Most of the time people can readily say what is up and what is down. I know when I’m looking above me, or below me. Except for one marvelous night at the University of Notre Dame.
Karen and I went to the university in South Bend, Indiana, for a week of study, prayer and reflection. We also looked forward to a brief vacation of living in a student dormitory, eating meals with giant football players, and attempting to recall what collegiate life had been like.
This opportunity came, many years ago, when we were deeply involved in spiritual direction. Back then, the University of Notre Dame offered multiple courses relating to this ministry. Classes were held during four, independent weeks each summer. Karen and I were not able to allocate our time for an entire series, but we could dedicate a week to participate in classes we thought we would enjoy; sometimes for the same subject, but usually different ones offered during the three summers we spent in South Bend.
This college town in northern Indiana can become very warm in July for buildings without air-conditioning. A midwestern dormitory room is very stifling in the evening when you really would like to be able to fall asleep. That is why, one evening, I went in search of a cool place to sit before another fruitless attempt to sleep indoors.
I found a bench below a canopy of what might have been poplar trees. I’m not a horticulturist, so I’m not sure of the species, but I do vividly recall the small, rounded leaves above me. Or were they below me?!
I lay peacefully on the bench. There were ornamental light-poles surrounding the miniature plaza I had found. Their illumination reflected on the leaves, turning them into gold coins against a black, velvet background. However, in my reclined position, half on my side and half on my back pressed against the bench, I was unsure if I saw these leaves suspended above me or floating on a quiet pond beneath me. I felt the breeze and, in magnificent comfort, marveled at the sight before my open eyes. It did not matter whether I was really looking toward the darkened heavens or deeply into a pool over which I floated. I’m not sure how long I rested there, not wanting to return to earth and a stuffy, dormitory enclosure. I was mesmerized by the brilliant luster of the coins I beheld. Finally, with deep sighs, I returned to the dorm before midnight, when its doors would be locked for the evening. On the other hand, perhaps there would have been an advantage having a valid reason to remain outside with God’s glory surrounding me.
Fortunately, this was not the only time I had a moving experience at the school dedicated to “Our Lady.”
There was the night of the electrical storm. There are few events more exciting, more awesome, than experiencing a lightening attack in a northern climate in midsummer, especially at night. The electrical power on campus had gone off, because of the fury of the storm, but the energy of the cosmos remained in full display outside our windows facing the golden dome of Notre Dame. It was impossible to count the number of flashes, or to determine the seconds between each illumination and the all-encompassing thunderous vibrations which attacked our ears and body simultaneously. Heavenly searchlights strobed the campus buildings and landscape outside our protective windowpanes. I do not recall how long the spectacle continued, nor how much damage resulted from the wind and downpours adding to the wonders of the storm. The next morning, on the way to the opening prayer service which began each day, there were numerous broken branches covering the walkways. I do not recall the results, but the wondrous recollections of the university’s golden dome bathed in heavenly light is not easily forgotten.
Or course, I also have fond memories of other events occurring at Notre Dame that are not part of the awesome nature of the divine. There are small, peaceful recollections. They include minutes for prayer in the grotto dedicated to, and modeled after, Our Lady of Lourdes in France. I’ve never visited the real one, but the Notre Dame version offered a quiet place for meditation.
Another quiet place was located along the trails high above the lake on the edge of the campus. After all, the complete name of the university is Notre Dame du Lac, so, it would be inappropriate for there not to be a lake. The university, of course, has two: St Joseph’s and St Mary’s. The trail around St Joseph’s passes the Seminary, which offers its own magnificent views of the campus, and an opportunity to visit the ducks which inhabit it.
I also remember Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer gatherings in various chapels and in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart with its huge, standing fans that blew warm air across the congregation, who would have preferred a cooler breeze but had to survive with what was available. A better way to attempt to be cool was the result of discovering the ice cream store hidden in the basement of one of the academic halls on the campus. The afternoon was not complete without having a cone to lick.
The events I remember from our visits to the University of Notre Dame are now aggregated within a mosaic of beautiful pieces. One of the major images I still hold somewhere in my memory is that of the “woman at the well” who sits there, listening to the Jesus across from her. I do not recall to which of the three summers this, or other images, are assigned, but it does not matter. Touchdown Jesus, who guards one exterior wall of the Hesburgh Library, can be seen and remembered every year. The same enduring recollection occurs with Moses, who stands in front of the Library, with unraised arm and finger indicating that those he leads remain “number one,” even if his toes are rubbed to a golden shine by each passing student – unless some wag has applied pink nail polish to them.
My personal, football-related event occurred one summer when I had time to walk to the Stadium and visit the office of Lou Holtz, the then-current coach. Lou and I had been fraternity brothers at Kent State. He was a magnificent comedian even back then; his additional wit and wisdom were honed over the intervening years. We had not seen each other since graduation, except for a few moments after a Texas-Arkansas game held in Houston. When I asked his secretary whether he was in and available, she replied that “coach” is never seen without an appointment, which she would be happy to make for me. Since she admitted Lou was, indeed, in his office, I asked her if she might inform him of my presence. She finally agreed and, a few moments later, returned with a surprised response that Lou would come out to meet me. My fraternity brother and I spent a very happy half-hour reminiscing about our days at KSU. When I finally left, his secretary still had a puzzled expression.
It’s also puzzling to me just how vivid the memories are of those visits to Notre Dame more than thirty years ago. On the other hand, I still have the blue, lightweight jacket I bought back then in the campus store. I’m reluctant, at times, to wear it, since I’m not really a graduate of Notre Dame. However, the three summers, when I was enrolled in classes there, do link me with the school more than some “streetcar” alumni who root for the Irish, but have never been to the campus. At least I ate and slept there. At the same time, like those other extended-alumni, I may not recall what I learned there.
I do not remember what lectures I attended, except for one instance involving a week-long course on the Enneagram, a study of personality types based upon nine different categories associated with ingrained behaviors. At the time, both Karen and I were deeply involved with learning more about ourselves and the ways we interact with other people. The week-long course was offered by “founders” of the technique. Of the nine types, I was a “five” – one with the behavior pattern of an intellectual, solitude-desiring, observer. My symbolic animal was the owl!
I remember that at the end of the week, the members of the class were to gather into nine groups reflective of their common behavior pattern. The half dozen or so of us who had self-identified as being a “five,” gathered on the lawn outside the Library. And there we sat. We quietly looked at one another, not saying a word. Until I finally commented to the effect, “Well, which half of us wants to sit here looking at the other half while they talk. That would show which of us are really ‘fives!’” We all laughed and began our discussion.
Perhaps this is why that night in South Bend, I so greatly enjoyed looking at golden coins suspended against the black, velvet curtain above me as well as those floating on the inky pool beneath me. It’s ok for a “five” to look both up and down, to keep observing the details – in all directions.