walking through a field of grain
By Karla Pahel
In the fields of blueberries and wheat
“Jesus was going through a field of grain on the Sabbath. His disciples were hungry and began to pick the heads of rain and eat them.” Mt 12: 1-8
In the lowbush blueberry field
at the end of season
with my 21 year old autistic daughter and her friend
who when reaching for berries,
I noticed her scars on her arm
knife marks
I wonder who would be the disciples in this field with Christ today?
And just as Neptune’s clouds are disappearing
I can see –
a woman from our parish just beyond the row of rabbit eye
who is having a mental breakdown, has started Prozac- from the priest abuse
And at the end of the row of northern high bush, I see with her bucket,
the grandmother who was not allowed to be a Eucharistic minister because she is divorced.
In rows of native species growing wild I see the transgender, gay, lesbian
who work in the college coffee shop, talking of inclusive communities,
not feeling accepted in this church,
all these harvesters who pick and eat, with Christ in this field,
caring for the spirit, weaving together, and braiding.
This is my child with whom I am well pleased
“Jesus led them up a high mountain by themselves. And he was transfigured before them, his face shone like the sun and his clothes became white as light.” Mt.17:1-9
“When I look at the sky, I see it entirely differently!” my 22-year-old says
after skydiving through the clouds above the Florida Keys,
who thought, landing on the ground would bring it all to an end,
But instead, it stayed- this new sight, this new vision of the sky...
Sr Mary Joe is like this sky to me- as if she was a sky I had seen while skydiving
as she rides her bicycle to my house from St Agnes Hospital,
talking of the Grist Mill trail that is now open, the tomatoes in Mike Clark’s garden
and all the concrete in Irvington creating a perfect hot house to grow and garden.
and how Catholic means many voices of ideas
as we drink coffee and eat peach cake on my porch....
I see the Indian woman pulled over on the side of the road, praying
over a dead fawn, as a sky I am skydiving through....
And Nancy Curreri, the Eucharistic minister,
who when I stretched out my hands to receive communion
grabbed me and hugged me with one arm, while holding the Chalice with the other,
telling me, “I’m so sorry to hear about your father”.
This was the moment I returned to the Church.
The moment I saw her as a sky I had seen skydiving.
Transfigured in a way I have never seen before,
seeing women with God’s voice saying,
“This is my child with whom I am well pleased.”
“So dearly beloved had you become to us.” 1 Thes 2:8
The breeze of the hurricane Idalia
heading to Florida,
I can feel on my porch in Baltimore
as my 21 year old autistic daughter asked my mother
“Do you have to be trained to give out communion?”
My mother who is making the 9 Day Novena to Our Lady of Mt Carmel
with the nuns from Inda who moved into the house at the corner of my street-
who sometimes we see out gardening-
tells my daughter that the priest from St Augustine’s
told her the requirements of being a Eucharistic minister
and my mother had failed.
You could not be divorced to give communion.
The nuns from India on my corner are growing gladiolus, sword lilies.
My autistic daughter and I have zinnias high up to our waist
along the fence, zinnias and dahlias for the little saints alters at St. Joseph Monastery.
We have a stray cat from the monastery that Sr Georgia was feeding on the back porch of the rectory
along with all the stray cats of Irvington who one cold morning before the 1st frost
after the 8:00 morning mass, gave us the calico, fearing it would not survive the winter
After my best friend, who I attended St Agnes and Mt De Sales Academy with, died of a drug overdose,
I started a writing group. We have become the Martha, Mary , and Lazarus house of support.
I hold space in the UMBC coffeeshop for people to write, and tell their stories.
On Mondays the Adult Autism Group joins us bringing lyrics of Abba songs and George Washinton
quotes as prompts, hand flapping and making the sound of water dripping from a faucet,
writing their one-word narratives, alongside of award-winning poets, Iowa Writers Workshop graduates,
retired professors.
The clarinetist for the Baltimore symphony sits in her car, listening to the last of the rain sonata
watching all of us enter this space-
as if we were all notes in this sonata, the Presbyterian pastor’s daughter says.
The woman from Christian Temple brings Mark Twain quotes, the Lutheran men breakfasts group brings
Wendel Berry,
The methodist church comes bringing Mary Oliver and many young gay, lesbian and trans individuals
share stories of feeling hidden and silenced.
And Neta, a PHD engineer student writes of being in confession with a catholic priest who was more
concerned with her physical relationship with her boyfriend then with her feelings of guilt in the
involvement of her working for the Trump Administration Zero Tolerance border policy in 2018,
where 2,300 children were separated from their parents.
I still carry the black catholic pin with St Paul of the Cross symbol on it- in my purse-
that Fr Mike gave me to carry the Eucharist to my grandmother-
My grandmother who took me on the monastery’s Bus Trip to Atlantic City when I turned 21,
with Mable sitting next to us, who years later, I would find sitting in her car, in the parking lot before 4
o’clock mass asking me to help her turn off her car.
Yes I am divorced twice. And Yes I give communion to everyone
since “so dearly beloved they have become to me.”
“Some women from our group however have astounded us.” Lk 24: 22
She knows the Beech trees by its buds and bark- almost copper until they open
And the 3 lobed leaves of the sassafras trees.
With her flashlight, she is “candling the egg” in the nest- to see the embryo and how its developing
She is cutting all the pine branches and holly to make advent wreaths in the church hall
She is finding a donkey and collecting costumes to dress as shepherds and angels in the living nativity.
She is carrying homemade soup to the house on the corner where the man was murdered two Christmas
Eve’s ago during our Christmas pageant.
She is showing me in one of the confessionals is where the coffee pot and hospitality items are stored.
She is bringing the Mardi grass beads to the Knights of the Columbus pancake dinner when no one
wanted to celebrate with me.
She dips her pen into the tiny jar of ink, writing in copperplate alphabet.
She tells me the bridal veil outside my daughter’s window is full of white stars and snow.
She tells me there is nothing wrong with my autistic daughter- that “she just has a mind of her own”.
She tells me always to “look at that Blessed Mother Blue sky!”
When she rinses off the strawberries in her kitchen sink, she is praying for all the ones who picked them.
Keys of the Kingdom
“I will give you the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven..” Mt 16:19
“I will place the key of the house of David on Eliakim’s shoulder, when he opens, no one shall shut.” IS 22:22
His beard is a beard of keys- house keys, skeleton keys, post office box keys,
-the garden statue outside of Paper Moon diner in Baltimore-
with chainmail made of matchbox cars, pennies, bottle caps...
When I see the beard of keys, I wonder of the key of David placed on Eliakim’s shoulder
And the keys to the kingdom of heaven given to Peter
And how we are all in possession of such keys-
Keys that can unlock ourselves-
to be open, to the work
we are becoming
Our symbols, verses, images, lines,
that our Maker is crafting us into-
this very moment
To be open to unlock ourselves
to this poetically Divine work
we are
Artist Statement
In my poetry, I hoped to show why women and youth feel exiled from the Church, and to show those who are excluded. I hoped to show communities where the Holy Spirit is at work. I hoped to show women and minority as Beloved.
About the Artist
I'm a single mother of three children. I am full time care giver to my 21 autistic daughter. I have my BA in Creative Writing. My work has appeared in THe Baltimore Sun, Delaware Today Magazine, Beach Life Magazine, Garrison Keillor's A Praire Home Companion-First Person. I am a parishioner of St Joseph Monastery. I am founder of Free Writes and Coffee a writing community in Catonsville with over 250 members.