Mary DeTurris Poust's Blog, page 4

Mystical moments in the cheese aisle

On a recent rainy morning, I ventured up to Trader Joe’s on Wolf Road in Albany, armed with a vacation snack wish list from my daughter, Olivia, who would be meeting us the next day for a week at the Jersey Shore. Unlike others who make regular pilgrimages to this favorite grocery store, I am loathe to deal with the crowds. I had been there only once before because, as much as I love their wildflower bouquets and chocolate-covered almonds, I do not love that area of town or the insanity of running the parking lot gauntlet.

As my husband, Dennis, and I searched out items on our lengthy list, I did what I do any time I’m in an unfamiliar place, be it a new city or a new grocery store: I engage with the people around me, usually through some sort of goofy humor. Before I knew it, I was laughing with another mom in the trail mix section, as we both sought out particular mixes requested by our children. Later in the cheese section, not one but two women recommended an inexpensive-but-tasty cheddar they said I should not pass up. Done! Finally, a worker in the chip aisle came to my aid several times as I searched for a variety of unusual treats. I found myself giddy with the fun-loving community I discovered among the shelves, the kind of community that reminds me of what many of us are looking for when we go to our parish churches.

We go to church not just for Mass, to be fed by the Eucharist and the Word, but to be among those who are searching, just as we are, for something that is not always easy to find in this crazy world of ours. And just as we might shy away from a place in our everyday life that leaves us overwhelmed, we often do the same on the spiritual journey. Rather than dive in and sidle up to someone else who is trying to navigate the same challenging path, we try to figure it out on our own.

Our lives are busy. We often rush into Mass with only a few minutes to spare and rush back out again, not because we don’t want to linger, but because life and its demands can make lingering feel like a luxury or an impossibility. And yet those human interactions are vital to our lives as Christians and as compassionate people on a troubled planet.

My family often jokes about my penchant for striking up a conversation with anyone who happens to be near me — in the grocery store, the library, the doctor’s office. But I find that when I let down my guard and approach someone not as a stranger but as a companion on the way, they almost always respond with happy surprise. I have navigated entire cities like this, relying not on Google or Yelp to get me to locations or restaurants but rather the kindness of strangers and the good advice of those who have been there before.

And isn’t that a lot like our faith journey? We are all on the path together, and each of us has something to offer based on the way we have encountered God. It is only when we are willing to turn to strangers on the sometimes-challenging terrain of our spiritual landscape that we find the spiritual friends and the community that will point us toward the thing we are seeking and remind us that we are not alone.

I’m going to guess that most people don’t go to Trader Joe’s and come home with spiritual revelation packed up alongside the vegetable dumplings and sourdough bread, but the truth is that God’s mystery and majesty are always swirling around us. We think of mysticism as something only for saints who spend hours in contemplation, but it’s always right there, waiting to be plucked off a shelf and gathered into our heart.

This column originally appeared in the Aug. 22, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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Miscarriage: love and loss 26 years later

My annual tribute to the baby I lost 26 years ago today, the baby I call Grace:

For the past few days I’ve been looking at the numbers on the calendar, growing more and more introspective as we inched closer to August 6. It was 26 years ago today that I learned the baby I was carrying, my second baby, had died 11 weeks into my pregnancy.

With a mother’s intuition, I had known something was wrong during that pregnancy from a couple of weeks before. The day Dennis and I — with Noah in tow — went to the midwife for my regular check up, I didn’t even take the little tape recorder with me to capture the sound of baby’s heartbeat, so convinced was I that I would hear only silence. I went back for the recorder only after Dennis insisted. But somehow I knew. Because when you are a mother sometimes you just know things about your children, even when there is no logical reason you should, even when they are still growing inside you.

When we went for the ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage, we saw the perfect form of our baby up on the screen. I remember Dennis looking so happy, thinking everything was okay after all, and me pointing out that the heart was still. No blinking blip. No more life.

