How to Live

How to Live Plot Summary

Introduction

I still remember the moment I first realized I was drowning in chaos. It was a Tuesday afternoon when my phone buzzed with the fifteenth notification that hour. My desk was buried under papers, my inbox overflowed with hundreds of unread messages, and I had just double-booked myself for the third time that week. I sat there, coffee growing cold, feeling disconnected from everything that mattered. I was constantly busy, yet nothing felt meaningful. That's when I knew something had to change. Many of us find ourselves in similar situations today. We live in a world that celebrates perpetual motion, constant connectivity, and relentless productivity. Yet this frantic pace often leaves us feeling scattered, isolated, and spiritually depleted. What if there was another way to live? What if wisdom from fifteen centuries ago could offer us a path to balance in our chaotic modern lives? This is precisely what we explore in the pages ahead—timeless Benedictine principles that teach us how to listen deeply, find silence amid noise, build genuine community, face our imperfections with courage, and transform our work into a sacred calling. These ancient practices aren't relics of the past but practical tools for reclaiming our humanity in a digital age.

Chapter 1: The Transformative Power of Listening with the Heart

When Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor was asked how the justices engage in intense disagreements while still managing to collaborate, her answer was surprisingly simple yet profound. They listen to one another. "You may not like what they're proposing, but that doesn't mean they're doing it from an evil motive," she explained. Justices can passionately disagree, she said, "and still see the goodness in one another." Her recommendation for dealing with professional and personal divisions was elegantly Benedictine: less talking, more listening. This wisdom echoes the Benedictine tradition, where the first word of The Rule isn't pray, worship, or even love—it's listen. Benedict tells us we must actively incline ourselves toward listening and nurture it in our everyday activities. Listening isn't passive; it's an act of will. For many of us, our failures and disappointments can often be traced to an operator error in listening, usually our own. Consider the experience of a woman who received candid feedback from a colleague one Saturday morning, suggesting she came across too forcefully at staff meetings. Her initial reaction was defensive anger—how could a supposed friend launch such a personal attack? But then she began listening with what Benedict calls "the ear of the heart." She mentally replayed recent meetings and heard her own voice differently. What she considered passionate advocacy, others might experience as argumentative or condescending. This deeper listening extends to unexpected wisdom sources. One woman recalls dismissing her truck-driver father's simple sayings, like "When you're hungry you eat, when you're tired, you sleep." With her advanced degrees, she thought such advice stupidly self-evident. Yet after landing in the hospital suffering from exhaustion and malnutrition—both self-inflicted wounds from overwork—her father's little saying suddenly contained wisdom worthy of the Book of Proverbs. Listening with the heart also means being attentive to the unheard voices around us. During a retreat in rural Alabama, a woman became vaguely aware of an older woman fluttering around the parish hall, sometimes talking to herself. Busy preparing her presentation, she thought, "I'd like to talk to this woman, just not now." Later, she discovered this woman, Eva, had lovingly decorated the altar, brewed coffee, and baked the only cake anyone had brought to share. Eva went on to read a moving poem she'd written about characters she meets during weekly pilgrimages to the Dollar General. Her wisdom about how "every day nature is renewing itself, and so are we" became the most meaningful moment of the entire retreat. When we truly listen—to feedback we'd rather ignore, to wisdom in unexpected packages, to the prophets hidden in plain sight—we open ourselves to transformation. The Benedictine practice of listening isn't about perfecting a communication technique; it's about orienting our entire being toward receptivity. It's about creating space within ourselves where truth can land and take root, even when that truth challenges our comfortable self-perceptions.

