporary artists, and was completely out of place with the otherwise nicely done liturgy. Student mass is generally hit or miss, and I am hoping this display of more appropriate music is a trend due to a change in attitudes towards liturgy, and not just a novelty for the Advent season.

Fr. John

Fr. John Oetgen. I remember seeing him my Freshman year at Belmont Abbey. He was one of the tallest men I'd ever seen, and he walked with an air of regality about him. He took careful steps, often with a cane in one hand, but they were confident steps too. I would frequently see him coming around from the theatre that he loved some much. He'd nod to me and I would nod back. I would learn that it was a kind of normative monastic greeting around here. I remember the first mass he said my freshman year and the last mass he said. Both we shockingly eloquent. He had been born in Georgia and educated at Oxford, and every word from his mouth was saturated with humble perfection. It was his way. He maintained some sort of gentle command around himself so that you knew that he would always know much more than you could possibly imagine, but also that he would never let you feel any less than he was. He would share any piece of information or story with you that you cared to hear.

When he got ill, he was a rare sight at mass. We were all more likely to find him at Vespers. He would come in from the sacristy and move along the wall, cane in one hand and the other touching the wall or the backs of choir stalls. Then he would plop down in his stall, and you could hear him opening his tin of mints and pulling the rapper off of one before the smacking sound came as he indulged himself just a little and just enough to keep the mouth from being too dry to chant. This would be the most you might see of him that day, but he would come out of the monastery from time to time to tend to the garden or walk about the nave of the church before mass. I remember the last time he walked out into the nave I was walking to a pew as he was coming down the side where I was. As he came toward me he lifted his cane so that the point shook at me as if he was going to hit me, but the smile on his face said otherwise. I moved aside to let him pass, and he gave me playful whap on the shoulder with it.

Then there was a time at Vespers when he fell right to the floor on the way to his stall. I thought he was a goner, knowing how old folks and gravity are never a good mix. As some of the younger brothers went to help him up, he stood on his own, jokingly exclaimed that one of the brothers had pushed him, and then walked up to his stall and sat down as if nothing had happened. Not long after that he spent what seemed like a month at the hospital, and my friends and I could not wait for his return. Finally, we spotted the ambulance bringing him back, and we waited by the back porch of the monastery as they moved him back inside on a sort of gurney. He was sitting upright in it, and as they carried the gurney past us, he wildly shook his cane at us with bright eyes and a big smile.

I guess that is a good way to describe him. He was always fighting and overcoming something. He never let up. If it was in his power to do something, then he would do it by any means he could. He wouldn't let any illness or old bones stop him. He would walk to the theatre if he wanted to watch a play. He would go to the library if he wanted a book. If he wanted to mess around in his garden, he would do it. A few weeks ago, despite his declining health, he wanted to sit on the porch for what I now know was probably the last time to soak in the fine weather of a mild Carolina afternoon. My freshman year found him there often. He was a bit like everyones grandfather, and you could fine him in one of the rocking chairs where he would sit, usually just before mass, watching the students walk by and waving at them. When the bells rang, he would get up slowly, and he would walk inside like the giant he was, and you knew you had seen a legend. God rest you, Fr. John.

A little fun...

Alright, just so that you folks don't think that I sit around all day thinking serious thoughts, here are two videos that I uploaded to facebook this week.

The first is of a squirrel that I came across on the way to check my mail on campus. I watched this thing for about 2 minutes before I realized I had my camera on me and should film it.



This next one was unintentional. I was filming my trip in the back of my friend's truck from the cafeteria to the monastery for a possible, future "Tour of my college" kind of deal, and what happens at the end had me laughing all the way to the monastery's back door before I went to work in the kitchen. At least I had a good time!



By no stretch of the imagination are these films phenomenal, but they are entertaining to me, and you might like them to. I was using a Samsung 12 mega pixel digital camera, so that is why the video quality is a little shabby.