With that same mother’s intuition, no matter how busy or stressed I am, no matter how many other things I seem to forget as I race through my life at breakneck speed, I never forget this anniversary. It is imprinted on my heart. As the date nears, I feel a stillness settling in, a quiet place amid the chaos, a space reserved just for this baby, the one I never to got hold, the one I call Grace.

In the past, I have talked about the ways Grace shaped our family by her absence rather than her presence, and that truth remains with me. I am very much aware of the fact that life would be very different had she lived. She managed to leave her mark on us, even without taking a breath. She lingers here, not only in my heart but around the edges of our lives — especially the lives of our two girls who followed her. I know them because I did not know Grace. What a sorrowful and yet beautiful impact she had on us.

So thank you, baby, for all that you were and all that you have given us without ever setting foot on this earth. The power of one small life.

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Less worry, more courage

My reflection from today’s Gospel (John 11:19-27) in Give Us This Day:

As much as we’d like to think of ourselves as Martha in today’s Scripture readings—running to greet the Lord, prescient in her recognition of Jesus as the Messiah, trusting God’s every word—most of us probably have to admit that we are more like those in the first reading who “walk in the stubbornness of their hearts” and refuse to listen.

It’s not that we don’t want to listen to God. We do, with all our heart! But we also want to be in control, thinking we can cling to the tight reins of worry and fear to guide us forward, no matter how severely we get tossed about. “You forgot the God who gave you birth,” we hear in today’s psalm. Guilty as charged.

So how do we go from being unmindful of our Creator to having the courage of Martha? It begins when we release our grip on the reins of our life and surrender control to God.

To be sure, there’s nothing easy about that prospect, and yet we have role models like Martha, Mary, and Lazarus, who show us how to pause, listen, and say “yes, Lord,” even when every instinct tells us to run in the opposite direction. Can we instead face Jesus and as Martha did, say with confidence: “I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you”? Can we let go of our stubbornness of heart and cling to what God has promised?

Mary DeTurris Poust, “Less Worry, More Courage,” from the July 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.
Photo by Mary DeTurris Poust

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Ten million dollars or five minutes with Jesus

Every now and then, something happens to remind us of our absolute faith in God. It might not even be something monumental. In fact, most times it is something insignificant, a moment that would be easy to miss. But if we’re paying attention, we just might get a spiritual “payout” that will sustain us like a life preserver when we are tossed on a rough sea, and the sea certainly seems to be rougher these days.

I was in the kitchen, washing vegetables and getting ready to make dinner, when my teen daughter started pondering who she might pick if she could have dinner with someone famous, living or dead. We bandied back and forth, tossing out different names and genres of people, and I said: “I hate to pick the most obvious person, which would be Jesus.” That prompted Chiara to ask: “If you could have one million dollars or five minutes with Jesus, what would you choose?” Without hesitation, of course, I said: “Jesus.” I wasn’t looking at her, but I guess that answer gave her pause, so she went a step further: “If you could have 10 million dollars or five minutes with Jesus, what would you choose?” To which I quickly said — without looking up from my prep work: “Jesus.” And from there we moved on, although the conversation stayed with me.

Later that night, I found myself coming back to it and replaying it in my head. On one level, I was not at all surprised by my answer because who wouldn’t take five minutes with the Son of God over anything else, material or otherwise? But another part of me was fascinated. So often I feel like my faith isn’t as deep as it should be, especially during these tumultuous times in our country and our world when we seem to be caught in some sort of existential death spiral. I wish I could let go of the anxiety that has me in its grip lately and trust that, in the words given to the great mystic Julian of Norwich by God, “All shall be well.” It’s not easy, and most of the time I feel like I’m failing and falling despite my best efforts. And then along comes a moment that stops me in my tracks and reminds me that no matter how things may feel on the surface of my spiritual life, deep down there is an abiding faith that knows without hesitation or question where my true loyalty lies.