Chapter 2: Balance as a Path to Wholeness

For nearly two years, a journalist worked in the London bureau of a major newspaper with a desk overlooking St. Paul's Cathedral. She would arrive around 9 A.M., turn on her computer, and proceed to bury herself in work. Inevitably, she would look up at some point to discover it was dark. The day had passed and she'd missed it! This experience reminds her of a poem called "Eyesight," where the narrator realizes too late that he's missed the arrival of spring: "It's not that way with all things, some that go are gone." This woman suffered from what she calls "two diseases: workaholism and over-achieverism." In college, she had embraced the ancient Greek definition of success: the use of all one's talents in pursuit of excellence in a life affording scope. She became like a champion sprinter in a constant race. The prizes came—awards, promotions, recognition—but they felt good for only a week or two before she was off again, glancing in the rearview mirror at past successes as she sped toward the next achievement. The consequences were severe. She often forgot to request time off for holidays, making it too late to visit family. While working at a major newspaper, she neglected to eat or rest properly and was eventually hospitalized for malnutrition and acute anemia—a ridiculous state for an otherwise healthy young professional earning a good salary. In short, she had a job that included her life, not a life that included her job. The Benedictine tradition offers a compelling alternative through its emphasis on balance. Monasteries had to be self-supporting, and those who lived in them needed to work hard. Yet Benedict refused to let work overwhelm everything else. He carved the monastic day into distinct periods for work, prayer, reading, leisure, and rest, believing there is a time to work and a time to stop work. Consider how The Rule addresses basic human needs. It emphasizes that people aren't interchangeable parts. The monastery offers two kinds of food at meals so that someone who can't eat one kind may partake of the other. Kitchen servers receive something extra before they begin work so they won't grow hungry or weary while serving others. Children and the elderly receive special portions and can eat outside regular hours when necessary. The operative doctrine is "each according to need." This ancient wisdom speaks directly to our modern epidemic of burnout. In 2015, the New York Times reported on one of America's most successful companies where managers described a practice called "Purposeful Darwinism" to weed out employees who couldn't keep up. Workers told of receiving calls from bosses on holidays and described the feeling as having "the CEO of the company in bed with you at 3 A.M. breathing down your neck." Balance isn't about doing less; it's about doing what matters. The Benedictine motto Ora et Labora (Pray and Work) calls us to be neither a Martha—always doing—nor a Mary—always standing by—but a synthesis of both. Action and contemplation. Work and rest. As one Benedictine sister wisely observed, "If we are all Marys, we will never build the kingdom of God, and if we are all Marthas, we will never understand the kingdom of God." In our multitasking culture, this ancient wisdom about balance offers surprising relevance. Research shows that entrepreneurs who press the pause button to let ideas germinate often create more successful enterprises. When we're not actively working on a task, it remains active in the mind, incubating. Pausing gives us "time to consider divergent ideas, to think in non-linear ways, and make unexpected leaps." Like grapevines that grow stronger when properly pruned, our lives flourish when we cultivate balance, cutting back what's not essential to nourish what truly matters.

Chapter 3: Community and Connection in an Age of Isolation

Kerry Egan, a hospice chaplain in South Carolina, has served as a companion to countless people in their final weeks of life. According to her, what makes the transition harder for many people isn't fear of the unknown or even physical decline, but rather the secrets and regrets they harbor from the past. She tells the story of Gloria, a woman who became pregnant at nineteen and was pressured to give up her child for adoption. Gloria didn't want to do this, and after turning the child over, she woke in the middle of the night with an aching need to take back her son. Despite being told she would only harm the child—how could a single teenager earning a modest secretary's salary properly care for a baby?—Gloria was undeterred. She sold her books, jewelry, most of her clothing, even her hair curlers to buy back her son. Yet for decades afterward, she kept the truth from him, carrying this secret like a heavy burden until her final days. This story illuminates a profound truth: humans are fundamentally communal beings. We need connection, transparency, and reconciliation to thrive. In our increasingly fragmented society, the Benedictine emphasis on community offers vital medicine for our collective loneliness. Sister Thomasita Homan once described a monastic community as "a place where people agree to link arms, support one another, and help each other grow." This vision stands in stark contrast to our contemporary obsession with rugged individualism. In monasteries, sign-up sheets for helping with special projects are filled within minutes. When someone needs assistance—setting up for a celebration, baking cookies, addressing envelopes—volunteers quickly materialize, demonstrating William James's insight that "we are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface, but connected in the deep." This communal spirit extends beyond convenience to encompass the messy reality of human relationships. When asked how conflicts get resolved in her monastery, Sister Molly Brockwell offered unexpected wisdom: "What gets confusing sometimes is that we think liking is the same thing as respecting, or loving, or caring for a person. Well, no. Liking comes and goes fast. What we aim for is a deeper relationship—one that says we're in this together, that there is something bigger going on between us. We can disagree with one another and not see that as a total betrayal or as a chance to hack the other person to pieces, or view each other as a never-ending threat." St. Benedict himself experienced the challenge of community. After fleeing the crumbling Roman Empire to live as a hermit, he was asked to lead a group of monks. Some became dissatisfied with his leadership and even tried to poison him. Yet despite this traumatic experience, Benedict never stopped believing in the meaning found in the messiness of living with others. He sharply criticized monks who lived without shared values or agreed-upon rules, writing "Their law is what they like to do, whatever strikes their fancy." When the 4th-century monk Basil was asked why he chose to live in community rather than solitude (since monos, the root of "monastic," means "one"), he gave a profound response. Yes, he could probably seek holiness with single-minded purpose by living alone in the desert. "But then," he asked, "whose feet would I wash?" This vision of community contrasts sharply with our increasingly isolated modern existence. Sociologist Robert Putnam documented how Americans have largely abandoned group activities like bowling leagues and neighborhood associations. The social media connections that have replaced these physical gatherings often provide echo chambers rather than genuine community. As Benedictine Sister Joan Chittister observed, "Everyone is connected to everyone else, and no one is connected to anybody." True community isn't an abstract ideal but a daily practice of care and attention. As Sister Molly explained, "It is really quite simple when we finally realize it. Community is about the people sitting right next to you. It's not some lofty thing we need to aspire to, it's honoring the relationships right around us." By adding our light to the sum of light, we transform wherever we land into a place "where suffering meets solace, and the lonely encounter an outstretched hand."

