tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29013649056844858482024-02-19T04:36:18.080-08:00Flirting with the Mystery of the UnknownTales from a GirlBrianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-42158884165818628582010-08-08T07:04:00.001-07:002010-08-08T07:07:32.496-07:00Follow meHello friends. At risk of sounding like a total <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">narcissist</span>, I invite you to come follow me at my new blog.... Like an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">over saturated</span> coffee-shop, I won't be staying here anymore. You can find me at the new, hip place on the corner: <a href="http://walkingcontemplative.com">www.walkingcontemplative.com</a>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-51770226106049528762010-06-03T07:06:00.000-07:002010-06-03T07:30:11.700-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMelbSXabGbdhJQxJqFG5y3oKAtlbvybFUXSr8NXGd_nNxi77YjcLGX7MQF8RwYfxjQVgNKye29QN2osXcrwWBwmFVskxfL6GwXkq74viQU_5cQTV6X9H7HgUtdT9JRYBQqExIxl4s9Pg/s1600/BCM_0138.jpg"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMelbSXabGbdhJQxJqFG5y3oKAtlbvybFUXSr8NXGd_nNxi77YjcLGX7MQF8RwYfxjQVgNKye29QN2osXcrwWBwmFVskxfL6GwXkq74viQU_5cQTV6X9H7HgUtdT9JRYBQqExIxl4s9Pg/s320/BCM_0138.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478554210925855618" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZGglGrI9Oz2NlfFsn5-f4fCCT6JPUQ-3uMCWZNK49Wr9EVnhNXXWyUq56Tm_ailoYaFwvHBmkAM5KuPV34B5vOf6ILYLO9OS9F9OvPMiO7Y5hAApdrkwqvpCCTice8kgClC-AKkEcgw/s1600/BCM_0113.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZGglGrI9Oz2NlfFsn5-f4fCCT6JPUQ-3uMCWZNK49Wr9EVnhNXXWyUq56Tm_ailoYaFwvHBmkAM5KuPV34B5vOf6ILYLO9OS9F9OvPMiO7Y5hAApdrkwqvpCCTice8kgClC-AKkEcgw/s320/BCM_0113.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478551467589986114" /></a><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZGglGrI9Oz2NlfFsn5-f4fCCT6JPUQ-3uMCWZNK49Wr9EVnhNXXWyUq56Tm_ailoYaFwvHBmkAM5KuPV34B5vOf6ILYLO9OS9F9OvPMiO7Y5hAApdrkwqvpCCTice8kgClC-AKkEcgw/s1600/BCM_0113.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilySiFWMcHf-ifHlMWSYGuCmeriU80DQotP6H21PsVhjL6mlnB2DCX48CHNVz6_bsdAHuoZxaZq8e3PbPuCmM2jV0iy4lqjhUCPWEVdadpPaADJDNLqe70amyQaE_goiURYjxBziM5mjI/s1600/BCM_0100.jpg"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilySiFWMcHf-ifHlMWSYGuCmeriU80DQotP6H21PsVhjL6mlnB2DCX48CHNVz6_bsdAHuoZxaZq8e3PbPuCmM2jV0iy4lqjhUCPWEVdadpPaADJDNLqe70amyQaE_goiURYjxBziM5mjI/s320/BCM_0100.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478551460058344626" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilySiFWMcHf-ifHlMWSYGuCmeriU80DQotP6H21PsVhjL6mlnB2DCX48CHNVz6_bsdAHuoZxaZq8e3PbPuCmM2jV0iy4lqjhUCPWEVdadpPaADJDNLqe70amyQaE_goiURYjxBziM5mjI/s1600/BCM_0100.jpg"></a><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpKICGE_YyX7w6s-DYPcYuGDx4175hN5o7hY5Y_59AYNX7u6B8pmSW2ddP08_qeqH5YM095eE4N9bZEZ0IklhrPEe-L6zyNvJQPJ3JBOFrVmocchg8mbZNtbqKapwtFMWV1Lc6qcpM6A/s1600/BCM_0082.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpKICGE_YyX7w6s-DYPcYuGDx4175hN5o7hY5Y_59AYNX7u6B8pmSW2ddP08_qeqH5YM095eE4N9bZEZ0IklhrPEe-L6zyNvJQPJ3JBOFrVmocchg8mbZNtbqKapwtFMWV1Lc6qcpM6A/s320/BCM_0082.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478551452036851682" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimpKICGE_YyX7w6s-DYPcYuGDx4175hN5o7hY5Y_59AYNX7u6B8pmSW2ddP08_qeqH5YM095eE4N9bZEZ0IklhrPEe-L6zyNvJQPJ3JBOFrVmocchg8mbZNtbqKapwtFMWV1Lc6qcpM6A/s1600/BCM_0082.jpg"></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBJ4S5ATwT4Qsa9ehru-0X7QM9GNxtiZ2WHm6UMdhgwxVpTJ0C0Zmw0ACI8CTpEuxAzz3FWR1lplVMxSJplGwZWK1Z0CaSnaRwp0RFN7ePoGmqoNj-f-TMXpfVPt8d56Cy2iLjCYvLhY/s1600/0065.jpg"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span> </span><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqBJ4S5ATwT4Qsa9ehru-0X7QM9GNxtiZ2WHm6UMdhgwxVpTJ0C0Zmw0ACI8CTpEuxAzz3FWR1lplVMxSJplGwZWK1Z0CaSnaRwp0RFN7ePoGmqoNj-f-TMXpfVPt8d56Cy2iLjCYvLhY/s320/0065.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478549844715844626" /></a><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-10852997517156105522010-06-02T07:20:00.000-07:002010-06-02T08:23:54.230-07:00Benedictine WayEvery eight weeks I drive up to St. Joseph Minnesota to spend a couple of days at St. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bendedict's</span> Monastery/St. John's Abbey. I still get the curious eyebrow glance when I tell people this, but I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ok</span> with that. I've been repeating this escapade since <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">January</span> and I am growing more familiar with the daily rhythms of the monastic life and in turn, I find that I want to live as they live. <div><br /></div><div>4:15 a.m. comes awfully early, but that is the time I need to wake up if I want to make morning prayer at the monastery. This morning, just like all the other times I've come up here, I was met by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Sisiter</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ceceila</span> in the Sacred Heart Chapel and together we walked into morning prayer. Something was a little different once we entered, the place was packed! Where did all the sisters come from? And they were as spunky, enthusiastic, and alert as women in their mid-70's to late 90's could be. It wasn't until later did I understand the cause of growth. Summer time is here! I joked with Sister Cecelia that the sisters come out of the woodwork with the summer sun; with a wink and a laugh she fully agreed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Prayer time with the sisters, I think, is my favorite part. Everyday these faithful saints welcome the new day by singing with word of God. When I was younger I used to think that hymns were dry and lifeless, void of color and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">vibrancy</span>. My grandparents attended a traditional Lutheran church that sung hymns and had all their prayers printed out. I would dissect the service, looking for any aspect that might carry the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">possibility</span> of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">spontaneity</span>. Every week I was disappointed. Same words, same structure, same robes, same prayer, same, same, same. Ugh. As a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">random</span>, impulsive, and highly emotional woman, such deeply embedded structure is often the death of me; and was just as true when I was a kid as it is now. However, 20 years later, the structure of the monastic life is no longer the death of me, rather it is the very element that causes my heart to burn with desire. I want to echo their rhythms, their practices, their faithfulness.</div><div><br /></div><div>There may have been 50 or 60 sisters in prayer this morning. In sweet unison we opened our lips to the Lord with prayer and praise. Morning, midday, evening prayer always begin with a cry to God to welcome His Spirit and position our hearts. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"O Lord, open my lips and my mouth will proclaim your praise. "</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I thought to myself, how do I begin my days? When I'm at the Monastery it opens with prayer, praise, community, and the sharing of a meal. When I am at home however, that's a different story. The first thought that enters my mind is not a request for my lips to be opened so that my mouth can praise Christ. No. My first thought is to brush away morning mouth and then open my lips to drink in gallons of bold, dark coffee. And maybe then will I begin thinking about the Glory of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit... maybe. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is why I come up here. The monastic way is not confined to those who have devoted their lives to an order, in this case, the Benedictine order. Rather the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">monastic</span> way is a treasure to be sought after by all those who follow after Christ. How can the rest of the Church embrace the gorgeous rhythms found within the monastic community? The Benedictine community understands God's call to be hospitable, to live a life of prayer, to share in community, and to meet the needs of others through humble service. My desire is to learn from their ways and invite others into the journey.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">"Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit as it was in the beginning, is now, and every shall be, world without end, Amen."</span></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-39139830380914427152010-05-20T18:20:00.000-07:002010-05-20T18:51:42.875-07:00One step, one day at a time.God never reveals the entirety of his plan. Abraham was only told to go and sacrifice his son, no further information was disclosed. David was told that he was going to become a great king, but I'm sure he had no idea how long it would take to get there. Moses was called to lead the masses out of their slavery and into liberation - did he anticipate the whole freaking sea to part into dry ground? Saul loses his sight, I highly doubt he was thinking; "No problem! In a few days I'll get my sight back and then I'll become the greatest apostle!" If I am going to be completely honest, I loathe the fact that this is how God rolls. Throw me a bone, Padre.<div><br /></div><div>So what are we to do in the midst of the uncomfortable unknown? I could offer you a platter of cheesy responses, and some may even be theologically sound, however when restless confusion eats away at your bones and steals away hours of slumber; the traditional Jeremiah 29:11 dollap of encouragement fails miserably to bring encouragement. <i>Commercial break:</i> And who ever decided this was a good verse to slap on as a band-aid to our modern day blues ? I'm fairly certain the context in which it was spoken was never intended to be used for the sadness we hold over our neighbor's dead kitty. Sorry friends, Jeremiah had a particular audience in mind - and his life was the most depressing of any prophet I've ever read! His own words, given from God, didn't even bring consolation to his weeping! <i>And we're back... 3-2-1. </i>The truth of the matter is this - I don't really know what we are to do, if anything at all, when we find ourselves stuck on the spinny'est (is that a word) cart on this tilt-a-whirl ride otherwise known as life.</div><div><br /></div><div>But here is what I do know. The Holy Spirit is present, everywhere. When our heads are hung low and our souls are downcast within us, Jesus joins us on the lonely road and listens to our confusion, our lost hopes, our pain, and our excrutiating doubt. He calls us out when we need it and hesitates none at all to say - "Hey you buttheads! (or, "fools"I don't think Luke had it in him to use the term, "butthead"), why are you so faithless? Here, let me show you once again the long scroll of my faithfulness." And at the appointed time, when our hearts are ready and the burning of our hearts cannot be explained, Jesus reveals himself. We see a little bit more, but just enough to give us what we need to continue our walk of abiding obedience.