Inspired by Scholastica

As I listened to the testimonies of Dr. Ford and Judge Kavanaugh this week, I reflected on how one's past can come back to haunt a person. For Dr. Ford it's a sexual assault and for Kavanaugh it's his excessive drinking and unacceptable behavior in high school. I don't know who is telling the truth, but both have gone through a terrible ordeal and it's far from over. So many women have kept silent about sexual abuse in the past but they are now finding their voice. With all the powerful men who have been brought down by women's accusations (e.g. Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein, Charley Rose, Matt Lauer), more women are speaking out. They are no longer stopped by shame or fearful of not being believed. They are tired of being victims. Girls/women who are abused suffer psychological damage the rest of their lives. Many teenagers get carried away by the fun and excitement of the moment without thinking of repercussions or consequences. That's why there are

  You must no longer live as the Gentiles do… put away the old self of your former way of life, … and put on the new self, created in God's way in righteousness and holiness of truth. (Eph. 4:17, 20-24) Recently our prioress, Sister Esther Fangman, spoke about critical junctures in our lives – times when we have to decide whether we are going to live our old way of selfishness and uncaring, or adopt a new self of kindness and compassion.   She emphasized the power each of us has to build others up or tear them down with our words and attitudes. We may not be conscious of this power in our day to day encounters, especially when we have our minds on other things. It takes awareness and effort. For example, we have a lot of guests and employees in our monastery. Sometimes they come with heavy burdens and sorrows that weigh them down. Sometimes they are tired or in a hurry. We can lift them up or ignore them. We also have sisters in our care center; many are elderly

Although Joan Putthoff was 93, her death last week came as a shock. I had not talked to her for months, but I knew she was in long term care at the Little Sisters of the Poor.  She had been a Benedictine sister for a number of years and was a teacher, counselor, civic leader and prison volunteer. Many remember her as a free spirit and a wonderful friend. I have many memories of her. One was the tradition of helping put up her Christmas tree and decorate her house for the holidays. Joan would invite a couple friends to a delicious dinner and then we trimmed the tree and sat around enjoying a glass of wine and lively conversation. It was never just chit chat --we discussed situations in the Church and the world, people we admired or didn't, and national and local politics. Once I took a class on transactional analysis from her and learned about "I'm okay; you're okay." I don't remember much else, but she instilled the importance of a good self image and rega

I wish I could make words become flesh, become embodiments of my thoughts. Somehow they always seem to fall short of what I really want to say, lack heart, everything needed to capture the moment. Perhaps I strive for too much ornateness, too much cleverness and catchy phrases, not enough emotion or passion to convey the beauty, the splendor of a pink dogwood in May, a white-capped  ocean wave in summer,  a Kansas sunflower, or fields of golden wheat in fall. Poets are supposed to capture the juiciness, the utter delight of what they perceive so others can savor the pulp, the aroma, the bodily fullness of their penetrating vision. And often they do. Like Mary Oliver's  poignant words: "it is a serious thing/ just to be alive/ on this fresh morning/ in this broken world."