Nothing new, so here's a poem

I wrote this when I was at St. Meinrad this summer on a night that somehow managed to be very enjoyable and distressing for me all at once. I stole away from a place of song and festivity to hang out in the graveyard, a place where I always feel strangely at ease. A little piece of the poem was borrowed from elsewhere. A little tiny piece but a necessary piece. Oh well. Here it is:

The orange glow is a halo
On the grey grey ground
I'm sitting in the dark where
No one knows I'm around

Stoke the coals of my cooling heart
Take the fire but leave the sparks
At the water's edge don't let me drown

A storm begins to roll in
The surface stays so still
I'm leaving to go on my way
And climb back up my hill

So many saints are sleeping here
I wipe my eyes after every tear
In the shadow of a cross concealed

Not alone small pillars of stone
Heavy burdens they hold
Distant rises the smoke and song
As I recall what I was told

Looking up through those outstretched arms
Burning bright a billion stars
Those silver fires only leave me cold

In a black hole the bell tolls
Seems so very far away
Am I forsaken or just mistaken
Remind me just one time anyway

I'll follow your directions
I'll take your suggestions
On the move so point the way

Goodbye, old friend.

I had wanted a dog for a long time, and my mother decided to humor my requests to look at some possible candidates. I had decided that I wanted a black Labrador because I really liked the dog my friend had. We visited many homes claiming to have black Lab puppies for sale, but we didn’t like what we saw. Finally, we stopped at one home in the wealthy neighborhood bordering Lake Wylie. We assumed they would have a pure bred dog that would be out of our price range, but we decided to look anyways. The woman had three puppies left: two females and one male. Two of the puppies were playing rambunctiously, but the third, the runt of the litter, was sitting on the steps trying to stay out of the way. I had to have her. We were in luck, because as it turned out, the woman was only charging $20 to cover the price of the puppy’s vaccination bill. I begged my mom in the way that only a young girl can, and after she wrote a check, I carried my new puppy to the car in my arms and we brought her home on that late April evening in 1996.

I was in the Fourth Grade when we got this puppy, who would turn out not to be a pure breed after all, but would be better than any dog I could ever want. The first morning I had her, I woke up extra early to go see her, and she cautiously came out of her huge doghouse whimpering to sit in my lap. I sat there for about 30 minutes just petting her before my mom called me into the house after she had figured out why I wasn’t in bed when she went to wake me for school. From that morning on, I began a close friendship with my new furry companion that I named Pepper.

We taught her how to sit, how to fetch, and how to shake hands, but in reality, she did what she wanted unless extra food was involved. One thing she always wanted to do was be with me. I couldn’t do anything without my dog as much as she could help it. For a while we lived on a farm that sat on 700 acres and was surrounded by wheat, cotton, and cows. I was in Middle School then, and I didn’t have people my own age to spend time with. I went to a Catholic school, and most of my peers came from well-to-do families and didn’t care much to come to my house or to have me over to theirs, so I spent most of my free time at home and on my own - with my dog. We would go crazy with all the space we had. She was particularly fond of antagonizing the cattle. She seemed completely unconcerned with their presence as they grazed in the pasture by the front lawn until one of us would open the door to the porch she was laying on. Then it was a matter of life and death, and she bravely rushed into the field to scatter the threat to our existence before those four-stomached menaces could do us harm.

This anti-cow sentiment did serve its purposes. I myself was quite happy to go outside our house and roam about the 700 acres we had at our disposal by virtue of renting the house it was on. I was never satisfied with the knowledge of how far the land went, I had to keep pushing further and further into uncharted territory. There were too many creeks, too many hidden pastures, too many unused fields, too many deer stands, and too many caved in and abandoned shacks for me to quit wondering about. There were also too many cows, and whenever they got to close to my path of exploration, Pepper would clear the way with her barking and snapping of jaws, fearless in the face of kicking hooves of angry cows as they tried to defend their calves. Pepper didn’t care. She loved the chase. She loved the chance to sniff out rabbits (though she never seemed to want to catch one). She especially loved the opportunity to dive into a creek or deep watering hole to swim and collect mussels from the shore. If there was a body of water big enough to lay in, you could bet that Pepper would find it.