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know myself well enough to know that if God did decide to show me 27 steps into my future, I'd grap the control ropes of the delapitated buggy I ride in and take off all on my own, leaving the Omniscient one chewing on the dust of my impulsiveness. We may devise magnificent plans for our lives, plans to glorify the Lord, to serve the church, to great and wonderful things in the name of Christ; but ultimately God determines our steps. Our lives are not about us. This is not about me (ugh, owie....). I have no clue what I'm doing or where I'm going. Though in the midst of this awkward tension I beg for humility and the strength required to say 'yes' to Christ, even when I cannot see the ram in the thicket, the dry ground to walk on, or the arc to keep me afloat. </div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-10589326370264015742010-05-01T11:34:00.001-07:002010-05-01T11:53:12.506-07:00Meaningless thoughts....Life can get pretty chaotic. Finals are creeping up on me, papers on theology, Pauline letters, and a ridiculously crazy man named Ezekiel are overwhelming my world; and finding time to pursue relationships take an undeserved back seat. However, in the midst of this funnel cloud of busyness I am ushered into the spacious world of artistic delights. <div><br /></div><div>As I sit at Caribou Coffee literally sourrounded by 4 walls of books on Dietrich Bonhoeffer, I smile at the sight of these musty smelling dust covers and unchain my concentration to flow freely to the tunes of <i><a href="http://mumfordandsons.com">Mumford and Sons</a></i>. Without warning my toes tap me into a different world. This world is free from deadlines and filled with the souls of late, great theologians inviting me into the history of Christian thought. But it is an invitation not to receive a grade or a stamp of intellectual approval (thank God too, for I'm an artist - not an intellectual) rather it is to experience, to drink in, and to be transformed by the brave thoughts and endevours of our great cloud of witnesses. My life is pretty fantastic. I love that I get to study theology. I love that I am emotionally connected to radical lyrics. And I love that I'm an artist who enjoys the fruits of those with intellectual giftings!</div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-89159488137228954522010-04-30T17:02:00.000-07:002010-04-30T17:27:38.014-07:00I wish you Enough<div>I wish you enough. These are wise words my mom always sends me off with. For the longest time I never really grasped the significance behind her benediction, but as I grow in age, in my faith, in wisdom, and everything else that accrues with life experiences I see, vividly, the beauty of 'enough'.</div><div><br /></div><div>My childhood was never <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">extravagantly</span> decorated with fancy clothes, the latest <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Schwinn</span>, video games, or even cable <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tv</span>. We weren't poor, at least not in comparison to the rest of the world - maybe in comparison to our neighbors; but we weren't rich either, far from it. My wardrobe was filled with hand-me-downs, Kmart blue light specials, and garage sale treasures. My hair styles were home perms and over-sized scrunchies. Forget Nike Air Jordan's, I wore $7 sneakers from Benjamin Franklin. Family vacations? Hardly. But we did take afternoon trips to Duluth every year or weekend get-a-ways at a family friend's cabin on Lake <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Milacs</span>. Dinner time was usually <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">goulash</span> (how do you even spell that?!) toasty dogs, hamburger gravy, or Malt-O-Meal. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the most part I was oblivious to our 'enough' lifestyle. In my rose-colored world we had it all; until middle school anyway - kids are mean in middle school and they spotlight everything ugly about you. My sisters and I were consumed with adventures of fort building, tree climbing, neighborhood bus stop games, bike rides to the local candy store, a garage that transformed into the raddest roller skating rink and a shed that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">wasn't</span> just a shed full of gardening tools and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">wreaking</span> of lawn mower gasoline. No it was our secret place, our fort of all forts. We were richer than everyone I knew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, at 28 years old, I am a single woman living in the same world as when I was a kid. I am a woman with 'enough'. Every month I have no choice but to rely on God's provision. My wardrobe is still filled with hand-me-downs, thrift store goodies, and well used baseball t-shirts. Dinners are even less gourmet than when I was a kid (although I do wish I could spend loads of money on groceries... I absolutely love to cook!), now it is no more than grilled cheese, frozen veggies, or cereal. But my tummy is satisfied. I'm not a big name shopper, never have been and at the rate I'm going, I never will be. My humble apartment is donned with hand-made art, side of the road freebies, and gifts from my friends upstairs. </div><div><br /></div><div>I do daydream at times, of what it would be like to have a million dollars. I wonder how liberating it would feel not to have to stress about the cost of school or if I can afford an oil change. Traveling to exotic places and seeing the world is an insatiable desire of mine, but I do not need to spend hundreds of dollars to enjoy beautiful places. The alley in my backyard is full of interesting people, I live in the center of a city that is adorned with gorgeous lakes, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">intoxicatingly</span> beautiful parks, and unbelievable art. The truth is I have all that I need. Life is a matter of perspective, and mine is acutely familiar with that style of 'enough'. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-51181484826904388032010-04-14T18:09:00.001-07:002010-04-14T18:09:59.478-07:00April Poetry<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">The month of April offers a bouquet of delicious new life and winter fades to a memory. The endless frozen blues that steal the breath from your mouth, hold hostage the snot in your nose, and drop black pearls from the painted eyelashes of every maiden finally thaw away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Verde’s budding hope merrily springs forth ushering in the song of the morning dove, chickadee, and cardinal. If these feathery friends were a band they would be Dave Matthews, for no other artist can drop the jaws of enthusiasts by shredding the strings of their guitars. Heavy sweaters are folded into storage, revealing the handles of love resting on the waist of every Midwesterner. But these billowy physical effects of winter are no secret to the city of Lakes, it offers a remedy to the muffin top of cabin fever by paving miles of winding trails and organizing preventative action through running and biking communities.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">10 extra pounds and smiling daffodils <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">aren</span>’t the only new guests at April’s banqueting table. Poets gather together and indulge their creativity by feasting upon their charming winter labors. It is, rightly so, National Poetry month and I am celebrating tonight by listening to the words of Minnesota’s finest poets at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">BirchBark</span> Books in Minneapolis. I adore being read to. There is something disarming about releasing my agenda into the spacious pasture of literature</p> <!--EndFragment-->Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-66834797531195586402010-04-13T06:55:00.000-07:002010-04-13T07:01:22.390-07:00Summer plans in the making<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hNKbBgz-E6pKJfHqNL9IXi1BOpMO62TEFG2rhEk3vezlZPpJpIIjIeb0YWlU2fOGg-iQ3KYDddSedop8q7WdCEvhKzbOIG_URIM8c33GORs7nyyVAVXJon5sn1S_kgElezTXylQ-C_o/s1600/homepage_image.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hNKbBgz-E6pKJfHqNL9IXi1BOpMO62TEFG2rhEk3vezlZPpJpIIjIeb0YWlU2fOGg-iQ3KYDddSedop8q7WdCEvhKzbOIG_URIM8c33GORs7nyyVAVXJon5sn1S_kgElezTXylQ-C_o/s200/homepage_image.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459621474139187042" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUn-BvyEZuIjtuc7lZyqZ-u5dRUwNCjQGTNu5iyhfyccz9Ec9pNCgWjO5S5ljr2qd7YtfFOUkkjml3KVDCOHOuxNE_qRXL8qzOK_dUr9k96GpcBHXPDUJN6gyhON2t17RKhG-zZihSvs/s1600/david_gray.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfUn-BvyEZuIjtuc7lZyqZ-u5dRUwNCjQGTNu5iyhfyccz9Ec9pNCgWjO5S5ljr2qd7YtfFOUkkjml3KVDCOHOuxNE_qRXL8qzOK_dUr9k96GpcBHXPDUJN6gyhON2t17RKhG-zZihSvs/s200/david_gray.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459621378918646738" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">David Gray and Ray <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lamontagne</span> touring together this summer. I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">fairly</span> certain I will rearrange my entire life to see this show. </div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-19012448689359643612010-04-01T20:30:00.000-07:002010-04-02T07:00:15.301-07:00Maundy Thursday Reflections<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0TFOKv5Ry9XfdcRjhRLT_iEunFk5Y-7H-XROwMahJ5n5rgIBrCAmadSsEEPBaZ7XMRlr1lj4vPS0Rt9IeSvxq_WZ3BD-BMKtC4sQwMCr3y92iVzaN_Ux6hCLprHwA_19Ahbkup-Y_Kvc/s1600/Tintoretto-LastS-SGMag-BR900.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0TFOKv5Ry9XfdcRjhRLT_iEunFk5Y-7H-XROwMahJ5n5rgIBrCAmadSsEEPBaZ7XMRlr1lj4vPS0Rt9IeSvxq_WZ3BD-BMKtC4sQwMCr3y92iVzaN_Ux6hCLprHwA_19Ahbkup-Y_Kvc/s320/Tintoretto-LastS-SGMag-BR900.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455388587937679474" /></a>Every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Maundy</span> Thursday I celebrate the Holy Day in quiet reflection. It is most generally a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">celebration</span> of one, and that is the way I plan it. And for the past 8 years (excluding the two I lived in California) my choice service is at <a href="http://hopeingod.org">Bethlehem Baptist Church</a> in downtown Minneapolis. This year it was no different. <div><br /></div><div>The sanctuary was packed to the walls. People groups of every generation, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ethnicity</span>, class, and each carrying a story all their own were represented not as segregated clusters, but as one community. You could taste the sweetness of the Spirit in the room, and in the aroma of his presence I could not help but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pause</span> time and time again at the sight before me. I thought of the Apostle Paul while I sat in my quiet space at the end of the balcony pew... Parenthetical comment... I can always be found in the balcony when the introverted, introspective, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">contemplative</span> side of myself takes over. Paul passionately journeyed from church to church urging them to live as a unified body of Christ. In his culture it was common to find people, Christians included, dividing their pledges of devotion and splitting over the smallest of disagreements; which is not entirely unlike today, but I'll save that for another post. I wondered what Paul would have thought if he had been a part of tonight's worship service. Would he exhort his tender love for the Church of Minneapolis? My soul was overwhelmed within me to have a seat among Christ's chosen Beloved and I do not doubt for a moment that Paul would say to Bethlehem - "I have not stopped praying and giving thanks for you."