When I decided to search Julian’s famous quote for deeper context, I came across a beautiful General Audience given by Pope Benedict XVI in 2010 on this very topic:

“Julian of Norwich understood the central message for spiritual life: God is love and it is only if one opens oneself to this love, totally and with total trust, and lets it become one’s sole guide in life, that all things are transfigured, true peace and true joy found and one is able to radiate it,” the late pope said, talking about the challenge of why evil and suffering exists.

“… God’s promises are ever greater than our expectations,” the late pope continued. “If we present to God, to his immense love, the purest and deepest desires of our heart, we shall never be disappointed. ‘And all will be well, all manner of things shall be well.’ This is the final message that Julian of Norwich transmits to us and that I am also proposing to you today.”

It’s a message that continues to speak to us today, when the level of anxiety in our world has reached epic proportions. Talk to friends and family members and the sense of dread is almost palpable, thanks to a culture where violence and division and false promises are the norm. And, so, like Julian, we come back to God. Again. Always.

Put aside all that the world holds out to you — both the terrifying and the tempting — and spend five minutes with Jesus. Choose that.

This column originally appeared in the July 25, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

Photo by Sonja Langford on Unsplash

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Women’s Retreat: From Seed to Bloom

On the shores of Lake George — with the water gently lapping just beyond the trees and the Minne-Ha-Ha not-so-gently honking its passage — 36 Catholic women gathered earlier this month at the Wiawaka Center for Women to pray, sing, reflect and dig deep into the rich soil of their faith. The unparalleled natural beauty of the retreat setting was matched by the inspiring spiritual beauty of these women seekers who are committed to strengthening their relationship with God, re-energizing their prayer lives and building community with other like-minded women. And through it all the Rooted in Faith Retreat echoed with laughter and overflowed with joy.

I was blessed to be the retreat presenter for the weekend and relished the opportunity to walk alongside an incredible collection of women from different backgrounds and parishes. While most of the participants hailed from North Country parishes, including the leadership team who has been making this retreat happen for four years running, we had women from throughout the Diocese of Albany and even a few from beyond our boundaries. Together we confronted the hard questions, sat with the uncertainties and focused our hearts and minds on learning to abide in God.

Spiritual growth is no easy thing, and, in keeping with our theme, we talked about what needs to be pruned away in our lives to make room for God, where the weeds threaten to choke out the Spirit, and what we might need to do to nourish the seed that is struggling to blossom. Every woman there was ready to roll up her figurative sleeves and dig in. I watched as new friendships formed over delicious meals and around the flickering campfire. I listened as words of prayer, both spoken and sung, bound us together. As a collective we slowly let the masks drop away, revealing to ourselves and to each other the person God is calling each of us to be.

Someone asked me to share my biggest takeaway. That was easy. The retreat was a reminder that there are so many women on this path as seekers, and any time we can bring women together in a community like this, it shores us up and reminds us that we’re not alone. We need more of this. We need opportunities to gather, to pray together and to accompany each other on the journey.

You might think, “Don’t women do that at their parishes all the time?” Yes and no. Yes, we do gather and pray, but often the women are running the parishes’ critical programs, from teaching faith formation and decorating the sacred space to serving as cantors and distributing Communion. A retreat is entirely different, and oh so necessary. Retreats give us dedicated time away from our home, our work, our ministry, and, most important, away from the incessant “noise” of emails, texts, calls and social media.

For most of us, making time for retreat seems like a luxury, and yet, when it comes to spiritual growth, it’s critical. We tell ourselves we’ll use a slow weekend at home to spend time with God, but, if we’re honest, we know that’s often a losing proposition. Home tends to demand things of us, even when we have nothing else going on. Or, at the very least, it tempts us away from our silence and solitude with nagging demands to clean this and fix that.

This summer season, when nature itself beckons you to sit and soak up God’s goodness, see if you can find a full day or weekend to give everything over to God. Turn off the phone and the TV. Put aside the chores and social outings. Go to a place where you can hear God above the noise of the headlines and demands, and just be. Like the women of the Rooted in Faith Retreat, dig into the rich soil of your spiritual life and coax a tiny seed into a resilient little shoot. Bask in God and, in time, watch that seed blossom.

