8: Actions Speak Louder Than Words

8

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

Letters to Ascended Master

St. Padre Pio,

Sunday, August 7, 2011

5:35 A. M.

Dear Padre,

          Yesterday Penny and I attended our monthly Spiritual Discourse class in Washago, which is just north of Orillia. We usually attend these classes in Orillia, but a member of our group wanted to hold a potluck lunch after our class at her place by the river in Washago, so we decided to hold the class there also yesterday, and it was a beautiful day.

          We didn’t know what we were going to bring for potluck lunch. Penny thought of making a Wisconsin Strawberry Pie (she had just made one for my birthday), but she opted for a big bowl of potato salad instead, enough for a dozen people; and I decided to make Italian Bruschetta for an appetizer because I had picked up a basket of fresh field tomatoes at Johnson’s Market in Midland, and I sliced up enough French baguette so everyone could have at least two pieces of Bruschetta.

          Penny made her potato salad the night before, and I made the Bruschetta early Saturday morning because I had to toast the slices of baguette.

          We held our class outdoors in the back yard overlooking the river with the occasional pontoon boat and canoe floating up or down the river, and it was one of the best classes we’ve ever had. There were the seven regular members in our class, plus one guest from southern Ontario who was a friend of the lady hosting the potluck (she had been invited to stay the weekend), and there was plenty of discussion on the Spiritual Discourse.

          After the class we served ourselves the potluck buffet. There was no main entrée, because no one had brought one (the hostess’s contribution to the potluck was a very small chocolate cake), one lady brought a small pasta salad, another lady with a giving heart brought a specially prepared rice dish and plate of veggies and dip (she’s on a strict diet for health reasons and just wanted to make sure she would have something she could eat), Penny had potato salad, I added my Bruschetta, and the hostess’s husband went out and bought some fresh corn while we were doing our class and his wife steamed half a dozen cut in half immediately after class, another lady brought a small bowl of fruit salad made of chunks of watermelon and a few blueberries and fewer strawberries, and the last member of the class, who is a newcomer to the teaching, didn’t bring anything; and there was water, tea, and coffee for beverages. That was it.

          Padre, I don’t know how to broach this subject without pushing some buttons (which I think deserve to be pushed), but I have to because it speaks to the nature of love—or, more precisely, to the paucity of love.

If you remember in my last letter (“What Does Love Look Like?”) I quoted the Monks of New Skete who said, “love looks like generosity,” but generosity is not a virtue that Penny and I have witnessed very often since we moved to Georgian Bay. In fact, it is so well hidden that I don’t think people would recognize it if they saw it; or, rather, to be perfectly honest, they would be shocked by it—as Penny and I witnessed when we held a potluck harvest turkey dinner at our house for the members of our spiritual community the first year we moved here. They couldn’t believe their eyes.

This quality about people that we have witnessed more often than we would care to admit—I don’t know what to call it, perhaps thrift, cheapness, parsimony of spirit—never ceases to astonish us. What would it have taken to barbeque a few hot dogs as a main entrée for our potluck lunch after class? The cost would’ve been minimal, and it was a great day for a barbeque by the river. Even boiled hot dogs. Or lasagna as a main entrée would have gone a long way to satisfying the guests. I’ve picked up lasagnas on sale for Penny and myself for well under ten dollars, and one would have been enough to feed our whole class. That wouldn’t have been asking too much, would it?

As Penny said, the host has an obligation; but that doesn’t seem to apply for some people. Another time we attended a potluck lunch at another member of our spiritual community’s house, also in Washago on the same river before she relocated to southern Ontario after her husband died, and she had a small package of twelve tiny stuffed pastry appetizers for her contribution to the potluck lunch. Thank goodness some members brought enough for everybody. Penny brought a pot full of homemade cabbage rolls, but the hostess didn’t want to turn on the oven to heat them up because it was going to use up too much electricity and Penny had to heat them in a frying pan. And yet, our spiritual path is supposed to be about love!

“Love spends itself willingly for others, be it with time, attention, money, or simply concern,” said the Monks of New Skete—which reminds me of the little incident of how you showed your love one day when you mentioned to your doctor friend (Dr. Mario De Giacomo) that you were fond of spaghetti ala napoletana the way your mother made it and it had been years since you had it last, and out of his great love for you your doctor friend had a lady prepare you a nice big plate and he brought it to you the next day; but as much as you wanted to eat it, you asked your doctor friend to give it to one of the poor peasants who would enjoy the meal much more than you.

Padre, your little sacrifice of the simple plate of one of your favorite dishes speaks to the generosity of your soul, and for my money it was an act of pure grace. That’s what love is supposed to look like!

I don’t want to say any more about the paucity of love that Penny and I have witnessed down here, especially in our own spiritual community (an irony difficult to support because it begs judgment), except for one little point that Penny made at our class. “Love comes from the heart, not the mouth,” she said.

 Indeed, actions speak louder than words!

I remain,

Your faithful companion,

Orest