</div><div><br /></div><div>When the first song of worship ignited, my heart was gripped by the loving hands of the Holy God. There was a sacred presence in the place, a power infused in every note harmoniously shouted, and a disarming invitation wrapped in the holy contrition of the communion of saints. I thought my entire being was going to explode. I was utterly undone by the beauty of it all. Hundreds of saints under one roof, singing together with one voice - my cheeks were a slope of draining tears collecting in the pools of my smiling lips. This is what the heavenly hosts who cry "Holy Holy Holy" must sound like. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even greater still was the institution of communion. I am one who adheres to the theology that this meal is more than mere symbolism. The Eucharist is sacred and filled with the grace of Christ. Since I can remember I've never not cried during communion. There is something <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">distinctly</span> tender about witnessing broken people coming to the table to receive the redeeming love of Christ through the Eucharist. I like to watch the old couples walk up together hand in hand. The dad bending over to help his young son take the broken bread is one of the most breathtaking sights to behold. And the teenagers filled with contagious vitality for life drinking of the cup, produce within a desire to embrace and encourage them to continue the journey of following after the love of Christ, no matter the cost. Tonight was yet another opportunity to consider the joy found in the meal of Thanksgiving and reflect on the body of Christ that was - just as the elements - first blessed, then broken, then given for all to receive. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I sit here now, yearning to live the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Maundy</span> Thursday service all over again, I try to cling to the last fleeting minutes of this day. 50 more to go before we are ushered into Good Friday and I am filled with reverence as I replay the words of tonight's hymns and bow in humility in experiencing once again the story of what this day represents.... </div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-75996511602923248192010-03-22T07:52:00.000-07:002010-03-22T07:55:42.803-07:00good news for the day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXPD3ACL2TZ9-sfRRAoEKQorZPJjTx-USzkuI1Nlpu2BAb4WtRr1INcdVMsChhmrZsiV92kFocBtTtWsuOLruim10jmtsjbIBWvLjlyxDMtA8qK93nu5FkZ0Nc-4g7yM10kh1iN5ME5M/s1600-h/Photo+329.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvXPD3ACL2TZ9-sfRRAoEKQorZPJjTx-USzkuI1Nlpu2BAb4WtRr1INcdVMsChhmrZsiV92kFocBtTtWsuOLruim10jmtsjbIBWvLjlyxDMtA8qK93nu5FkZ0Nc-4g7yM10kh1iN5ME5M/s320/Photo+329.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451471265770734098" /></a>my heart still remains in mourning over the loss of nathan.... but today's sports headline certainly lifts me out - it's going to be a fantastic season, i can smell it!Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-55024497781265849902010-03-16T17:11:00.000-07:002010-03-16T18:16:02.393-07:00Photo Essay<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinU4SCva_yUUN_u4kI9_AMo0TljigQ5QYflRWck8GDaPFD63239kCNz8QAh-uYtS5yplnaPNEsSU6CkYXRk0o6VqbcbSjwf-Ofydh1dy7rhWl_kaAmS_uLCqGJnL7bI_0VklQtnrkxTdY/s1600-h/BCM_0085.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinU4SCva_yUUN_u4kI9_AMo0TljigQ5QYflRWck8GDaPFD63239kCNz8QAh-uYtS5yplnaPNEsSU6CkYXRk0o6VqbcbSjwf-Ofydh1dy7rhWl_kaAmS_uLCqGJnL7bI_0VklQtnrkxTdY/s200/BCM_0085.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449403949487149794" /></a> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi82-ey4TXk8BfK4A_NtW4No3ple1w8cLSfikKU9Jen_xpxIuDUtae8ZmY_OS061Dgxn9UgPWyzsRmRKUxyqfEiJ7gqZck-Lk_z_c64y22A6Pkh0lHGfEdtJN77Tm9Ag08_ps6g8V8tZfc/s200/BCM_0069.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449403936486605138" /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ffDDuUrQPbu-r3BzYqxzyH_cdd7eUUTC1l_PkDHP2XTjEYUpbZOiWQlog4OVj7nDs-syG2WSHk1Rk6eaaq4kBFZy-XafM2AlAnsajfZq2oBUHrb4pEr8fhmtiFOANYSUK7rGJlS8di0/s1600-h/BCM_0044.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ffDDuUrQPbu-r3BzYqxzyH_cdd7eUUTC1l_PkDHP2XTjEYUpbZOiWQlog4OVj7nDs-syG2WSHk1Rk6eaaq4kBFZy-XafM2AlAnsajfZq2oBUHrb4pEr8fhmtiFOANYSUK7rGJlS8di0/s200/BCM_0044.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449403925247199010" /></a> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHEorn8D6fERax80c3LN6Kw-1WDoAnyhREVPyslVgF4T0JLjn-Rtd-4VjcMVr_yoaFwnnNN0bMVLj4PwVVrTu7eeaTzsmxDW39W0i3wnuuk38sNwcF-17mEK5abr1u3xoy5gHT1Dq4Ero/s200/BCM_0061.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449403910414299458" /><br /><br /><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVYO43GhZmOgtKdv7vR6n7rNHZ151e5aaB7U1uuUXwnjAzrEUvEDsmKmOHesCmL2pYX4QLeixLwaGlSVewwi63gC_MiR4_o9N6WzozFfr2XpN9idFAeQEDa-o5DiZzevxc8ZpcJZgWGd8/s200/BCM_0116.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449391250950960242" /> <img style="cursor:pointer; 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cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KCayR2gjp9GtXobjdchaEUWNhUestXHp8ni4KJYf22gNM0tsdQBuiJQaN4_Zd-Tj93bJoYzJBhSGuMEYfPxtvxBaQM4Bdu4Z7vsI-YcizCscONlGhZ1i1e7C7O5rkC61yyG3ZkKNW5w/s200/BCM_0155.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449392385958420706" /></a> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk3d23gnOCk2zFqQQjsnFOoV-sWU1oGWp0hwoKMdV2SnUkSr8LlEDgktnpJHjm_6zvXWHgOTRt4HFFyXbEU5gxEK9iE0wFcAcnB9zGbs3_-OdNKr1Es35WnNLo5niU6Q5X5nxZYQDwjg/s200/BCM_0184.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449393439929858130" /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARz-tbnE6yHQnQ3ieaCGwLubCx2ZoWwO0yOkxbBTRHnt8kIX2BHMVQ7yP0hxCSQMk0KYlu9OnFjnOB-ZYYvFx6HkuvmhZ0GOBoThUYL-YBnyODAB2u65QWKzSljft24_W8EJYPiHlnfk/s200/BCM_0149.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449392369425361250" /> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9jnu9TJ0HaWZ2AKAPeu0gC1QxolA__B9-dTRzZHxqpoYHWKsHaTWsw_zYAenyBXvOycZL_wZ_wYi0Z5JxKQaH0Kwobd_TpFziNOr-Qf-pEbJm7_yVhGhRZQ9Uzuu5jglgS2zPO8FuIw/s200/BCM_0123.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449391257481002210" /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHQBJPV8f1smOSH4dv7Phe4J-PKnF1rMB4eoIOP8w-MKTCLsheQRiOjPy1gOBE2yMjxoHPhpbYh4xM-fKLTE0JDgBFHU7WPeTdpIZMfZTJjw7ye6ED2FFjPgtUwMW-kQWlAuG3Kfa6Vg/s200/BCM_0142.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449392351688075378" /> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLH9APO57nrun22DCpGpk8IkryRwynELcUMhosdx0vsAqjw7Fm3EPh69me14rcf-2R4DlnweMqP9SBnSOd3dRvbpPdiUD4moMqE3sab_LgXPL1AdFrzcS5V9_8tYSSiR5ISIbXMa9stM/s200/BCM_0087.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449404928940117522" /></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9t-gRKloxdjEgyKuiUDaRiFMkz7H0ICnAzertODZgtcM1azKJTfxiw_Unv-1S1V_FhVx8LkP7q4cGzgO2kcVBA5nKzwfSLJ6su8NHKUrRlJjs5Uqrw_eVmbnkrEJHhQoo2tMb-3ffG10/s200/BCM_0106.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449391231297330178" /> <img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMwwVaOsZf7jUlPisrz67DvhQo2mBN1cI3bbhcr49cpOmNJuPFB6bRUwLGJeAcRv3dudU1mVmJ4YHXIhSLgVbsqiuO4QZ04_RZ2QvVmrc4RozdFktED2SM039WNYjG9tHq94mR4IlXoYc/s200/BCM_0137.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449392338168315042" /></div><div> </div><div><div> <div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobMXuKWDGTDmjZJbKmfbtVU7N81UJhIKCJ7vi0pHQcFN7FZddaXys6OdXVEcF9lnI9UK3nwIw8ChItsjfBPWMmJJvJc0yVLqa4Glqy9ltW7oKXoyMh6RS65KNXaAFgQ75MWjzSbGpUoI/s1600-h/BCM_0108.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"> <div style="text-align: center;text-decoration: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: none;"><br /></span></span></div></a><div><br /></div><div><div style=""><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-28071373008212699932010-03-16T06:41:00.000-07:002010-03-16T16:54:10.958-07:00Schooled by the Liturgical Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aQwFrPIpq5Q3dDNmL9K0dwI5l7lPXTqZPMS9A5mW-slKRXMRHgVk_zmejfXlKJvDkakcrGPt__XhzJxyZc7wdgcSV7tnBpo7BapXjgYzRI1quAwm4O5NVRINIV5TsThcqbZdg0yGobY/s1600-h/BCM_0036.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4aQwFrPIpq5Q3dDNmL9K0dwI5l7lPXTqZPMS9A5mW-slKRXMRHgVk_zmejfXlKJvDkakcrGPt__XhzJxyZc7wdgcSV7tnBpo7BapXjgYzRI1quAwm4O5NVRINIV5TsThcqbZdg0yGobY/s320/BCM_0036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449383411039683858" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">I thought I had a relatively clear understanding to the markings of the liturgical calendar, but that notion was demolished when I asked my dear sisters at St. Ben's to share with me the journey they follow each month </div><div style="text-align: left;">throughout the year. The converstaion began with my ignorant lips; "So you follow Advend, Lent..." and before I could get any further Sister Rita interrupted to fill in the blanks I had already missed. Thank goodness too, because after those two liturgical whoppers I'm not quite sure what comes next.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7HD8JPxMyQiyOm8U6ez-3HuE7ulXkYhdj6AkmXMQy68luVRCwbhRHZouvZ7ATJ1qGpRrENRFsHFAQ3oYMMeJOFhsU6JiXdRIXfLJD1LslmB0iglESEuzKC9GZmw0HxqniIuRaOM49ag/s200/BCM_0023.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449238480287628434" /><div>Sister Rita began the long stream of explanation while Sister Cecelia stepped towards the bookshelf to find something that could offer a visual picture to my pool of curiosities. Sister Rita informed me that in between the well known liturgical seasons there lies a fountain of other important dates. This is when Sister Cecelia opened up her choice book and shed light into the dark corners of misunderstanding. Before my eyes was a scroll of celebrations and Sunday's, ordinary times and feasts; which apparently can replace a Sunday. Each day, each Sunday is something worthy of intentional focus. I choked with amazement towards their disciplines.</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAmsGsRCXoRWJrxcguFc5978nfnhvviQ5DR5qQ3Q7-ivEi4Gdt8U57DlIWdDs-GP7FRRvvzuzbfqqSdRkQvsjqecdFvJ2mwOYPfmMdcyRsWhJDubDyX9a6-FX3gixFNzXqaxHWj3TKgT4/s320/BCM_0008.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449237746791665426" /><div><br /></div><div>What is it like to follow so intimately the journey's of Jesus through these seasons? Every week is embraced through prearranged and deliberate illuminations of scripture. It seems as though everything is carefully considered and lived out with a penetrating reverence. While Rita and Cecelia exposed the emotions and process of thought that run from their heart out their lips of praise, I ached with desire to walk out my days in a similar fashion to these faithful sisters. Truly there is something sacred embedded in a life that is structured according to the liturgical calendar and I have hardly broken the surface. In a few moments I will make my way from the Monastery to the Abbey at St. John's and I wonder how, if at all, the mobility of the Monks differs from that of the Sisters.