Mary will be leading the annual Stillpoint Retreat at Pyramid Life Center on Sept. 6-8. Click HERE for more information.

This post originally appeared in the June 26, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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Welcoming the Wild Goose

When I first saw the wild geese standing outside the window of the conference room where I was leading a retreat at beautiful Bon Secours Retreat Center in Marriottsville, Md., I couldn’t help but be charmed by them and their bold demeanor. As one particularly insistent goose stood just behind me on the other side of the glass, I felt as though I was living inside Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese,” in which the “world calls to you like the wild geese — harsh and exciting.”

Photo by Tina Delaney

That night, however, around 3 a.m., the non-stop honking under my bedroom window made me feel less than smitten with these birds of a feather. When I returned to my retreat group in the morning, I jokingly asked: “Do we still like the geese?” Throughout the next two days, our geese came by regularly to add a comment or two to my presentations. At one point when I was trying to focus on the importance of silence in our spiritual lives, the geese were so loud that I could not speak over them, and our group could not stop laughing. It was time to see what these geese were trying to teach me, and it didn’t take long to figure out.

In Celtic spirituality, the Holy Spirit is seen not as a peaceful dove but as a wild goose — loud, sometimes unwelcome, insistent, unsettling. So often we wait for the Spirit to show up in our life in a way that feels comfortable and appropriately holy, the “still, small voice” we hear of in Scripture. We don’t necessarily want the Spirit to camp out under our figurative window honking and hollering and demanding we pay attention when all we want to do is stay asleep.

On Pentecost, we hear in the first reading from the Acts of the Apostles: “And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house in which they were. Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire, which parted and came to rest on each one of them.”

The Spirit that descends in the upper room was not tame or controllable. It was unpredictable, maybe even scary. This version of the Spirit comes at us with so much spiritual force we might run in the other direction or duck and cover, but that would be to miss out on so much wonder and possibility. Imagine if Mary and the Apostles had closed themselves off to the Spirit that day. Where would we be if they had folded their arms against the gift and waited for something more reasonable? How often do we do just that, push away the loud and insistent call of the Holy Spirit because we don’t like the message or the delivery?

This week, as we celebrate the arrival of the Holy Spirit — the Advocate that Jesus promised would stay with us here on earth — can we open ourselves up to Spirit any way it chooses to show up, whether it’s a still, small voice that gently beckons us or a driving wind that threatens to pull the door of our life off its hinges? Can we, like our Celtic forebears in faith, recognize that the Holy Spirit is not likely to uphold the status quo in our lives but rather disrupt our sleep, disturb our thoughts, and redirect our paths in ways that might not be neat or comfortable but will surely bring us closer to our own version of the upper room?

On the last night of retreat, all was quiet in my room. No honking, no disruption. I had to admit that when I woke up the next morning and didn’t find my goose on the ledge outside my window, I was disappointed, but maybe the point had been made. And maybe I will be ready for the next Wild Goose chase that jolts me from my spiritual slumber and upsets my carefully laid out plans. Will you?

This column originally appeared in the May 15, 2024 issue of The Evangelist.

LISTEN: Wild Geese, read by Mary Oliver

 

 

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God’s path of totality

Think about the lead-up to the recent solar eclipse. For months there was non-stop coverage as scientists tracked the path of totality, giving us the locations where we might have the chance to catch the celestial spectacle at its most dramatic and pure. As the day approached, hotels in those areas sold out; gridlock in the Adirondacks was predicted, and the race to find eclipse glasses was on.

Although my husband and I settled for a 97 percent eclipse under cloudy skies in the Capital Region, our son — hoping for that once-in-a-lifetime moment — traveled to Syracuse, which stood at the outer limit of the path. For him and thousands of others like him across the country and around the world, there were no guarantees that the journey would provide the view they desired. Scientific predictions can’t factor in the things that can’t be planned or pinned down, like cloud cover.