The height of our days of adventures came to an end after high school. My parents divorced, and when both moved to places where pets could not go, Pepper had to stay with my uncle. As the years went on, we were hesitant to try and move her from place to place for the sake of her having some stability, but on many occasions she had to move, though never with me. Every now and then, my Dad and I would pick her up and take her to the river. He would fish and she and I would roam the banks of the Catawba. I would poke around the ruins of 19th century stonework, and she would splash around in that awful river. These trips became less frequent as time went on, and her growing problems with hip dyslexia took a lot of the fire out of her. She still never stopped trying to get into my car when I would visit her, though. She was always determined to go wherever I was going, and it was hard to tell her “No” as I pulled her front end out of the car as she tried to wiggle her way into the driver’s seat. I always knew that in her own way, she wanted to go home with me.

About 5 months ago she got her wish, though not in a way she expected. She was living with my uncle and his several dogs. Two of his dogs drug up a dead, rabid raccoon. She made the mistake of sharing a food bowl with them. Though they did not show signs of rabies, the county recommended quarantine for them, and for Pepper in the event that the other potentially rabies-infected dogs’ saliva had come into contact with hers. It seemed unlikely, but it was an order. So, my dad brought her home and put her in a makeshift pen where she was supposed to remain for 6 months before it was safe to say she didn’t have rabies. I was in college and couldn’t come down to visit, but I did come to stay with my dad at the end of May before going to St. Meinrad in June. The slow-moving but happy dog I had once known looked pretty depressed. I was opposed to having her in a pen, but I knew I didn’t have much control over the issue. I left for Indiana and came back six weeks later to find that she didn’t even have it in her to get up when I came to the fence, unless I had something for her to eat, of course.

This morning, I had enough of seeing my dog in bad spirits, and seeing her sadly laying at the opening area of the fence, I let her out of the pen. She seemed happy about it, and even wagged her tail enthusiastically as she trotted towards the house. She stopped right at the back door and collapsed in the cool shade, something she has always done in her typical “I don’t care, I do what I want!” fashion. I let her be, and went on with my morning. An hour later I checked on her, but she had gotten up and was now laying in the shade on the other side of the house. I was happy to see her enjoying the yard, and throughout the day, she moved from tree to tree, laying always in the shade. Later this afternoon, I spotted her moving towards the road. I knew she was slow-moving, so I went outside to lure her back into the yard, worried she would get run over. By the time I reached her, she had laid herself down in a ditch. I tried to get her to stand up and walk, but she either wouldn’t or couldn’t. I didn’t want her to bake in the sun, so I spent a good while dragging her back to her pen ash she offered neither resistance nor cooperation. I left her there with her large water bowl full of fresh, cool water, and went inside to take a shower and get the smell of stinky dog off of me.

When I got out of the shower, I looked out the window to see her sitting there staring at her bowl, occasionally lapping at the water. She seemed fine, so I went to read on my bed. 15 minutes later I got up to see if she needed more water. As I left the back door and approached the pen, I saw that she was laying on her side, and that her big round belly was still. I knew what had happened, and I told her in a sad voice that she wasn’t supposed to die yet, but she already had. Those last happy memories of my childhood went with her.

I know that Pepper was just a dog, but she was also a great companion for a little girl who didn’t have many friends. She probably never knew what was going on, but she was always there for me to pet and hold when it seemed no one else was around. She would just sit there, looking stupid with her tongue hanging out, hoping I had something for her to chew on; hoping I would rub her belly; hoping I would throw something into the woods for her to find. Day in and day out, I could always count on her presence when I didn’t have much else to count on. A dog was the only thing she could be, and she was a very good dog. I never new her to snap at or bite anyone in her 13 long years of life. Even when I used to aggravate her by pulling on her tail or ears, she would only groan and look at me with patience like she was the mother of a bothersome pup.

You were a good friend, Pepper, and I miss you already. I don’t really know what happens to dogs when they die, but I'm pretty sure they don't go to heaven. I hope wherever you are, that you are chasing cows through eternity.