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-10823470907731871982010-03-15T13:47:00.000-07:002010-03-15T13:54:12.937-07:00the not-so-vanilla spiritual director<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">There is a protruding facet of reason that poses the question, “What am I thinking?" Those who generally take on monastic practices; namely fasting, silence, solitude, prayer all seem to carry a common personality, and the colors of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">dna</span></span> makeup are without that thread. It’s like this; I went to visit a place outside Minneapolis that trains up Spiritual Directors. The purpose of my visit was to discern whether or not it could be the location to my life after undergrad. In no time at all I realized that it is not for me - and I became certain of that by a wave of nausea that nearly knocked me off my feet the moment I walked in the door. The center was lovely and the faithful employees were stunning. Truly it was a community of passionate followers of Christ who are eager to tap into the movement of the Holy Spirit. I have nothing of negativity to say about the place.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But my restlessness is born from a place similar to Pluto. Pluto has always been, in my opinion, the strange planet. Mars is like pop music, if Casey <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kasem</span></span> were to live on a planet it would be Mars; everyone knows the mainstream tune that flows off its craters. Does Mars even have craters? Then there is Venus. Venus is like the sexy planet. Only people like Heidi <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Klum</span></span> or Jennifer <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Aniston</span></span> can exist on Venus. Then there is Jupiter. This is the planet where all the ridiculously smart scientists hang out and talk about everything <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">sciencey</span>. The mere thought of it makes my brain hurt. I don’t even know what other planets float around in our solar system (thus I do not belong on Jupiter) but there still remains Pluto. I am convinced this would be the place for the people other people consider “different”. Artists, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">winos</span>, poets, romantics, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">simplistics</span></span> and loners – unite together under the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Plutonic</span></span> (not Platonic) zip code with our bare feet and tattoos and pass the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">doobie</span></span> of eccentricities.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The place of Spiritual Formation that I had visited was for the beautiful souls that keep cuss words out of their vocabulary. It had a certain feeling to it, like the feeling you get when you walk into a super <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">churchy</span></span> person’s house with your clothes reeking of last night’s <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">stogie</span></span> and lips stained with alcohol from the microphone at Jack’s karaoke bar. I’m a karaoke junkie and I like to smoke cheap stogies, but I am intoxicated by the love of Christ more frequently than by a bottle of 3 buck Chuck. And so the question arises again; “What am I thinking? I’m not the usual softly fashioned, daintily formed Spiritual Director. I will not have Thomas <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Kinkade</span></span> decorating my future office, nor will I have <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ruffly</span> curtains and doilies. I will not use a mouse church voice that cowers when released. What I will have is who I am. My office will probably have gnarly photography with some raw honest Rembrandt, it will more than likely smell of sandalwood and lilac, and I will not (this is my promise to you) back down from saying, “I have no freaking clue what the Spirit’s doing, but dude let’s kick back and listen together.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-43831524114109534612010-03-15T06:37:00.001-07:002010-03-15T07:29:58.960-07:00Silenced breakfast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBx0-VzAxjJxy3bIymYwalLLmkJu1TXzONGeHA2rhxUQllcfCNWTfp5m8LJr7oTagH6KlGJL4kHnWVtPRHVyPB5bgC6gbgYdAkC_DZOj3RJU3DqbZx61wiPh7sMbSty8wLo5X667lQbo/s1600-h/BCM_0036.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBx0-VzAxjJxy3bIymYwalLLmkJu1TXzONGeHA2rhxUQllcfCNWTfp5m8LJr7oTagH6KlGJL4kHnWVtPRHVyPB5bgC6gbgYdAkC_DZOj3RJU3DqbZx61wiPh7sMbSty8wLo5X667lQbo/s320/BCM_0036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448867565459103810" /></a>I return once again to St. Benedict's Monastery. It has been eight weeks since my last visit and there is a fresh yet sober atmosphere welcoming my arrival. I say fresh because spring is just around the corner. The birds that decorate the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">grounds</span> of the monastery are wild with song and vigor. Their music spreads through the campus and contribute sweet melodies to the strong, deep tolls of the chapel bells. The sober facet is tightly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tethered</span> to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Lenten</span> season Throughout the liturgical year meal times are alive with conversation, during the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lenten</span> season however meals are taken in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">silence</span>. This is to encourage the sisters to pause from the chattering norm and instead reflect upon the journey to the Cross.<div><br /></div><div>It was a bizarre experience I have to admit, sharing a meal in silence. I grew up in a family of 6 and the dinner table was not just a place to set your plate; but a stage to unleash your imagination. The walls would shake before our laughter and the engery soared when mom would pass the jar of her ridicoulously amazing chocolate chip cookies. It is no wonder why eating in silence this morning was uncomfortably unnatural. </div><div><br /></div><div>This intentional silence is a gorgeous thing however. I continue to return to the monastery (and tomorrow I will be spending the day at St. John's Abbey) because I firmly believe that the rhythms by which the Monastics adhere to have significant wisdom and rich blessings to offer the Protestant community. My desire is to release myself from the piles of religious conditionings that confine the mystery of the Holy Spirit and in turn receive the gift of monastic cadance.</div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-77277139692168553702010-03-11T17:32:00.000-08:002010-03-11T20:39:41.664-08:00Overshadowing Cheap Grace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MwxHHCekWh7whNb8FVwq08BsM7wBVtzPk0LDfHObd7ZMWU0fr1hvTBVx2DzGq6FmKV58rvqt-NtzdJdt95YeNcKdtloVBseAOY0pClNCvLCVtV384p-cL8W8yW2PIriEBjUmwM_N0NM/s1600-h/carolsfeld_davids_punishment420x376.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9MwxHHCekWh7whNb8FVwq08BsM7wBVtzPk0LDfHObd7ZMWU0fr1hvTBVx2DzGq6FmKV58rvqt-NtzdJdt95YeNcKdtloVBseAOY0pClNCvLCVtV384p-cL8W8yW2PIriEBjUmwM_N0NM/s200/carolsfeld_davids_punishment420x376.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447600333361479730" /></a>When I share with people the deep fondness I carry towards the Lenten season, it never fails that I am met with awkwardly curious expressions. Perplexed eyebrows are raised leading to a stream of rushing inquisitions. "Are you Catholic?" Nope. "Are you Lutheran?" Nope, not Lutheran either. "Why then do you like Lent so much?" Ah, sweet honey to my lips is such a question. <div><br /></div><div>I suppose it may be rather odd that I choose to adhere the liturgical calendar when my <a href="http://www.hopecc.com/">church <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">communit</span></span></a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.hopecc.com">y</a> does not. But we all have our peculiarities and this one of mine is an unexplainable love for a shredded veil. So what is it exactly? What sets these 40 days apart from the other 325? Simple, an invitation. The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lenten</span> season is for us, a sweetly tender opportunity to examine our hearts. It is a beckoning to walk with Christ during his last 40 days on earth and to not just remember - but cry out in mercy and crumble in gratitude, humility, and reverence before the passion expressed on Calvary's tree. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is easy for Christians (perhaps singling out American middle/upper class Christians???) to trample around in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">over sized</span> clowns shoes of cheap grace and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">promenade</span> ourselves in the false bouffant assumption that the grace of God liberates us to live according to our desires. Whatever tastes good, smells good and feels good ought to be ours. And if it is a questionable desire don't worry about it; God's grace is sufficient enough so go ahead and indulge. Day in and day out we whore around like addicts of worldly pleasures without regard to the gnashing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">repercussions</span>, because when we sit in our comfortable lazy-boy pews on Sunday mornings we are spoon fed cheap grace. Grace does not permit prostituted actions.</div><div><br /></div><div>With each day of Lent I fall deeper into love with the penitential psalms. I think Psalm 51 might be my favorite of the 7. This poetic cry of David's is a vibrant expression of confession and repentance that is painted from a healthy understanding of his transgressions. What is so lovely about the psalmist is that he mourned over his sin. When do we ever take the time to cry over the chasm of sin we have dug? And really, should not crying out for mercy be our immediate reaction towards sin. Like gasping for air when the wind is knocked out of us, so too our plea for mercy when standing face to face with iniquity. I despise the way my sin <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">separates</span> me from the redeemer and so I cry. Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-78170313716567741482010-03-08T14:57:00.000-08:002010-03-08T16:44:24.027-08:00What's the Point?