I found the entire event and the frenzy surrounding it both hopeful and fascinating. Hopeful because humanity can’t be too far gone if we’re willing to follow a star without knowing exactly what we might find when we get there. Fascinating because how many other natural spectacles are all around us every single day without us even noticing them as we race off to find something bigger and better or simply get caught up in the daily grind, too busy to lift our heads.

We need only look as far as St. Francis of Assisi to understand what complete and utter praise of creation looks like, not just on the days of a cosmic light show but even on the dreary less-than-perfect days. “Brother Sun and Sister Moon” were not once-in-a-lifetime spectacles but daily reminders of God’s magnificence. Water and earth, air and fire, even death itself — all of it called Francis back to the Creator, gave him pause, and filled him with gratitude and a sense of belonging to something greater than himself, something Divine.

The medieval mystic St. Hildegarde of Bingen wrote: “Every creature is a glittering, glistening mirror of divinity.”

So often we think we need to travel to the other side of the world, or at least the other side of the state, to find awe. And to be sure, those who were in totality said it was worth the effort, so hats off to them for chasing beauty. But what if we chased beauty right where we are. What if we looked at our daily lives not through special glasses that darken everything except the sun but through the truth of a faith that lights everything it touches.

For many people who chased the eclipse, the journey did not provide the payoff they had hoped for. Clouds and weather scuttled views in some areas in totality, requiring a more finely attuned sense of awe in order to appreciate the scene without being disappointed in the outcome. Perhaps the awe came from the collection of humanity amassed on highways, in fields, and at office windows for a chance to catch God’s grandeur on display. Even without a clear and full eclipse that is enough to buoy our spirits and inspire us.

When the Syracuse view was clouded over, my son, Noah, didn’t bemoan the lack of all that he’d hoped for. Instead, he said that he plans to be in Australia for totality during the solar eclipse there in four years. That is the epitome of hope and awe.

What inspires that kind of awe in you? Think back to those times in your life when you stood back and saw the hand of God on grand display before you. Maybe it was standing on a beach in front of a deep blue ocean or soaring above the clouds from your seat in coach. Or maybe it’s simply the sight of daylilies pushing up through the cold hard ground, reminding us that after every winter, there is a spring, and that when it comes to the Divine, we are all in the path of totality.

This column originally appeared in the April 25, 2024, issue of The Evangelist. 

Photo by Jongsun Lee on Unsplash

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Finding Jesus on the Streets of Guatemala

When I was in Guatemala on retreat earlier this month, I was humbled and heartened by the visible presence of Lent not just in churches but on storefronts and private homes. Purple banners fluttered from awnings, reminding us with every step that we were on the road to Calvary. In churches throughout the city of Antigua and in tiny villages that dot Lake Atitlan, large-scale Stations of the Cross were readied for street processions. Churches draped in purple took our breath away.

In one church, a man bent low over a “carpet” of colored sawdust, designing beautiful images on the ground for a Lenten celebration.The design would be trampled and swept away soon after it was done, a reminder of the fleetingness of this life but the need to seek beauty anyway. Baskets of fruit and dozens of candles surrounded the artist and the altar beyond. As I walked back down the aisle, an entire Mayan family approached the altar on their knees, momentarily stopping me in my tourist tracks. My daughter and I just stood in awe.

It took a visit to this stunning developing country to call me back to what this Lenten journey is supposed to mean for me, for us. In a place where people live in corrugated tin shacks and where street vendors sell their wares with babies strapped to their chests and blankets stacked on their heads, faith and joy and generosity are rampant. Before I went to Guatemala, I had some reservations. The U.S. State Department website says: “Reconsider travel due to crime.” But not once did I feel unsafe, just the opposite. I never met a rude or cranky Guatemalan, even in the airport after hours of delay, even among the beggars on the street. Instead, I was met with a pureness of heart that exemplified the Gospel.

“Blessed are the pure in spirit,” Jesus said. So often I’ve wondered what that looks like in real life. Now I know. Among a people who have been through forced conversion, a stripping of their Mayan culture, enslavement, civil war and far more than we can imagine, I found only love.