Stalling time

Oh, my poor little blog, you look so lonely and neglected!

I've been back from The Hill and in The Thrill since the 16th. Yes, sarcastic teenagers and disgruntled young people in my age group, faced with the reality that my hometown of Rock Hill is an incredibly boring place to like like to jokingly refer to it as "Rock Thrill" or "Rock Vegas." The most exciting thing to do in Rock Hill is get in your car and drive to Charlotte.

School starts on the 21st...or the 23rd...I'm really not sure. I should probably look that up soon. I'm ready to go now! Let's get this semester going! I am not looking forward to the moving-in process, but I am excited to be back in my dorm and have a chance to set my room up and all. I actually landed a room on the 2nd floor instead of the 3rd this time! Woohoo! 

I guess this was a pretty light blog entry....Hopefully I'll have more to say later.

Peace!

July 13th reflection on One Bread, One Cup: A remix of sorts.

Fr. Anthony likes to keep my on my toes, so to make things interesting for my life, he had me deliver a reflection speech at tonight’s formal dinner with the St. Meinrad Office of Youth and Young Adult Formation staff and their spouses, as well as members of the monastic community who have served the interns as spiritual directors. I wasn’t sure what to talk about, but I heard that Fr. Anthony wanted me to share the same thing I had shared at Compline on June 26th. I felt that the reflection I gave then would suffice, but the interns had heard it twice already, and the monks we had invited are a different crowd than a room full of high school students.

I was working on a short few days notice and decided that the best course of action would be to rework the same basic idea that I had in the previous reflection, but at the same time, try to make it interesting and enjoyable to the new crowd. So, if you are familiar with the first version of this theme (posted an entry before this one), you will see the similarities in this version, because I like to recycle. It’s a little longer than the last, but I believe it was received well. Thank you again to Fr. Anthony for providing his fatherly guidance and support of my writing efforts this summer.

I had never been to Indiana before, a state I had only heard rumor of, and the existence of St. Meinrad was not a part of my life before the summer of 2008. A friend and One Bread, One Cup intern at my college had asked me if I was interested in taking the place of a last-minute drop-out. I didn’t think too much when I replied “sure,” saying yes to something that was little less than a mystery to me at the time.

Soon they came. A package of forms: an application, requests for medical records, media release contracts…endless lines to add my signature to. I knew then that something serious was going on in far away Indiana. I wasn’t sure what that was, but given all the paperwork, I figured that by the time I finished it, the position would be filled, though I was still trying to figure out what that position was.

“Well,” my friend had said, “we work with the youth. We work with monks. We teach. We learn.” It wasn’t much to go on, but it sounded like the best I would get out of her as I could see her struggling to explain what life at St. Meinrad was like. Now, during my second summer here, I can see that nothing she could have said would have been adequate.

A month or so after sending in my information and learning I had been accepted, I flew from North Carolina to Louisville and spent my first hour among a small group of interns as they discussed the previous summer. I heard rumors of monk versus intern baseball games, some place called Dairy Barn that everyone seemed to have some odd emotional attachment too, and I heard something about snow, mud, and a cathedral of trees that was hilarious to everyone for reasons I didn’t understand. These were clearly strange people, and St. Meinrad was sure to be a strange place.

Even stranger was the joy people in the van had as soon as we had visual contact with the Archabbey as we made our approach. It was all overwhelming to me. On top of this hill in the middle of nowhere was this huge building with sandstone walls that would eventually come to mesmerize me. Two tall spires reached for heaven whereupon clock faces seemed to be like eyes peering out over the sleepy town below, watching over everyone and everything.

I was hurried to my room in Bede hall, which looked like it should have been condemned decades ago, and the other interns seemed to love it in a way that only a mother could love a child. I then rushed with the new arrivals after unpacking as I heard the frantic calling of abbey bells signaling that Vespers was imminent. I found a seat in the Archabbey Church that evening and entered into a rhythm of life that would change me forever. I still ask myself from time to time, as I did that first summer, what kind of place is St. Meinrad?

