dedicated to friends at little rock -


The following prayer was found at the Ravensbruck death camp where 92,000 women and children died. It was scrawled on wrapping paper near a dead child.

'LORD, remember not only the men and women of good will but also those of ill will. But do not only remember the suffering they have inflicted on us; remember the fruits we have brought, thanks to this suffering -our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, the courage, the generosity, the greatness of heart which has grown out of all this, and when they come to judgement, let all the fruits we have borne be their forgiveness...'


dear rockies, thanks for sharing this excerpt. i was reminded of our regular sunday gathering where we broke the Word and confronted each other with the reality of our lives. i have grown much because of you- life is a little more grey at times...the thin line between universal and personal suffering becomes clearer and worn out as the years go by. The erosion is a good one...and shakes us out of our own air-conditioned comfort and security. i remember praying with you each sunday evening at st mary's...sharing everything from grace to humour and tidbits, or painful ambivalence and sometimes a ridicule or two about the state of our lives...prayer makes us put our petty complaints aside and turn inward, challenged to unite our temporal needs to the urgent needs of a forgotten world and its abandoned corners, right outside the safe shelter of our room...done often without ever knowing or expecting how the cry of prisoners at guantanamo bay will be heard, or the needs of a starving child in dafur be met...a cruel irony that we would pray so helplessly in total security while the rest languish toward death...our smiles an inconsequential reflection of human fraility and the persistent knocking of our hearts which our Lord continually begs us to answer...the cost and price of fidelity even as we serve and meet him and others in our world...

discipleship-
our sharing of mystery, in faith and suffering... our sharing of Christ, in the 'burnt women, men and children' (Merton: 7th Storey Mountain) of our world... amen

grapefruit,lemon,citrus days...

chris drove us to visit his family just 2km north of the Abbey. along the way there were trees in half-bloom, some in full, ready to peek at spring. there were wafts of country smoke swirling from the chimmney, hints of freshly-brewed tea, scones and shortcake from marie's kitchen.... a timely serving of tunch to keep winter pangs at bay...had fun plucking lemons from the garden--- adolescent boys and their citrus-ballgames which almost wrecked the trees to bits...a tumble of goodwill and generosity... those fruits would save us a few more dollars in the market, the intense pods of VitC ensures that chills and sniffs are tucked away as we continue this half-baked winter holiday...

elm cottage mornings

visited tarrawarra abbey once more and had a fantastic reunion with the chua bros (joseph & samuel) and old pals like Pat Burton, not forgetting the monastic fraternity who extended a warm welcome to us. there was plenty of catching up to do- city news, uni days, family fare, local stuff and mealtimes to share. the dawn was cast in winter light- a warm spray of sunrays and scented dew where old oaks stood in timeless respect for the place where many prayers have been said...elm cottage is used as a hermitage for families or individuals who wish to spend time in solitude. located about 5 mins from the main monastery, it looked like a wooden hut extracted and rebuild from Huckleberry Fin's homestead, supplied by rain and river water, backed by a heater or two to ensure healthy sustenance. there is a side chapel and certain corners looked as if they were freshly torn from a page of poems composed by time and landscape...i picked out near- samples and ran my fingers along the seasoned timber of a house, lodged in prayer and drenched daily in silence...a disused barrow from Merton's journals, brown sprigs in Basho's haiku, distant ponds in Wordsworth's Preludes and the singing trees from Rilke's canticles... the magpies flew overhead and landed on the grass, sturdy creatures who wore the same habits as the monks, sharing common timbres in chant and the cadence of flight. the days passed into the evenings and the hermitage became a temporary home and solace for friends.

resting place and sabbath mornings,
respite from the city...and to urban folks who seek to find rest-










O God of freedom, i come to you weary with all i have experienced. I cannot resolve the past, only accept it. Give me insight to see the good in the grief i go through. Give me courage to dare to dream again and be with me in my dreaming. We place our whole lives in your hands. Guide us. Create us. Shape us. Call us to life and we will live again.

amen

-adapted from helen jaeger's paths through grief