Retiring to new bedding is a comfortable conclusion to an incredible ten day span lacking employment. Vacation is over, new beginnings begin. New things are a blessing. God give me the wisdom to focus upon doors opening, rather than the ignorance of locking onto rooms departing. Old things are learned from, moved past, allowing God to lift higher. I received an email from the Congregation of the Blessed Sacrament, notifying me of a meeting this Wednesday–the news is lovingly greeted.  I spent the Sabbath with Mary, always a blessing. She is truly a woman fitting comfortably as the road narrows. At St Paul Shrine, Sister Regina pulled me into the back of her office, the kitchen, in order to discuss the possibility of a religious calling. She stressed the importance of responding instantly to the call. The same message Brother Michael instilled. Sister Regina sweetly told me of her calling, the fact her family tried to dissuade her. She entered at twenty, struggling mightily with the demands of the Indian convent she entered, anguishing over superiors and peers, crying her eyes out day after day before her favorite Blessed Virgin Mary statue. She endured, knowing, convinced her calling was authentic. Now decades later, she is delighted with her religious vocation. As always, her motherly nature humbles me. She stressed over and over to respond now or God would pull away the calling. I told her about my last dinner at Assumption Abbey, a truly remarkable occurrence. During dinner, the Benedictines were reading, one brother standing at a podium with a microphone reading aloud, ‘Called to Serve: A History of Nuns in America’ by Margaret M. McGuinness. I am almost positive that was the reading. Honestly, I found the choice odd, questioning a bit, yet attentive and raptly listening. I was stunned my final dinner, Thursday evening, when suddenly the reading focused singularly and lengthily upon St Paul’s Shrine, going into the history of the Cleveland convent, writing of an interview with Mother Superior Sister Mary James. The synopsis included an explanation of the contemplative life, the fact the Poor Clares of Perpetual Adoration centered their lives upon prayer, praying for any and all intentions. Mother Superior stressed the importance of the order staying amidst the chaos of the city, praying whole heartedly while living amongst the chaos of a trouble neighborhood. She spoke about praying upon the roof of St Paul Shrine, listening to the chaos of the city during their prayers—all the thoughts and experience I encountered my first night back at St Andrew Abbey. The Poor Clares are strong enough to take on the burdens of a distressed city through their prayer life. Sister Regina and Sister Clare Marie both smiled when I told them the story, saying yes we pray upon the roof. So I say yes to Assumption Abbey, patiently allowing God to have His way. Maybe the abbey will not have me. Brother Michael stressed I was older, hinting I was a bit arrogant, possibly too obstinate to change my ways. It is difficult to teach an old dog new tricks, and I am a stubborn one convinced my ways are strong. Yet I am confident I am a good fit at the abbey, missing the men and surroundings already.  I know at my age I am still malleable; honest, open, and willing in regards  to formation.  I cannot stress how much the wide open spaces etched themselves upon my consciousness. I love Cleveland Heights, the chaos and busyness of the big city, the cultured and intellect pursuits of the eastside of Cleveland. Last night, I attended ‘Horse Money’ by the Portuguese director Pedro Costa, troubled by the film, yet thrilled by the viewing. The haunting zombie existential surreal meandering into the world of an African immigrant attempting to sort through his life while locked in a Portugal insane asylum did not disappoint cinematically. Pedro Costa knows how to put together a visually stimulating cascading montage of images. The storytelling possessed the dialog of simplicity, angst, and personal exploration loyal to the demands of a hopeless disturbed sensibility, a story consisting of my kind of telling. However within there also existed the problem. I am convinced under any and all circumstances there is hope. Under any and all circumstances faith, hope, and charity must reign supreme. It is a demand and chore, rather than a miraculous gift. Life is hard–ruthless, arduous, uncompromising and challenging. Yet still faith, hope, and charity are infused within in all human beings. Every individual possesses these theological virtues. Artistically, it has become passe to embrace an existential stance. To repose into hopelessness, conceding to life as a victim crushed by the enormity and demands of the modern world is not a reality. It is a choice. A filmmaker, or artist, treads dangerously into treacherous waters if all he has to offer his characters is futility, estrangement, weirdness, and a disconnection with life. It is the road of no resistance, the one explored too many times, a story told over and over, a tale of woe too easily accepted. Ventura, the main character, in the film is a man coming into acceptance of the fact he possesses nothing. His dreams are vanquished. Life and superior powers have defeated him. He never stood a chance. Whether he became a revolutionary, or remained a simple bricklayer as he did, he never really stood a chance. There was no correct choice. Inevitably, insanity ensues. He speaks of being nineteen years old and three months when it is obvious he is a man in his seventies. He identifies himself as a young man, yet that is not reality. He is a spent old man unable to deal with truth, experience, and age. His wife is a dream. Romance is there, yet it is futile, distant, remaining only as a pipedream held onto more for the sake there is nothing else to take hold of.  A wife of a fellow countryman strangely visits, telling of a soldier, a man with a steel helmet, cutting her wedding ring from her finger.  She touches Ventura softly, caressingly stroking his hand, speaking tenderly of his lovely long fingers.  The closest he will come to his wife is haunting locutions.  Romance makes no sense amidst a world of confusion and madness. There is a scene when a younger relative and Ventura discuss the past, bitterness and brokenness dominating their words. Finally, Ventura breaks into a childish song. The two men find sanctuary only in the singing of a silly song of nonsensical happenings. Reality has broken them, allowing only a song from innocent days as children to soothe their minds. The two men interrupt the song with an argument, quarreling over the correct lyrics. Both men are determined their words are the accurate words. Overall, the bleak nature of the film I could not embrace, especially after experiencing the wide open spaces of North Dakota, and the religious life being led at Assumption Abbey. Yet still, the images were worth the price of admission. The contemplation of faith, hope, and charity being a reality rather than fear and desperation as truths were also cherished in terms of being valuable as a night of entertainment. My adoration and fixation upon North Dakota does not arise from a bitterness and rejection of the city. The goodness of one does not negate the worth of the other. Life is bountiful and God is gracious, mysterious and giving beyond concepts and determinations.

