Dear Reader - Today
is All Saints’ Day. For those of us in America, it’s not a big deal unless
we’re part of a liturgical church (and, heck, even then it’s lost its luster as
a feast in some circles). But I remember back when I lived in a more
traditionally Roman Catholic country: the whole world shut down to mark the
occasion.
Since I’m sitting here in Lewes, my shop is open – and
nobody’s stopped by to wish me a good one. Not surprising. But I’m finding
myself feeling a little wistful this year.
Why?
As I told my church choir buddies a week ago at rehearsal,
my mom’s Aunt Marianne (for whom I’d written a poem that our former director,
George Bayley, set to music for us all to sing) was canonized at St. Peter’s
Basilica on October 21 (the eleventh American to be named). So this is her
first All Saints’ Day as an official saint.
Now, anybody who knew of her knew well that she didn’t need
any official designation to deserve reverence and appreciation, but it still
feels good to have her recognized.
Known as Mother Marianne of Molokai
for most of her life, the work that gained her the most attention was with the
leper colony on that remote Hawaiian island. But her work for those who were
outcasts and social pariahs began long before that, as I learned in the books that my mom shared with me about her when I was growing up.
She opened and administered some of the first general
hospitals in the United States
in upstate New York.
Her work was groundbreaking in two ways: she figured out that good hygiene was
key, implementing practices that are still in place today, and she also refused
to bend to the social barriers that kept many from medical care, including
race. In particular, her willingness to care for alcoholics scandalized
society.
As mother superior of her order in Syracuse, she answered the Hawaiian king’s
plea for help with the leper colonies after 50 other religious orders from
around the world had refused – and the sisters of her order volunteered in
droves to help as well.
The conditions that the nuns encountered on the islands were
horrific. Employing the same brand of practicality and determination, Mother
Marianne transformed the hospitals into clean, functional institutions. She and
her sisters had to exercise a lot of bravery as well, standing up to the royals
and their government as well as the unscrupulous men who ran roughshod over the
lepers, particularly in the colony on Molokai
(an island which served as a natural prison).
After Father Damien (who has since been canonized for his groundbreaking
work on Molokai) succumbed to
the disease, Marianne and her sisters took on his responsibilities. In the
course of their work, the women
transformed the colony – not only making it a clean and sanitary home, but also
adding beauty and joy to what was previously a bleak existence - planting
gardens, making beautiful clothes, teaching the children, and sharing music.
Not one of them ever contracted leprosy in the decades that they served.
Marianne’s love of music became the inspiration for the
title of my poem: God’s Opening Flower. Her favorite song was Makalapua (The Opening
Flower), which was sung at her beatification at St. Peter’s seven years ago.
And the heart of the poem, the line “What I did I did for joy,” came from an
astonishing and transformative moment that I shared with her in a meditation.
So, even though I can’t be part of any particular
celebrations on her behalf this All Saints' Day, I figure I can celebrate with you here,
dear Reader, and share my little poem. Thanks so much for indulging me!
Blessings - Jen
God’s Opening Flower:
Blessed Mother Marianne of Molokai
written in
honor of her feast day on January 23, 2006, by Jen Mason
Who are the wretched and outcast among us?
Do we see them? Do we know them? Do we hold them as they
are?
Or do we turn away, veiling our lives: setting a darkness
and distance which calms our fears?
In our darkness a voice breaks through:
What I did
I did for joy
My life
filled up to brim and over
Sharing in
pure brightness the joys of living
God has
made me an Opening Flower
Lives that knew nothing but wretchedness and isolation: cast
out and left to the wolves of lust and greed.
To these lives came our Opening Flower, revealing the beauty
and dignity that dwelt there all along.
Lives that lived in another kind of prison: locked in the
illusion of perceived superiority.
Our Flower gently lifted that veil of security, shielding
the open souls from all danger and harm.
For in our darkness a voice breaks through:
What I did
I did for joy
My life
filled up to brim and over
Sharing in
pure brightness the joys of living
God has
made me an Opening Flower
Our Opening Flower knows the wretched and the outcast among
us. She knows what is outcast within us, too.
She boldly, safely leads us through the trappings of our own
shuttered minds and souls to the beauty and dignity that dwells with us today.
“The charity of good knows no creeds and is confined to no
one place.”
We, too, must follow where joy and beauty lead.
For what we do we do for joy
Our lives filled up to brim and over
Sharing in pure brightness the joys of living
God will make of us Opening Flowers.
(And now, dear Reader, you can see what a talented fellow George Bayley is for figuring out a way to set this less-than lyrical poem to music - and how kind my fellow singers were for singing it with me!)
P.S. We gotta have music, right? I've listened along to Mr. Bruno Mars every now and then with Miss C on XM, but none of his songs have ever really stuck for me. That is, until now - I saw this new song of his performed on SNL a couple Saturdays ago. It's so darn happy (even talks about heaven [grin], and I figured it was performed pretty darn close to the same time as her canonization - so I'm thinking it's a good, if unorthodox, accompaniment to my musings about Aunt Marianne (hint: don't skip the ad, or you'll get taken to some odd place on youtube):
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