<div style="text-align: left;">What's the point? Is anything that we do truly purposeful? Recently I've been walking around in the discomfort of vomiting cultural norms while panting for the ways of Jesus. I attend <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Bethel</span></span></span> University. If it were not for grants and financial aid I would be dropping $30,000 a year to be learn about theology. Although I am intoxicated over the fact that I get to unfold what it means to trust Christ by way of paved paths from the brilliant minds of generations past; Calvin, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Schleiermacher</span></span></span>, Luther, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Baur</span></span></span>...I cannot help but counter such a blessing with deeper <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ponderings</span></span></span>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">Why are we studying about the issues of injustice while comfortably confined to our upper-middle class cookie-cutter institution? Why am I wrestling with doctrines and the infallibility of scripture rather than putting legs to the words of God? Why is the main goal among Christians to find a good Christian partner, buy a fancy diamond ring, finance a fancier house and produce 2.4 perfect Christian babies? The Christian dream is the American dream. At the end of the day I truly believe that God is not going to ask me, "Brianna - what are the 5 points of Calvin?" How does my ability (or inability) to articulate TULIP feed the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">stomachs</span> of the poor or wrap loving arms around the hurting?</div><div><br /></div><div>I think often of my friends at El Refugio and in doing so I ache to return to them. El Refugio is, you guessed it, a refuge for the homeless elderly of Tijuana Mexico. During my time in</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Vxc_r04Q_D2DKQqB_rnC-TKltXoF9lDADKF-A2EuDkTlyCnM0BgfT9mN82HfKIL28aYJnfUWJ-Ji2QoMmELHyYC5rfUWq5Gt42MVbX2GE80UMj3NiLQT8MHF2y-0y386Etpb1eaGWcs/s200/n573126256_854203_2560.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446423767194607106" /><div> California I would frequently spend long days visiting the beautiful souls at El Refugio. We would cook breakfast together, laugh, try to communicate through our language barrier, and enjoy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">each other's</span> presence. It was a community that had no choice <i>but</i> to rely on God. </div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 86px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1zoj4Tz2ADN5tsPDzU76kzVO8aDUHJj2hVj4VgkslDW6FzZAWUpjNilc3vpU84Lfubz01HNnZbNwbnYjs0DPN2Aw1r5pQU9AG_fXtCcEApPigbh8FmO2_bVzIem8NKF_Z5oixJNjhkcA/s320/s573126256_728492_3263.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446425675918156450" /><div>I've witnessed miracles at El Refugio truly. </div><div>Rather than multiplying fish, God faithfully multiplied eggs, ham, bread, and oranges. No one ever went unfed and this</div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">unexplainable</span></span> truth can only be attributed to the blessing of Christ. My friends at this sacred place never asked questions of theology and I never felt the need to impress them with a lengthy string of paper doll vocabulary.</div></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 86px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfw2R1wme3EJPB1zG1inbdb3eW3TH4Mlhr5WIC5hL40drkRMzYTV9EhUWvnGnWf2w3hTma1ujh49Ufw889JbdNZ_nAurC4nH5XzjI71usfrTNOvDklFrEI_3Qt1n6ObOouW8Kafi81Hc/s400/s573126256_854200_7977.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446418772891438786" />Afternoons were spent taking silly photographs (photography is the avenue God made for communication - it was lovely), playing hide and seek in the hanging laundry, dancing, and soaking in the warm Tijuana sunshine. This was all we needed and we were fully <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">satisfied</span>.<div><div><div><div><br /></div><div>I hope I am not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">portraying</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">cynicism</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Because</span> that is not my aim nor is it how I feel. It's just that I carry a lot of questions about complacent <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">conditioning's</span> and sometimes they keep me awake at night. How do our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">conditioning's</span> meet the greatest commandments? What am I doing, right now to obey the command to love? I'm fairly certain blogging to an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">abysmal</span> void ceases to fill the empty arms of the marginal dwellers. How can I live in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">affluence</span> of the states and simultaneously run the legs I hope to put on scripture?</div><div><br /></div></div></div></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-52381816809605565432010-02-25T16:41:00.000-08:002010-02-25T17:43:45.372-08:00Soiled diapers<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Unconfessed</span> sin is like a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">poopy</span> diaper. Really, it is. A diaper is worn underneath a layer of clothing (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">generally</span> speaking of course, unless your like my nieces and nephews who wildly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">prefer</span> running around without any pants) you cannot see the diaper, it is hidden. When worn appropriately the diaper exists rather unobtrusively. But dude, once that giant cotton ball is polluted the poor kid wearing the soiled mess is miserable and everyone within a 50 mile radius is painfully effected by the sulfuric toxins. Similarily this is exactly how sin operates. We can keep it covered by a layer of decorative cleanlines but we can feel its slimy presence and, guess what? Everyone around you has to bear the detrament of your debris. Take heart dirty one! If you are brave enough to cry out and acknowledge you sinful diaper, the cleansing sweetness of wet wipes will come to your rescue. I digress...<div><br /></div><div>The greatest reality of sin that we so often fail to understand is that our sinful nature affects others. I believe that is one of Satan's greatest successes. Along with his ruthless army he has deceived our minds in such a way that we think our sin is just that - ours. Paul refutes this horrific misconception in his letter to the church of Corinth. </div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Don't you know that a little yeast works through the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old yeast that you may be a new batch withouth yeast-as you really are." - 1 Cor. 5:6-7</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">This admonition is evidence to the truth that we are not created to live individualistically. Although, is this not the very way of our generation? It is of little wonder why we walk around blindly deceived that we are our own and whatever choices we make or do not make fails to impress upon the lives of others. Oh friends how I pray that the scales fall from your eyes so that you may see your communal existence! </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So what are we to do with our heavy diapers? Keeping in rhythm with the Lenten season may I draw your attention to the second penitential psalm? Check out the poetic words of Psalm 32 (I have referred to this psalm many times in previous posts, I'm partial to its beauty).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"When I kept silent my bones wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night your hand was heavy upon me; my strength was sapped as in the heat of summer. <b>Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, "I will confess my transgressions to the LORD..." </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">We acknowledge our sin, we tell those around us, "I know you smell me and I am so sorry for that. I reak of lust, greed, gossip, lying, pornography, false identites, worry, fear... I am a broken mess in need of grace." And in our courageous confession we can be confident of the forgiveness promised to us.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>"... And you FORGAVE the guilt of my sin."</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-8864234584766128652010-02-24T06:05:00.000-08:002010-02-24T11:17:04.726-08:00Lenten Breath PrayerGarden State is one of my all time favorite films. I have watched it countless times and every time I plug it in I receive something new. Andrew <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Largeman</span> is the main character and he delivers an epic performance; offering scenes that every viewer is able to resonate with. The movie opens with a dream where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Largeman</span> is sitting apathetically on a crashing plane. Everyone around him is frantic, crying and screaming, and clinging for salvation. All the while <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Largeman</span> remains detached from the chaos. This scene poses the question; "How often do we play the role of the crazed passengers - sick with worry and driven by the fear of our surrounding circumstances? How long have we been walking around like detached zombies consumed with apathy?"<div><br /></div><div>During the Lenten season I am practicing different prayer postures everyday. The first week of the season draws to a close today, ushering in the freshness of a new one and already I can see a theme weaving in and around my prayers. A tiny golden thread of rest is slowly going around my fragmented thoughts and quietly wrapping them in an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">aglet</span> of trust. And this is the severe mercy of Christ, for you see, I am a woman with way too many interests. My role is more often the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">unraveled</span> voyager opposed to the detached <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">apathetic</span>. Rarely do I pay attention to the destination, rather I intoxicate myself with the honey of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">possibilities</span> embedded in each new day. What inevitably ends up happening in my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">drunken</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">stooper</span> of newness is that I quickly lose sight of my original focus and, like a wandering child distracted by a bouquet of colorful balloons, I begin running after the vibrant array of floating balloons; forgetting completely what I was initially pursuing. "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Tra</span>-la-la... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Ooo</span> pretty!" is my life motto. Very truly I need that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">aglet</span> to bind me to the one thing that keeps my soul attuned.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - thing about such things." - Phillipians 4:8</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Charis SIL', charis, Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div> I think that both Christ and Paul knew of our great need to practice the search for the sound of silence. Paul tells us to "Pray without ceasing." Take a look <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">throughout</span> his letters, you will see time and time again the command for us to pray, to give thanks, to intercede, to meditate on whatever is true, noble, right, pure, lovely and admirable. Do we take the time to do this? Jesus was found escaping the crowds to enter into a quiet place and be with his Father. He <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">commands</span> us to pray where the only person that can see and hear us is our Father in Heaven.