Chapter 4: Finding Silence in a Noisy World

When you arrive at the Abbey of Gethsemani outside Louisville, Kentucky, you pass an old graveyard on the way to the abbey church. You enter the cloister through an arched gate inscribed with the words "God Alone." There, a palpable quiet envelops you. The only sounds are the thrum of insects, an occasional distant car, and the rustle of wind through the leaves of a gingko tree anchoring the monastery's courtyard. Thomas Merton, who arrived at Gethsemani in 1941 as a refugee from a world at war, captured this experience in his poem "In Silence": "Be still / Listen to the stones of the wall. Be silent, they try / to speak your / name..." Merton understood that silence serves as an echo chamber for truth found only in the heart. "Almost all activity makes me ill," he wrote after living a few years at the monastery. "But as soon as I am alone and silent again, I sink into deep peace, recollection, and happiness." In today's world, silence is swiftly disappearing. In 1968, researchers found it took fifteen hours of recording time to obtain a single hour of undisturbed nature sounds without human-made intrusions. Today, with ubiquitous cell phones, streaming media, and constant connectivity, it takes two thousand hours to capture that same hour of pure natural sound. For the earliest monastics, bread and silence were the staples of daily life. They retreated to caves and huts in barren places seeking it. Antony the Great, one of the earliest hermits, observed: "Just as fish die who stay too long out of water, so the monks who loiter outside their cells or pass their time with the men of the world lose the intensity of inner peace. So like a fish going towards the sea, we must hurry to reach our cell, for fear that if we delay outside we will lose our interior watchfulness." Even journalists and professional communicators can come to crave silence. One reporter who interviews people daily for radio and TV confesses, "It might seem strange for someone who earns her living writing and speaking to advocate for silence. Yet it is something I increasingly crave, not only as a balm for my busy mind but also as a safeguard in my relationships." At one Benedictine monastery, sisters use a simple check-and-balance system for cultivating harmony: "Before you open your mouth to speak, ask yourself three questions: Is what I am about to say true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" The last question provides the truest test. Much of what we say fails this standard—grumbling about the weather, complaining about workloads, criticizing others for calling or not calling, for being too lazy or too demanding. As Anne Lamott once wrote about the futility of complaining, "It's like drinking rat poison and waiting for the other person to die." Silence isn't merely the absence of speech but an active practice of attention. During Lent at one monastery, the sisters remain silent at meals, in hallways, even walking the grounds. Visitors notice things that escaped them before when their attention was focused on conversation: a new bud on a rosebush, the quick red flash of a cardinal swinging between trees, the wind's whisper through pine trees. It's remarkable what we see when we silence our inner and outer chatter. Of course, we can't all retreat to monasteries when seeking escape from life's noise. Those who navigate workplaces and family responsibilities can create what one practitioner calls a "mental globe of silence"—finding an empty room at the office, stepping out for a short walk, or even secluding oneself in a stairwell. When physical escape is impossible, we can retreat to an inner place of solitude, perhaps imagining a quiet spot from childhood where we once sat in silence to write and daydream. This isn't to say there aren't times for speaking up. The Catholic hierarchy's long silence about sexual abuse, societal silence about the demonizing of immigrants or religious groups, and collective silence about environmental degradation all represent sins of omission. Silence orients us toward discernment—the pause between thought and action that gives gravity and greater meaning to the words we do speak. When we cultivate silence and solitude, we regain the inner reserves needed to both do meaningful work and nurture an interior life. Silence sets down a place for wisdom to find a home.