On our last day, Olivia and I rushed back to Antigua to soak up a few more hours before heading to Guatemala City for our flight. I ducked into a shop that had on its outside walls two large purple banners with three crosses marked on each. In my broken Spanish, I asked if there were purple Lenten flags for sale, hoping to bring one home. The worker just looked at me quizzically and instead pointed to a Guatemalan flag. The memory would need to be enough, and it is.

As we head into Holy Week, I hold in my heart the Guate­malan people who touched my life in ways I never expected when I booked this trip. From Paola, the Mayan artisan who tried to teach me to weave (no small feat); to Ruth, the vendor in Parque Central who won me over on two separate occasions and to whom I gladly overpaid for two table runners; to Alex, our indigenous guide who told me with great pride about Blessed Stanley Rother (known as Padre Apla’s to the Mayans) and pointed to the base of two volcanoes where he lived and died and remains a “grandfather” to the people he helped free from oppression. “He is Jesus to them,” Alex said.

Maybe that’s why Guatemala affected me so deeply. Jesus is alive there, not just in Blessed Stanley Rother’s memory, but in the words and actions of every person who crossed my path — literally. Sometimes here at home, it can be hard to see Jesus in the people around us, or to be Jesus to the people who make our lives difficult. But the beautiful Guatemalan people, many of whom would have every reason to be cranky or impatient, showed me what true faith looks like, and it doesn’t require a purple Lenten flag.

All photos © Mary DeTurris Poust
This column originally appeared in the March 21, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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The One Who Rights All Wrongs

My reflection on today’s Scripture readings in the March issue of Give Us This Day: 

At some point or another, most of us have been blamed for something we didn’t do. It doesn’t feel good, and sometimes it can be downright scary. Whenever I read a story of someone released from prison after having served decades for a crime they did not commit, I am astounded by their joy, their gratitude, and I often imagine how I might respond in a similarly horrific situation. I’m not sure I’d be quite so gracious.

To be able to withstand the unthinkable and maintain an unshakable trust in God, as we witness Susanna doing in today’s first reading, requires not blind faith but an abiding faith in the One who rights all wrongs, even when from an earthly standpoint, justice is not done. In our Gospel, we see a variation on the same theme. This time the woman in question appears to be guilty, and the laws of that time required justice of the harshest kind. Instead, Jesus offers mercy, compassion, tenderness.

Both women are spared—the innocent and the guilty. How does that make us feel? Is there a place in our lives where we expect mercy for a wrong we’ve committed, even when we will not offer the same to others? Is there a place where we have been wronged and hope for punishment to be meted out to satisfy our desire for justice? As it turns out, “justice” looks different through the lens of the Gospel. Are we willing to put on the dual lenses of trust and mercy?

From the March 2024 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2024). Used with permission.

Photo by Alex Shute on Unsplash

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On life’s journey, you may be entertaining angels unaware

This Soul Seeing column appeared in the March 9 issue of the National Catholic Reporter:

Air travel is not for the faint of heart. Although I don’t have a fear of flying, I do have a fear of pretty much everything else involved: getting through security, missing my connection, losing my luggage, etc. So when a recent trip from Milwaukee to upstate New York devolved into a multi-day travel odyssey, I was amazed to find myself reveling in the experience.

It began after I’d led a five-day retreat for the Pallottine Fathers on the Wisconsin-Illinois border and was dropped off at the airport five hours before my flight. Armed with a new novel, a cup of coffee and a two-hour webinar on compassion and courage, I patiently whiled away the hours. As the time for my flight to Detroit neared, a delay was posted and I knew there was no way I’d make my connection. Attempts to get rerouted proved unsuccessful, so I returned to my seat, accepting the likelihood that I’d be sleeping in the Detroit airport on the travel yoga mat packed in my carry-on. A stranger sitting nearby suggested I try to get on the flight to New York’s LaGuardia Airport, which was boarding at the gate opposite ours. My first angel on this trip.

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