Power is in a Mother’s Prayers.
Saint Augustine and the man he would become, was the direct result of his mother’s persistent and multiplied prayers. Monica was vigilant in advocating for her son through daily prayers.
Never give up. As a youth, Augustine was influenced by the rhetoric and cults of the day. His mother, much concerned, sought audience with God. He gave her audience. Her son converted.
A Golden Silence
2014 Vina Monastery writings
A Golden Silence is a series of contemplative writings that are more like serious spiritual reflections, prayers and praises to God. I wrote these during weekly visits to Abbey of New Clairvaux in Vina, California. I share two here that are back to back in the original writing.
Benefits from Silent Time with God
Find a quiet place, away from distractions. Focus on God. Talk to Him. Ask Him to show you things about yourself. Enjoy the quietness. Listen to the peacefulness. Listen for the voice of God. Notice your thoughts. Are they in the form of a pattern? What is inside your heart? Is there a peacefulness, or not? Pray verses and songs. Read Psalms and scripture passages. Embrace the thoughts that have a sense of God in them. Give the painful thoughts to God. Let go of the injuries by sending them God-ward. Praise and give thanks to God for His mercy, love, and grace. Ask for greater faith. Trust God for it all.
Take time to get alone with God.
Her eyes alight in awe as she gazes into the globe. It is magical, like a winter snow scene in Toyland. The coordinated moving parts of each tiny figure, delight her. The train, as it moves in a figure eight, blows it whistle and chugs its pattern. She follows its movement as she takes it all in: the falling snow, the street lights, the horse and carriage, a church with carolers in muffs, top hats, scarves and waist-coats and singing Christmas cheer. The scene is from a different era and it is enchanting. Her parents, watching her, smile with matching delight, transfixed with the beauty of the moment as they watch the child’s wonderment. The moment is surreal, precious, one to be remembered and cherished.
One could cry.
The child remains transfixed by the mesmerizing scene. Her childish thoughts take her to that place inside the glass sphere where all is peaceful and quaint. Like entering a Thomas Kinkade painting, she wishes she could step into its scene to play in the snow, sing carols with the carolers, sit in the white-steepled church, stroke the horse’s mane, look up at the street lamps, and feel snowflakes dampen her face. The girl’s long sandy-colored hair falls forward in gentle wisps, resting on the curved glass as she remains still. Her winter nightwear is cozy, warm, soft to the touch. It is evening now and bedtime for her, but she can’t bring herself to leave the spot where her feet are anchored; not now, not with the magic in the globe calling to her, beckoning her into its silent joy.