</div><div><br /></div><div>To be a Christian is to be Christ-like, to be a disciple is to follow in the same rhythms as our Rabbi. Why is it that we walk this reflected way only when it promises the spotlight? We love the large crowds, the excitement of dangerous missions, flapping our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">tongues</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">street corners</span> and shredding the 6 string on stage. But what about the thing that does not promise large crowds? What about that which does not stamp our passport of missionary journeys? What about the position of listening? How come we can replicate the ways in which our Rabbi teaches on a mountain but we fail miserable to draw away to a quiet place?</div><div><br /></div><div>It is of little wonder why we are frazzled and detached. So how then, do we turn and take the first step towards silence? Beautiful question. I think one of the best places to begin is with a prayer called "Breath Prayer". It can be hard, as addicts of speed and noise, to start with carving out 15 minutes of silence; that is why I think breath prayer is the greatest starting block. It is an intentionality you can take with you wherever you are and wherever you are going. Furthermore it is a way for us to live out Paul's encouragement for us to "Pray without ceasing". Bet you never thought it was possible to accomplish huh? Well, it is! Prayer, in its purest essence, is a position of heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>Breath Prayer is an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">exercise</span> that exists organically. When we breathe, we do not think about the art of the process, we do it naturally without thought. Inhale.... Exhale... Inhale... Exhale... It occurs on its own, we do not have to will ourselves to do it. Breath Prayer follows the naturality of our breaths and couples it with intentional truths. One of the greatest prayers to incorporate into the patterns breathing is the Jesus Prayer; </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i>"Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me, a sinner."</i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Inhale and think on the words; <i><b>"Jesus, son of David... " </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhale the last part of the prayer;<b><i> "Have mercy on me a sinner."</i></b> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another prayer of truth aids in the security of our identity. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Inhale - <i><b>"Abba".</b></i> </div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhale - "<i><b>I belong to you".</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Abba.... I belong to you.... whether you are a frantic, disheveled wanderer or a numb careless clinging to the identity of your belovedness will reignite and steady your soul. This is the journey of Lent. A voyage towards perfect unity with our Savior and it is only through the practice of prayer that our cold hearts can be melted by the voice of Love.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-85722064135417211742010-02-17T17:54:00.000-08:002010-02-17T18:33:11.835-08:00Lenten blurbsToday marks the beginning of a 40 day journey to the cross. Ash Wednesday is personally one of my very favorite days of the Liturgical calendar, for it ignites the season of Lent that I am utterly enthralled by. I cannot articulate why exactly, the Lenten season carries with it a tenderly powerful force that melts my soul; but since I began walking with Jesus it has never failed to touch the deepest parts of my heart in a way that no other season can do. Perhaps it is the rawness of the 40 days that disarms me, perhaps it is the opportunity provided to think with deep intention of my great need for a Savior amidst the dripping crimson, or maybe it is the fact that as I enter the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">throne room</span> of grace with a heart of repentance and contrition, the pathway for the Holy Spirit is made straight and I therefore become the unworthy receiver's of His insurmountable mercy. Yes, it is each of these things that draw forth an abyss of unfathomable delight as I meditate upon the redeeming journey to the Cross. <div><br /></div><div>Every year I take great joy in highlighting a different posture of worship to guide the season. As I've matured in my faith, so too have my postions of praise - but every year I fast from sweets. This is the big cahouna for I have a ridiculous sweet tooth that, when unleashed, knows no boundaries. This year I will embrace in daily prayer practices; be it Lectio Divina, Confession, Centering Prayer, Meditation, Intecession or Liturgy of the hours. I am expectant and hopeful to meet with Christ through these ancient practices designed by our origianal desert fathers and mothers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Additionally I will write brief insights about these practices that aimed to open our hearts and minds to the movement of the Holy Spirit and include highlighted posts centered around the 7 Penitential Psalms of the Lenten Season. It is my prayer that this season marks your life with a transformative recognition to the weight of the Cross bore for our sins. May God bless your journey and by his severe mercy draw you closer to his side.</div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-55318091699178552382010-02-12T18:10:00.000-08:002010-02-12T18:25:06.619-08:00Another curiosity...Why not add to the inquisitions of my previous post, goodness knows there are so many more...<div><br /></div><div>Here it is: Was Paul filled with a "different" Spirit than the Spirit we are filled with today? (I use the term "different" very loosely...)</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"G</i><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">od</span> did extraordinary miracles through Paul, so that even handkerchiefs and aprons that had touched him were taken to the sick, and their illnesses were cured and the evil spirits left them." - Acts 19:11-12</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Later on in scripture I read that Paul commanded healing in a broken individual. Why do we not command such things? Rather we are more apt to pray that God would release a person from spiritual possession. Why is it that Paul commanded - <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">unapologetically</span> and confidently, and we cower away consumed by doubt?</div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-56119606057406489632010-02-11T12:53:00.001-08:002010-02-11T14:19:16.866-08:00Both/And<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"For HE chose us in him before the creation of the world </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>to be holy and blameless in his sight. " ~ Ephesians 1:4</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Here are some things that I don't understand and things that I question:</div><div><br /></div><div>- Why is merging onto the freeway such a difficult task for people?</div><div>- When will the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Cubbies</span> win the series?</div><div>- What about <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dinosaurs</span>?</div><div>- Do I, a student of Theology, have to pledge my allegiance to one theologian?</div><div>- Were Adam and Eve created with total objectivity?</div><div>- Why do men think Bod/Tag/etc is a good choice of cologne?</div><div>- How come strange hair appears in places it shouldn't be as you age?</div><div>- Why do zits have to be a reality?</div><div>- What produces laughter?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>It is my nature to marinate in the inquisitions born of this world we live in. I do not believe that we were created to walk around as robots, going to and fro with no consideration to the peculiar things that purposely entertain our journey; rather I think it is a gorgeous blessing to question. If you ever have had the opportunity to spend time, any amount of time, with a child, what you notice with comical immediacy is the explosive energy contained in a mind filled with wonder. Everything that a child sees is something brand new. Balloons and kites become the ground for future pilots. The bubbled throat of a toad ignite budding zoologists. Mommy's pregnant belly is the greatest intrigue that ushers in a new generation of obstetricians. We are born to question, to wonder, to seek and to know.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as we are born to know, so too we are to unable to understand it all. Our minds are finite organs crippled under the glorious weight of mystery. Reason can only take us so far. We may be able to survive on logic for a while, but eventually we will collide with a force far greater than ourselves that catapults our ability to formulate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">structured</span> answers. Now, with this in mind; here are some heavier curiosities the parade around my mind.</div><div><br /></div><div>- Are some people created for heaven while others are damned to hell?</div><div>- Was there something that sparked Satan's initial fall?</div><div>- Is God all sovereign?</div><div>- Can our prayers change the mind of God?</div><div>- Is everything predestined?</div><div><br /></div><div>The ways in which I approach these questions shed light onto my understanding (or lack there of) of who God is. Let me first admit that I am not obsessed with discovering the answers - I am not driven by an uncontainable need to have it all figured out. I approach these questions humbly, ignorantly and longing not to know more about God, but rather to know God more. In this I am disarmed by the scriptures that, in some mysterious way, reveal that the answers to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">predominately</span> divisive theologies cease miserably to be either/or responses. Contrastingly so they exist as both/and - which highlight the need to bow before mystery.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I bring into question the theology of predestination I am occupied by John 3:16 - that Christ came to save the world, and then I am distracted by Ephesians 1:4-5 - that He chose us before the creation of the world and in love he predestined us to be his hons. As I muse over the sovereignty of God I am blinded by the truth of Proverbs 16 - that although I may have plans for my life, ultimately it is God that determines the steps. But what about the renouned story of Moses in Exodus 32? God had plans to destroy the people he had brought up out of Egypt but Moses interceded and pleaded with God to relent; God changed his mind and spared the lives of his people. See what I mean? Both/And.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the God that I serve. I do not understand Him yet I seek. I trust in his sovereignty yet I plead. I am curious yet I know when to be silent. Though Tag body spray will continue to pollute the hallways of high schools around the nation, and really old people will get their lisences renewed (this too is a mystery to me....) when they should have been revoked decades ago - the God of all creation will remain. He is sovereign and listens to our cries, He saves and relents. He is the one who was and is and is to come.