Life and Health

Your words to me are life and health
Pour strength into my soul
Enable, guide and teach my heart
To reach its perfect goal

Your words to me are light and truth
From day to day they show
Their wisdom, passing earthly lore
As in their truth I grow

Your words are perfected in one
Yourself, the Living Word
Within my heart Your image print
In clearest lines, O Lord

(Hymn from a Magnificat morning prayer this week)

"Love Is Not Tolerance"

What does it really mean to love authentically? How do we walk the fine line between tender and tough love? The great speaker and TV evangelist Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen offers timeless guidance in this poem...

Love is Not Tolerance

Christian love bears evil, but it does not tolerate it.

It does penance for the sins of others, but it is not broadminded about sin.

The cry for tolerance never induces it to quench its hatred of the evil philosophies that have entered into contest with the Truth.

It forgives the sinner, and it hates the sin; it is unmerciful to the error in his mind.

The sinner it will always take back into the bosom of the Mystical Body; but his lie will never be taken into the treasury of His Wisdom.

Real love involves real hatred: whoever has lost the power of moral indignation and the urge to drive the buyers and sellers from the temples has also lost a living, fervent love of Truth.

Charity, then, is not a mild philosophy of "live and let live"; it is not a species of sloppy sentiment.

Charity is the infusion of the Spirit of God, which makes us love the beautiful and hate the morally ugly.

In the Tomb

Tomb, thou shalt not hold Him longer

Death is strong, but Life is stronger

Stronger than the dark, the light

Stronger than the wrong, the right

Faith and Hope triumphant say:

Christ will rise on Easter Day.

(Bishop Phillips Brooks, An Easter Carol)

Silent Night

I know that I've been quiet here since Christmas. Sometimes it seems that when the Lord is working most strongly in my soul, He moves me to silence. I've always been a naturally conversational person (I love words...particularly adjectives!), but in recent months He has been gently prompting me to value silence more. Words can be beautiful, but many of life's most beautiful moments occur in the quiet. So, too, does He choose to come to us most intimately in the quiet...in the tiny, whispering wind (1 Kings 19).

How often do we really notice the words we sing in that beloved carol Silent Night? That's right: the King of the Universe chose to arrive to the world in silence, in stillness. This thought was echoed in a poem I wrote several Christmases ago:

In a hushed and waiting world
Darkness reigns with night
Sin and blackness are unfurled
All wait for the Light

Souls are blinded, no one sees
All search for the One
When blackness splits…darkness flees…

Christ, our Light, has come!

I can honestly say that this Christmas season has been one of, if not the most beautiful I have ever known. Moments of adoration, of wonder, came at unexpected times, as the eternal mystery was continuously within my mind and heart. In the midst of action, hustle, and even talkative parties, I was often blessed to have an "interior gaze"...a warm ongoing exchange between the Christ Child and my heart, like a romance in which the lover and the beloved can be as though the only ones present. No matter what the outside clamor, their glances are full of meaning for them alone, and there is a secret joy.

The Christ Child is waiting to catch you in His gaze, also. Have you acknowledged His eyes of love today?

“We need to find God,
and He cannot be found in noise and restlessness.
God is the friend of silence.
See how nature — trees, flowers, grass —

grows in silence; see the stars,

the moon and the sun, how they move in silence...

We need silence to be able to touch souls.”

(Mother Teresa)

Let us allow Him to touch our souls...in the silence.

His Vessel

The Master was searching for a vessel to use;
On the shelf there were many — which one would He choose?

"Take me!", cried the gold one: "I'm shiny and bright,
I'm of great value and I do things just right.

My beauty and luster will outshine the rest
And for someone like you, Master,
gold would be best!"


The Master passed on with no word at all;
He looked at a silver urn, narrow and tall.

"I'll serve you, dear Master,
I'll pour out your wine
And I'll be at your table whenever you dine,
My lines are so graceful, my carvings so true,
And my silver will always compliment you."


Unheeding, the Master passed on
to the brass...
It was wide mouthed and shallow,
and polished like glass.

"Here! Here!" cried the vessel,
"I know I will do.
Place me on your table for all men to view."

"Look at me!"
called the goblet of crystal so clear.
"My transparency shows my contents so dear,
Though fragile am I,
I will serve you with pride,
And I'm sure I'll be happy
in your home to abide."

The Master came next to a vessel of wood,
Polished and carved, it solidly stood.

"You may use me, dear Master",
the wooden bowl said.
"But I'd rather you used me for fruit,
not for bread!"

Then the Master looked down at a vessel of clay,
Empty and broken it helplessly lay.
No hope had the vessel that the master might choose,
To cleanse and make whole, to fill and to use.

"Ah! This is the vessel I've been hoping to find...
I will mend and use it and make it all mine.
I need not the vessel with pride of itself,
Nor the one who is narrow to sit on the shelf,
Nor the one who is big mouthed and shallow and loud,
Nor one who displays his contents so proud;
Nor the one who thinks he can do all things just right,
But this plain earthly vessel filled with my power and might."

Then gently He lifted the vessel of clay,
Mended and cleansed it and filled it that day.
Spoke to it kindly: "There's work you must do.
Just pour out to others as I pour into you."

~ ~ ~

My heart is often consoled to remember that our Lord does not call the qualified —
He qualifies the called!

