Ponder: "just beyond the turn"

"Father Latour had used to feel a little ashamed that Joseph kept his sister and her nuns so busy making cassocks and vestments for him; but the last time he was in France, he came to see all this in another light.  When he was visiting Mother Philomene's convent, one of the younger Sisters had confided to him what an inspiration it was to them, living in retirement, to work for the faraway missions.  She told him also how precious to them were Father Vaillant's long letters, letters in which he told his sister of the country, the Indians, the pious Mexican women, the Spanish martyrs of old.  These letters, she said, Mother Philomene read aloud in the evening.  The nun took Father Latour to a window that jutted out and looked up the narrow street to where the wall turned at an angle, cutting off further view.  "Look," she said, "after the Mother has read us one of these letters from her brother, I come and stand in this alcove and look up our little street with its one lamp, and just beyond the turn there, is New Mexico; all that he has written us of those red deserts and blue mountains, the great plains and the herds of bison, and the canyons more profound than our deepest mountain gorges.  I can feel that I am there, my heart beats faster, and it seems but a moment until the retiring-bell cuts short my dreams."  The Bishop went away believing that it was good for these Sisters to work for Father Joseph."
Willa Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop, 182-183.

Costly Devotion

From Covenant, 6 Jan. 2015

Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold and frankincense and myrrh. — Matthew 2:11

A few years ago I went on retreat at a convent, and, because the guest dining room was being renovated, I was invited to take my meals with the nuns. This was a very traditional community, all black habits and plainsong. For years, the nuns had operated schools, but most of them were older now, and their main ministry was hosting people on retreat. The meals that the nuns were served were among the oddest I have ever eaten: a gathering of opposites. The main dishes were brutally simple: oatmeal, baked fish, bean soup — the food of ascetics. But at the end of the serving table was a little tray with all the recent gifts to the community: exotic jams of many colors, preserved figs, little French cheeses, even a chocolate layer cake.

It’s easy to understand how this worked: an old student would come back to visit her former teacher, and she wanted to bring a little something. But what in the world do you give a nun? Well, something to brighten the common table, a little delight you had enjoyed and wanted to share. And because these nuns were much loved, and probably also because they had a reputation for austerity, lavish, expensive foods arrived to grace every meal.

"Holy Ghost, Come Down!": A Sermon for Pentecost

“I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh.”  Acts 2:17

The story is told of a travelling evangelist who made the circuit of little Southern towns a few generations ago.  A dramatic preacher, he knew just how to bring the crowd to their knees.  His great method was to call out, at the height of his sermon, “Holy Ghost, come down.”  He had conveniently stationed a little boy up in the rafters with a dove in a cage, and at that signal, the boy would open the cage, and the dove would flutter down upon the assembled congregation.  

Well, the preacher had made the customary arrangements one sweltering Sunday evening in June, and when he had his crowd just where he wanted them, he shouted out, “Holy Ghost, come down.”  There was silence.  Again, “Holy Ghost, come down.”  The preacher cleared his throat and glanced nervously toward the ceiling, and—“Holy Ghost, come down.”  Finally, a little voice chimed from the balcony, “The yaller cat done ‘et the Holy Ghost.  Shall I throw the yaller cat down?”