The Lament of the Lonely Cornflake

Well, in the intrest of proving that I can be creative, I figured I'd go back a few years into the vault. Part of our monastic formation includes taking classes at the nearby seminary/school of theology; the first class that we all take over there is Psalms and Prayer. In an effort to learn the various elements, we were required to write some various psalms and prayers of our own. And, since the instructor was more concerned that we had the format and other essentials understood (chiasms, parallels, and all those other big words), we had some flexibility with the topic about which we prayed and/or psalmed.

Thus, the day came when we had to write a lament -- complete with the ending of hope that God will pull us through. My one thought was to write a lament about the fact that I couldn't think of anything about which to write a lament. However, after having only been in the monastery one month, I had nevertheless been there long enough to learn that, in this very German community, even godliness isn't next to cleanliness. One of our jobs was to clean the dining room, a dining room that served probably about 75 sisters on a regular basis, with more on weekends. And yet, I use the word "clean" very loosely. For, in my mind, in order to clean, there must be something to clean. We cleaned invisible dirt. My jackpot was the day when I had two cheerios and a rice krispie in my "pile." (Yet, there was the day when, while cleaning church I found a couple pieces of popcorn?!?!?)

Therein lies the inspiration for the psalm of lament I am about to share with you.

The Lament of the Lonely Cornflake
Oh great God, creator of all that is good,
you made all things of this earth;
all things of earth reflect your glory.
˙˙Sun and moon, wind and rain
˙˙Wheat and chaff, corn and husk
˙˙Froot and Loop.
Why then, Oh Lord, do you allow them to mock me?
They call me a flake and scoff at me;
at my simplicity they thumb their oaty o's.
They say I don't have the rank of the crunchy captain,
or the magical deliciousness and luck of the charmed marshmallows.
And you, oh great chef, feed into their insults,
by lettting me fall to the depths of the underfoot.
I am nothing but flattened corn.
Is that how I fell out of your flavor?
No bowl for me,
˙˙no tray, no cupped hand.
No, you cast me out into the netherfloor,
where not even the spiders spin their home.
Oh, curse this "vessel of the altar^*,"
this monastic cleanliness leaves me no neighbor in my distress.
Oh, hear the lament of the lonely cornflake;
of my mournful cries take heed.
But still I place my trust in the Lord that formed me;
I put my hope in the one who pulled me from the cob.
Even if you will not deliver me from my plight,
˙˙you will deliver me some spilled milk in which to swim.
You will grind mine enemies into compost,
You will let that Rabbit get his Trix.
Oh great God, creator of all that is good,
Deliver me into your goodness.

^*In the Rule of Benedict, the monastic is told to "treat all things as sacred vessels of the altar" – it's the idea of stewardship, of taking care of everything, that the hoe used out in the field should be just as carefully cleaned after use as the chalice after Mass.