HT: Godly Ladies in Training

The Harvest is Plentiful...

I read a delicious poem and the story behind it over at the Bonny Glen the other day. The colorful words and scene pictured brought several things to mind...

The Solitary Reaper

by William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so shrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listen'd, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

..........................................

In many ways, I hope my life reflects that of The Reaper. A lass, laboring about her work, and singing "as if her song could have no ending". When souls "stop here, or gently pass", I hope they catch a glimpse of a working, maiden soul, a heart lifted in song; though not an eternally "melancholy strain", but a prayerful, joyous one. A life blended of work and song, the life of a laborer in the field. In some ways, solitary, but at the same time, surrounded by life. I shall say solitary in calling, but united in destiny.

And by the grace of the Lord of the vineyard, may those who pass by and see the maiden at her work be prompted to listen, perhaps "motionless and still", and as they continue on their way, the music in their heart be bore.


May the life, the work of this maiden be naught but one sweet, unending song, offered by a laboring heart and soul in the hopes of laying before the Master a bountiful harvest. Amen.

"The harvest is plentiful

but the workers are few.

Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore,

to send out workers

into his harvest field."

(Matthew 9:37-38)

In Corde Matris

The following was one of the reflections I penned after experiencing "The Passion of the Christ" for the first time three years ago...

This Triduum, may we unite ourselves intimately with Mary, to suffer the Passion with her.

~ ~ ~

To the Mother

What were you thinking, Mary

on that age-awaited day?

“Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

you heard His people say

What were you thinking, Mary
as their whips tore through your Son?
Our sins of flesh atoned for
by the One guilty of none


The innocent, the spotless One
Your precious baby Son
You gave Him up, and offered Him…
to die for everyone


What were you thinking, Mary
as they mocked the Kings of Kings?
“Ecce Homo…Behold the Man!”
On cold deaf ears it rings


What were you thinking, Mary
when Pilate called for water?
It was the spotless Lamb of God
they were about to slaughter


The innocent, the guiltless One
Your precious baby Son
You gave Him up, and offered Him…
to die for everyone


What were you thinking, Mary
as He embraced the tree?
Those beams He would first carry
and be nailed to then, for me


What were you thinking, Mary,
when in the road at your feet
Your little boy fell down in the dust
and your eyes were able to meet?


Your mother’s love went out to Him
Your mother’s hands ached to hold Him
Your mother’s heart beat One with His
as you looked at your precious Son


Your mind went back so many years
to the infant Son you held near
And as your tear-filled eyes sought His
His own told you not to fear…


What were you thinking, Mary
as each nail was firmly pounded?
Each sin of mine wielding that hammer
while each clang in your heart resounded


You stood at his feet as He gave his life
Each soul to redeem and save
Your Son looked down, and then these souls
To you as children He gave


Your mother’s ears heard His prayer for them
who nailed your heart there with Him
Your mother’s heart beat One with His
as you saw the price paid for sin


What were you praying, Mary
as in your arms lay your Son?
Your mother’s heart beat close to His
pierced, now still…the work was done


This Child Whom you were given
Your precious baby Son
You gave Him up, and offered Him…
to die…and live…for everyone

by Claire J.M. Halbur, April 2004
~ ~ ~

Meditation on Psalm 96:9

I just saw this on the new blog Heroic Simplicity and found it too good not to share!

"Worship the Lord in Holy Attire"

Are you clad to greet the King

In holy modest and neat attire?

Are you dressed that you may sing

Along with the angelic choir,

Or are your clothes a desecration

Meant for picnic or for beach

Or other forms of recreation?

Your clothing is stark evidence

Of what is in your heart and mind.

Does it reflect your reverence,

Present you as a soul refined

Radiant, joyful and duly graced,

A soul prepared to meet its God

From whom all stain has been erased?

Then come, dear soul, with us rejoice

In this house, this holy place,

Praising God with heart and voice

In raiment radiant with His grace

And greet with us the King of Kings,

Our Lord, Our Savior, the Holy One

From Whom all hope forever springs!

~ ~ ~

Be Strong!

by Malthie Davenport Babcock

Be Strong! We are not here to play, to dream, to drift;

We have hard work to do and loads to lift:

Shun not the struggle-face it; 'tis God's gift.

Be Strong! Say not, "The day's are evil. Who's to blame?"

And fold the hands and acquiesce-oh, shame!

Stand up, speak out, and bravely in God's name.

Be Strong! It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong,

How hard the battle goes, the day how long;

Faint not-fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.

"Reflections"

When I turned ten, I began a tradition of composing a special poem each year on my birthday (usually writing it at the same time I was born). Hence, a "poetry post" today with the latest: my eighteenth birthday poem, for your enjoyment...

Time passes by, each moment slips

Into the sea of the past

Moments of joy…moments of sorrow

Not a one of them will last

Daily I rise; daily I wake

And breathe of each new day

Moments of grace…moments of waste

Which will be my chosen way?

Will I breathe each breath for You
And with each, live Your Life?
Or will I throw each breath away
In wasted, joyless strife?

Will my heart be filled with You

And pulse for You each beat?

Or will it pulse unfeelingly

And loveless throbs repeat?

I want to speak, and think, and act
Your Love in all I do
To live, and move, and breathe, and give
Each moment back to You

-Claire Joann Mary Halbur

March 01, 2006