As Fr. Anthony pointed out at one time, St. Meinrad was built to last. The Archabbey isn’t going anywhere. It is a monument to stability, anchored to the Hill unmovable. It is as unshakeable as the faith of those who call this place their home. It radiates with the prayers of monks and pilgrims alike. It’s solid foundations and sturdy walls are a fortress of rock in which all who visit encounter the abiding presence of God. The peace of this place never leaves the memory of one who has been touched by it.

These outer walls haunt me when I am off the Hill. I have seen them take on the color of the setting sun, shine pale in the moonlight, and grow dark with the falling rain. I think of these things and wonder why…why does St. Meinrad choose to visit my thoughts so often. I find myself longing for something in those moments when I can not sense peace in my life, and my thoughts are drawn back inside the Archabbey Church; back to laughter in the halls, walks down the lane, the hasty calling of bells, and the glow of two big yellow eyes watching over sleeping monks and interns in the night.

It took me a while to realize that what I was longing for was not only St. Meinrad and all of the happy memories I had had here, but it was that presence of God so clearly apparent on the Hill. Whenever I thought back to scenes from the summer, I was being reminded of something more important than a few good laughs or impeccably chanted psalms. God. He’s always trying for our attention. He reaches us where we need him most and makes himself visible in his own way. He has shown himself to us through St. Meinrad. He has made St. Meinrad an example of himself: Immense. Immovable. Unbreakable. Permanent. Present.

I…we, have found his peace on this Hill. We have seen his compassion in our confessors. His presence in Fathers and Brothers. His sense of love and longing to share in our joy through new friendships. His constant security in the gaze of two clock-face eyes. His call to conversatio in the urgency of bells. His voice of consolation in the firm yet gentle chants of the evening. This place is permanence, a guarantee that God is with us and is not leaving. Memories of this place are whispers from God, a hand nudging us to remember that he was with us, is with us, and will be with us. No matter where we go, St. Meinrad still stands. No matter where we go, God is there.

As God gathers us inside himself and has taken on our very flesh, he leaves a piece of himself in each of us, drawing our hearts to his voice. He calls out to us on this Hill and from this Hill. Here, a place has been made for him for all who come here looking for him. This place is his place and it is our place to be with him in a world that rejects him. In those moments when we feel this place tugging at our hearts, we know that it is God himself knocking on the door of our hearts, calling out to us “What is this place, and will you have room in your heart for me?”

The internship program and One Bread, One Cup experience is a way in which we come to the Hill as interns to learn how to make a place for God in our lives. St. Meinrad really is a strange place, and the interns are very strange people, or so we have been taught to think by society. Only strange people would want to live in a building like Bede Hall, where the air is always warm and the showers give the user the decision between ice water or lava each morning. Only strange people could look forward to praying with even stranger monks several times a day in a world where all our joy is supposed to come from television or the internet. Only strange people would choose to spend a whole week – three times this summer – running off of 5 or 6 hours of sleep to teach high-schoolers (perhaps the strangest people on earth) how to live the liturgical life.

St. Meinrad teaches all of us that the strangeness of mystery ought to be a reality lived daily. Sometimes people talk about leaving the Hill and returning to the “real world.” What they don’t understand is that here, on this Hill and in our hearts, reality operates more profoundly than it ever could anywhere else. We have learned the reality of prayer, of life, of death, of our very souls here. Coming from a delusional society, we have been acquainted with the only reality that matters. Only a madman would consider it strange for the human soul to seek out and find comfort in the mystery of God for which the union of the two is meant to be natural.

St. Meinrad has taught us, through this internship, what it means to be real human beings: growing in knowledge of our God; Allowing our hearts to be set ablaze by the encompassing fire of his love; Learning to see the face of Christ in all those we meet here. We have been given a chance to recognize and meet the needs of those youth who have come to us to encounter Christ for themselves by our example. We have been taught how to learn, how to teach, how to love, and how to live. We have learned how to stand as tall and as solid as this Archabbey wherever we are, firm in the faith, our hearts made a place of peace to share with all we meet.

(C) 2009 Elizabeth Suaso