I am now convinced of the truth that one can find almost anything on the internet. I woke up this morning with a chant from a wisdom school in my head. I had learned and sung it first about ten years ago and then renewed my preference for it last month in Tucson. This morning, however, I could only bring back two of the three lines! I thought that if I waited and hummed it every once in awhile it would all come back. (That is a technique that is often successful.) After two hours of wakefulness, I only had one word of the short third, so I gave up and typed the first two lines into my Google search with a prompt of “third line…?” and presto! it appeared – not only the line but the whole chant with music and (dangerously) several different third line translations! To my relief, the one I wanted was there: Cor meum dabo. (It just now took me three tries to override the corrections of my computer which really wants to speak English instead of Latin!)
Much of my love of Latin came from respect for my high school teacher, Sister Thomas Aquinas, and the happy memories of the eight of us who persevered through four years of the subject because of her as well as for the subject, the basis for my love of language in general. But I digress…
Here is what I found: Ego sum pauper. Nihil habeo. Cor meum dabo. I am poor. I have nothing. I give my heart.
I’m thinking of making that my everyday morning offering – sung, of course. In Latin definitely. The magic of music can make a simple statement so much more, even when it is enough in itself. (Go to “Ego sum pauper” on the internet to hear the tune – and don’t bother with the amazing number of different things that pop up! Just trust the man who is conducting a choir or (hopefully) the second option that is just a flute in a kind of “follow the bouncing ball” without the ball.) If you need the phonetics to be able to sing it, let me know. I’m happy to oblige.
There’s hope for all of us! I was just reading a synopsis of St. Vincent de Paul’s life (1580 – 1660), one of the most well known saints of Christianity for his care for the poor. Vincent, the account says, “had become a priest with little more ambition than to have a comfortable life,” but had been changed by the deathbed confession of a dying servant that “opened his eyes to the crying spiritual needs of the peasantry in France.” There’s lots of evidence of his good works, commonly known, but it was a small paragraph toward the end of the account that gave me pause – and actually made me smile.
The name Jeanne Jugan did not strike a chord of recognition in me, nor did the title Mother Marie of the Cross (Mere Marie de la Croix). I have, however, known since early adulthood of the work of The Little Sisters of the Poor, who had an established house not more than a few miles from my own Motherhouse outside of Albany, New York where I lived. We speak sometimes of “the hidden life” of Jesus – the years during his youth and young adulthood about which we have little or no information. It seems that St. Jeanne, as well as the Sisters who have come after her, lived most of her life in that manner while doing extraordinary work for the elderly poor. (see Saint of the Day at 
As one who is not overly enamored of the workings of internet technology, I must admit that I appreciate my findings more and more when I go surfing in the morning. Today I typed in the word generosity and found a lovely short paragraph from the University of Notre Dame that expresses what I think is inherent in all the lectionary readings for this date, celebrating the feast of St. Lawrence.
Today we note an interesting juxtaposition of feast days in the Roman Catholic Church. While yesterday we celebrated St. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order of priests (the Society of Jesus), today we note the founder of the Redemptorists (The Congregation of the Holy Redeemer), St. Alphonsus Ligouri. Taken together, these two religious orders have influenced the Church for over 5 and 3 centuries respectively in similar if not matching ways. The Jesuits are known, as we saw yesterday, for their leadership in education and the study of Scripture as the basis for theological research and deepening in the spiritual life. Today we hear of Alphonsus, himself a brilliant scholar who received a doctorate in both canon and civil law by acclamation at the age of 16 (!) who gave up the practice of law for apostolic activity. He was ordained a priest and concentrated his pastoral efforts on popular parish missions, hearing confessions, and forming Christian groups. (
As I read the gospel acclamation for this morning (the “Alleluia verse”) which said, “The Lord sent me to bring glad tidings to the poor and to proclaim liberty to captives” (LK 4:18), a question passed through my mind. If you were the one being sent by the Lord, I heard, what would be your message to the poor and the captives? In the following of Jesus, that is perhaps a great question for us. How do I – how do you – see the “good news” of God? What glad tidings do we have to share with the world, particularly for the benefit of those most in need?
At this mid-point in the season of Advent, we are reminded by Psalm 146 of the enormity God’s power to heal our ills and, if we are willing, our potential for participation in healing the world. I am not speaking here of the “miracles of modern medicine” – which are, of course, extraordinary. The psalm focuses on deeper issues in our lives and includes political and social ills that need healing as well. One translation expresses it as follows.
Two things about St. Vincent de Paul’s life (1580-1660) were surprising to me as I read his brief biography at 