Main character Ventura from ‘Horse Money’

Flew into Cleveland in time to catch mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel with the Mercedarains. Then on to St Andrews Abbey and Cleveland Benedictines for Adoration. I reschedule weekend classes with the Hospice of Western Reserve. I simply did not feel like spending eight hours plus Saturday and Sunday in training and medical testing in order to qualify as a volunteer. They understood, scheduling me for the consecutive Saturdays of September 26th and October 3rd. I thoroughly enjoy every conversation I have with the volunteer coordinator. This coming Saturday, the Congregation of the Blessed Sacrament is holding a brunch gathering. The Eucharistic community’s get togethers are always quality socializing, followed by splendid prayer time.

Arriving in Cleveland, Adoration settled, allowing the processing of the last week, to some degree that is. The Benedictines once again placed me in a choir stall, even though I sat in a pew. I felt tired, not wanting to impose. The community offered sheltering welcome. I signaled over Brother Mario following the commencing of the community Holy Hour, offering him greetings from a distant brother. Brother Jacob from North Dakota mentioned spending class time with him. Brother Mario broke out with a sincere smile upon hearing the name of Brother Jacob, informing me he considered him a very good friend and that he would make a point of calling him.

An interesting note, during Adoration twice sirens sounded loudly through the church. There was also the noise of traffic, often the bass of blasting rap music, and a helicopter. It allowed me to comprehend the quiet filling Assumption Abbey. I am not making the point that the frantic city sounds of Cleveland are bad. They are urban; human and a reality. There is a sense of the profound sitting in front of the Eucharist, enveloped within prayer, while audibly the world crashes around one. However for myself, I feel I have reached a point of maturity still demanding internal cleansing. In a way, I do not feel strong enough to take on the burdens of a city like Cleveland in prayer. It wearies me. I am convinced I need the quiet and wide open spaces of North Dakota to allow further healing.

Final note, the drive to Bismarck proved meaningful by presenting Father Warren in detail. Conversation streamed natural. He told me about his days as a Parrish priest. He wanted to be a math teacher, however God saw fit to fill his life with the duties of a Parrish priest. He also possessed ties to St Andrew Abbey. He told me his abbey in Colorado would conduct an exchange with the Cleveland abbey. St Andrew’s Slovakian roots provided priest fluent in the language, a thing the Colorado abbey, Holy Cross, could not provide. There was a Slovakian Parrish in Colorado pleading for a priest who spoke their language. Negotiating an exchange, Holy Cross would send one of their priest to Cleveland to teach, while the Cleveland abbey sent a Slovakian priest to tender to his countrymen. Father Warren drove me to Bismarck due a doctor’s appointment. He had to pick up pain medication in order to deal with the effects of cancer. I asked no further questions, alighting to prayer. Something inside me sensed Father endured more, much more, than his friendly nature, bright smile, and intelligent conversation offered as a blessing.