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-33883062989103884882010-02-03T14:44:00.000-08:002010-02-03T15:55:07.852-08:00Snot Rocket Confessions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKgjfyBflfjILp8GLQmAZAjnd7ahArI-9QpegFvHjTBV6TstdLn_Z8Dr6Tx3Ztc_B1SkvL5S649K9xscHKl33-ZDGZTnY08sMkYhfC8Rnm6q9VIOobKaR9Llf5JXho7NYY9ITlYrA_fU/s1600-h/snotrocket800.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 256px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwKgjfyBflfjILp8GLQmAZAjnd7ahArI-9QpegFvHjTBV6TstdLn_Z8Dr6Tx3Ztc_B1SkvL5S649K9xscHKl33-ZDGZTnY08sMkYhfC8Rnm6q9VIOobKaR9Llf5JXho7NYY9ITlYrA_fU/s320/snotrocket800.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434169942299767266" /></a>All winter long <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">I've</span> been running outside. This wasn't my first choice mind you, for i did buy a treadmill in effort to stay far, far away from the bitter winds of Minnesota. However, I failed to keep in mind that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Craig's List</span> is <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">dodgy</span> and you can never be sure of the quality of things. My treadmill teased me in that he faithfully provided a relatively stable foundation and seamless rotating belt. Just when my confidence in my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Craig's List</span> purchase was beginning to gleam, reality came crushing down on me - literally. When I started to break a sweat on treadmill experience #4, the entire foundation cracked and the metal monster folded his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">sleazy</span> hands around my body and I was crushed under his merciless grip. In other words, the pile of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">dilapidated</span> shit collapsed on me. It now sits as a clothes rack in my bedroom. <div><br /></div><div>But running outdoors in the dead of winter isn't all bad. True, I'd rather be skipping along the historic 101 coastal highway like I was so fond of doing while I lived in California, but the crisp air and glittery falling flakes that dress the bare branches of oak have an endearing quality all their own. In addition to the postcard settings I run through, my body portrays its own works of art that demand a good laugh. Before the first mile passes, my eyelashes become strands of icy crystals and the once dry fluffy curls ontop of my head flatten and the combination of icy sweat and wet, heavy falling snow bombs transform into one giant matted dreadlock. My legs slowly turn from warm ivory sculptures flowing with toasty body heat to flaming red posts filled with winterized molasses. And the most attractive feature of all - the dripping snot faucet on my face, formally recognized as the nose. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've never attempted to shoot a snot rocket, farmer's blow or boogery bullet - that is, until last week. It was during mile 5 when my gloves were so covered with sweat and snot and my throat was coated with loogies (sorry to be so graphic, but this is the tragic reality of being a Minnesotan runner) that I gave in and made the decision to commence my first ever attempt at blowing a farmer's snotty rocket of boogery goo. With wavering confidence in my ability to blow successfully, I closed nostril #1 and with all full concentration turned the facuet to full blast.... I'll skip ahead and tell you that I failed miserably. I ran the next block with a string of yellow nastyness teathered to my nose, which then inevitabley wrapped its sticky fingers around my jacket and rosy cheeks. It was disgusting, but I had to do it.</div><div><br /></div><div>After laughing to myself I got to thinking. This snot rocket practice is a lot like confession. Stay with me here, I know my thought processes are as entangled and outrageous as a toddlers hair-do after an afternoon nap, but don't give up on me just yet. The fact of the matter is my nose was maxed out with ugliness and it was absolutely necessary to clean out so that I was liberated to once again, breathe with ease. This is not unlike the need to confess our sinful brokenness God, and to one another. There are countless references in scripture that encouragingly command that we confess and repent from every stumbling block that keeps us from Christ. I love the words of David in his 32'nd Psalm;</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"When I kept silent my bones wasted away"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>David is expressing that in our silence, when we refuse to give voice to the corrupt strongholds in our life, we literally grow sick; our bones waste away and we are left with a strength that has been sapped by the heat of summer. In our refusal to confess we remain in bondage to the deceitful grip of sin. Are you still with me? Just to solidify my awkward efforts at connecting the twisted dots I will highlight further truths that encourage confession and the redemption that comes from courageously exposing our trash.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"<i>But if they will confess their sins and the sins of their fathers - their treachery against me and their hostility toward me.... when their uncirmcumcised hearts are humbled and they pay for their sins, I will remember my convenant with Abraham..." ~ Leviticus 26:40-42</i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin... The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit and a contrite heart." ~ Psalm 51:2, 17</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed." ~ James 5:16</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"In the desert prepare the way for the LORD make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God." ~ Isaiah 40:3</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Over and over we see in scripture the life that comes from confessing our sins. I know that this sacred act of worship is not an easy task. To be certain it will be painful, but is it not worth the temporary pain when wholeness is its reward? Additionally it will be awkward, clumsy, horribly uncomfortable and, above all, it will require every ounce of bravery and courage; for when we dare to expose our brokeness we are ultimately risking the love and acceptance our friends and loved ones (not of Christ however, let the reader understand with full comprehension, that only Christ's love is unfailing). You will, I can assure you, fail to blow a perfect stream of snotty quagulation the first time you confess. But it is so much better to get it out and create a space to breathe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let us cling to the unfailing hope of the Spirit-filled words of scripture and boldly practice catapulting loogies of mass destruction and rid ourselves of the sins that suffocate in order that we may make straight a highway for our God.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us form all unrighteousness." ~ 1 John 1:9</i></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-14323909664818766492010-02-03T07:59:00.001-08:002010-02-03T07:59:43.171-08:0026.2<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; color: rgb(85, 85, 85); ">Blisters, Sweat, Blood, Chaffing (awkward), Tendonitis, Shot blocks, More sweat and blood..... Gotta love the life of a runner. Dear Twin Cities Marathon, it will be rad pounding your paved paths once again! Mark your calendars friends - Sunday, October 3 is race day!!!!</span>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-522900290283611982010-01-29T11:29:00.000-08:002010-01-30T16:10:07.112-08:00Itchy tu-tu's and a quiet Spirit<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry."</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><i> </i></span><i>~ James 1:19</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">For whatever reason I've been bombarded with the temptation to believe that I need to be more exciting and contagiously extroverted. By nature I am a listener, an internal processor and a molasses style observer to this tilt-a-whirl called life; but I'm thinking of undressing myself from these traits with the same immediacy that I tear off my running gear after a 10 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">mile'er</span> in late August. The bright pink fluffy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tu</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tu</span> of charming wit is far more appealing that my torn blue jeans of simplicity - and that sexy scarlet lipstick of whimsical story-telling is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">intoxicatingly</span> entertaining compared to the matte <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">chapstick</span> of deep and intimate conversations. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A couple days ago I had a job interview and had asked some of my closest friends to be in prayer for the interview. Their gorgeous responses didn't touch me right away, rather it took a couple of hours before I recognized the weight of truth behind each of their words and how, without any amount of consiousness, they spoke directly into my aforementioned temptation. Each of these amazing life-long companions of mine encouraged me with the counsel: "Be your beautiful self!" I don't need to be more exciting to win the love of others, so where did this outrageous temptation to blabber party confetti every time I open my mouth?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">James tells us that we ought to be slow to speak. I just finished listening to a podcast by Pastor Francis Chan; pastor of Conerstone Church in Simi Valley, CA; that encompasses this rhythm of patient proclamations. The sermon was equally convicting and encouraging. To what level of arrogance to I come before the throneroom of God and spout off my needs like an obnoxious sprinkler drowning the sound of the gentle breeze? Chan poignantly highlights the fact that in heaven there is no space, no need for the repetitious palaver we parade around in here on earth. The only words that echoe off the emerald rainbow encircling the throne of the Lamb are as simple as this:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"<i>Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty, who was, and is, and is to come."</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>~ Revelation 4:8</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Day and night John tells us, these words from the four living creatures continuously give glory to Him who sits upon the throne. Over and over and over. No styrophome worship, just authentic reverance. If God does not care for bellowing lists of entertainment then why do I allow myself to think I need to alert others of my presence by flapping my jaws? Can I dare to believe that I am enough in my quiet, "slow to speak" ways? After all, tu-tu's are itchy and red lipstick ends up on your teeth. I'll keep my blue jeans and dwell in the encouragement of my friends to be my beautiful self while charging the throneroom of grace with silence.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2901364905684485848.post-45636175285894707432010-01-15T15:54:00.000-08:002010-01-18T10:22:01.644-08:00Hey Sister Soul Sister<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFUEnGyWUCUsvk0eOQywvIsmvM6FeVl7Ah2sthbL4gsebX0QyvcKl1hgufvV2lQm4rvhVeY3LnlHk7SNYiwFNvCvwil5yvNbaqkYI_XwLN6MwbknwJA2Q1wkDavU8IRbj9kYbrgOyUWM/s1600-h/BCM_0204.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFUEnGyWUCUsvk0eOQywvIsmvM6FeVl7Ah2sthbL4gsebX0QyvcKl1hgufvV2lQm4rvhVeY3LnlHk7SNYiwFNvCvwil5yvNbaqkYI_XwLN6MwbknwJA2Q1wkDavU8IRbj9kYbrgOyUWM/s320/BCM_0204.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427131089679922834" /></a>At 5:30 this morning I hustled out to my car, hot mug of coffee in hand and a soul filled with anticipation to spend the day with the sisters at St. Benedict Monastery. As usual I was crunched for time, but can you blame me? I mean, who really likes to hear the piercing screams of a 4:15 a.m. wake up call? When your REM is rudely interrupted by the blaring honk of the clock, five minutes of snooze are as sweet as a Ben & Jerry's ice cream <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">sundae</span> piled with heath, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">butterfinger</span> and smothered in peanut butter. But those sinful snoozes wreaked havoc on my not so tranquil morning drive. I hardly made it out of the alley before the boiling boldness of Costa Rica's finest blend of coffee beans decided to jump ship and cannon ball all over my pants. <div><br /></div><div>"F*ck dudesie." slipped from my lips...." </div><div>"Damn it I forgot I gave up swearing." bashfully trailed behind like Linus' tattered blanket. What a disheveled way to commence a day of rest at a Benedictine monastery. But my enthusiasm refused to be curbed by such minor <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">inconveniences</span>. Who needs a cup of perfectly brewed, well balanced coffee at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pre</span>-dawn anyway?</div><div><br /></div><div>One hour and twenty minutes later I found myself in St. Joseph. The arms of dawn hadn't even stretched themselves yet, the town remain in peaceful dreams. To the right I could faintly make out the black iron gates of St. Benedict's Monastery, they were unlocked and opened wide to welcome in weary pilgrims. I was a pilgrim, but not your traditional pilgrim. Rather than <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">trekking</span> hundreds of miles for months over dusty terrain on my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bare feet</span>, I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">cozied</span> in a Mazda traveling 70 mph for a lousy 80 minutes (let the reader note the magnitude of my distress and recall that I was, in fact, up before dawn AND without coffee... ). Nonetheless, I was a pilgrim.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was to meet Sister Cecelia at the front doors of the Gathering Place at 6:50 a.m. and from there we <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">were t</span>o attend morning prayer together at the Oratory. Over the phone Sister Cecelia's voiced dripped with gentle beads of hospitality, so it surprised me none at all to see her small shadow framed by the towering doorway to the Gathering Place. I smiled to myself as she watched me walk to greet her... this was going to be a great day.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This must be Ms. Brianna.", her voice was like that of a thousand heavenly saints. "Good morning Sister Cecelia. It's lovely to meet you." I whispered in response. Sister Cecelia stood at most, to my shoulders and looked up at me with bright smiling eyes. "We are so glad that you are here. Are you ready for prayer?"... Sister you have no idea...</div><div><br /></div><div>We walked in silence to the Oratory to celebrate the Liturgy of the Hours. I think I was expecting to see a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">barrages</span> of black veils and turtlenecks (otherwise known as habits) because I was a little taken a back to see but a single sister adorned in the traditional habit. But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">her habit</span> wasn't even black, it was all white. Sister Cecelia led me to the center of the pews and there we sat with dozens of faithful saints in complete silence. Each of the ladies looked identical. Short in stature, simple gray hair, no make-up, long skirts or slacks and beautifully aged hands worn by years of devoted service. Just then I was hit by a comical reality. What must I have looked like bouncing into this community? I towered over each of the sisters by a good six inches with my blue jeans, vibrant magenta shirt, sparkly flowered scarf and long blond curls. Why were the words; "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment such as braided hair and gold jewelry..." blinking like a gaudy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">fluorescent</span> light outside a grungy tavern? <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Maybe</span> I should have opted for a pony tail? </div><div><br /></div><div>Morning prayer <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">quietly</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ignited</span> at 7:00 a.m. by the soft tune of a gong. It was a radiantly melodious display of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">humility</span>, contrition and praise. In unison we sang through four Old Testament psalms and communally recited the Lord's Prayer. I aped the motions of Sister Cecelia in the traditional Catholic gestures I was so ignorant of. </div><div><br /></div><div>After prayer we went to breakfast. What a treat! Just like at camp you grabbed a plastic tray, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">utensils</span> and eased your way down the line of tasty choices. I laughed when I saw Fruity Pebbles and Corn Pops... nuns eat Corn Pops? I settled for oatmeal and a banana and, of course, a cup of coffee. All the while Sister Cecelia was describing each and every option I could choose from in great detail, encouraging me to take as much as my heart desired. Multiple times she asked me whether or not I wanted anything on my oatmeal. The first time I passed her offer, but the second time I said that I noticed there was a bowl of peanut butter and maybe I'd like some of that. She winked and we walked back up to the line for some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">pb</span>. I figured I ought to expose my garbage and confess my ridiculous addition to peanut butter. She laughed and thought it was the craziest thing to put <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">pb</span> on your oatmeal. I'll save telling her of my other addictions, namely gum, for later. </div><div><br /></div><div>Breakfast was filled with conversation, the exchanging of stories and an outlandish amount of joyful introductions. I met dozens of sisters (all who looked the same - so remembering names was completely out of the question) and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">listened</span> adoringly at the way Sister Cecelia introduced me. "This is Brianna. She does photography and youth ministry and lived in California and now she is studying Theology and English at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Bethel</span> and wanted to join us for the day to see what we're all about. But when I talked with her on the phone and asked her if she wanted to visit for a day, a week or a month - she said all of those, but I'll start with just a day!". Yes, every person I met I soaked in the sweet disclaimer to my attendance. Sister Cecelia was as thrilled to have my company as I was to have hers.</div><div><br /></div><div>We made our way through multiple clusters of Sisters and as they each slowly scattered from breakfast on to their morning services, we stopped at the last remaining group and shared in conversation for quite some time. This was my favorite group of ladies. They were spunky and eager to talk of adventures. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sister Cecelia introduced me to another Sister, "Brianna this is Sister so and so... (Oy, the dauting task of recalling names!)... She is recovering from a broken <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">ankle</span> that she got when she was in Big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Sur</span>." </div><div><br /></div><div>"That was God's way of knocking you on your ass!" Laughed another sister sitting across from me. The table exploded into laughter while I sat there with a dropped jaw and stunned ears. "Sisters swear?!!? Rad!" This made me feel so much better for the f-bomb I dropped in the car earlier!</div><div><br /></div><div>After breakfast Sister Cecelia slipped yet another surprising nugget of a sister's un-characteristic routines by inviting me to hit up a 20-minute workout at the monastery's gym. This was an inside look I wasn't about to ignore so I grabbed the invitation with both hands and walked up the cloistered staircase with Sister to the tiny room that held 4 dodgey workout machines. Sister Cecelia picked up her book and fell into her familiar 20-minute routine on the stationary bike while I kicked off my heels and started up the treadmill. There we were. Sister Cecelia and I hanging out in the monastery workout facility - I defied the sketchy belt that flopped all over the treadmill while Sister grooved her legs to the rhythm of silence. Never would I have anticipated working out with a 70-something Sister!</div><div><br /></div><div>Warming up our core body temp led us into a grand tour of the entire monastery. Sister Cecelia transformed into an over-enthused kindegartner proudly explaining their show and tell object in exaggerated detail. Every painting or work of art we passed by I was given the run-down of who created it, when they created it and how they created it. With every work of art Sister looked at it with gracious attentiveness that I was unable to resist the force of the intentionality by which she studied. This impecably focused tour actually spread through the remainder of the day. I was shown every room of the monastery, the spirituality center, the hermitages and the guest house. What captivated me the very most was the rich hospitality I saw in Sister Cecelia and every other tender spirit we encountered. The moment I entered the open gates of the monastery I knew that hospiatlity was going to be a prominant characteristic, I just never thought it would be so radiant, so contagious and so deeply authentic. It was truly lovely.</div><div><br /></div><div>3:00 p.m came far too quickly and it was time for me to leave. The day completed itself with a tour of the guest house and it was there, with Sister Cecelia and Sister Rita, that I decided I had to re-visit, and not just for another afternoon, but for an overnight experience. Sister Cecelia wants to show me the artisan studio, the college's art department and lastly; because she knows how dearly I love writing and everything English, she wants to introduce me to yet another sister; Sister Mara Faulkner who apparently teaches in the English Department.... I told you the hospitality was amazing! My next visit will include more solitude and silence as well as a deeper look into the pillar by which St. Benedict's Monastery stands - Prayer/Community/Service. </div>Brianna Colleen Milletthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04782043784494194348noreply@blogger.com1