Chapter 5: The Courage to Face Our Faults

In The Rule of St. Benedict, there's a striking directive: "If someone commits a fault while at any work... she or he must at once come before the prioress or abbot and community and admit this fault and make satisfaction." This ancient practice recognizes something profound about human nature—we grow through honestly facing our imperfections rather than concealing them. Consider Gloria, a hospice patient who became pregnant at nineteen and felt pressured to give up her child for adoption. Though she eventually reclaimed her son and raised him lovingly, she kept the truth about those first weeks secret for decades. As her life neared its end, this hidden truth demanded expression. When she finally revealed her secret to her son, his response was simple and healing: "You're the only thing that matters to me now, and I love you." The early monastics were keen observers of human behavior. They understood that people will inevitably make mistakes—even those seeking holiness with single-minded purpose. Their response wasn't denial or repression but radical honesty: speak these failings aloud. Hold them to the light and you will rob them of their power over you. This approach contrasts sharply with our contemporary habit of presenting carefully curated versions of ourselves to the world. One journalist confesses, "I am one of those people who goes around trying to camouflage a host of insecurities with various emotional face powders. I may not want people I barely know peering into my satchel of vulnerabilities, but I don't want to be off-putting either." The paradox is that when we dare to be vulnerable—admitting we don't feel like good enough writers, journalists, partners, or parents—something unexpected happens. Others remind us of qualities we've forgotten in ourselves. And by showing our authentic selves, we give others permission to do the same without fear of rejection. A mental health specialist diagnosed with advanced breast cancer described the experience as suffering "a layer of losses"—her health, stamina, hair, and a body part that identified her as a woman. She had lost the future she once imagined. "I'm alive, but what is my identity?" she asked. "How do I find meaning in my life now without being the person I was before?" Yet these very losses led her to shed many labels she had used to measure herself. "The truth is," she said, "we are all loveable and worthy without all the markers we fall back on every day to make ourselves feel worthwhile." Cancer had set her free "to love myself without those identifiers. And that allows me to feel love for everyone else." This insight echoes Graham Greene's novels, where troubled characters often show the most compassion. In The Power and the Glory, a "whiskey priest" who breaks his vows by fathering a child nevertheless risks his life to bring the Eucharist to others during religious persecution. These fictional examples remind us that our worth doesn't depend on flawlessness. The desert fathers and mothers understood this psychological truth centuries before modern therapy. They taught that we are not our faults any more than we are our thoughts or emotions. Our thoughts and emotions need not control us—it is only when we force them into the substratum of our heart that they gain power to overwhelm us. The Sufi poet Rumi compared the human heart to a guest house. Every morning brings a new arrival, including unexpected and unwelcome visits from depression, meanness, envy, shame, and dark thoughts. "Welcome each guest in," the poet advises, treating each one honorably. "Be grateful for whoever comes / because each has been sent / as a guide from beyond." When we view our flaws as guests rather than defining features, we can invite them in for tea, have a conversation, and learn from them before sending them on their way. This practice of welcoming rather than denying our imperfections becomes, paradoxically, the path to becoming more fully ourselves.

Chapter 6: Hospitality as Radical Openness

"All guests who present themselves are to be received as Christ, who said, 'I was a stranger and you welcomed me.'" This directive from The Rule of St. Benedict revolutionizes how we think about encountering the unfamiliar. It transforms hospitality from a matter of etiquette into a spiritual practice. A young reporter assigned to cover the Washington suburbs once found herself working late at the courthouse news bureau, frustrated with her career trajectory. Around seven o'clock, a maintenance man named John would come by to empty the waste baskets. He wore a train engineer's cap and often lingered, making small talk that the reporter found annoying. One night, after being chewed out by her editor, John found her with her head in her hands. "Hey, you look like you could use some cheering up," he said, then burst into full-throated singing: "Pardon me, boy, is that the Chattanooga choo choo?..." She couldn't help but laugh and soon joined in singing. Years later, she realized John had been extending hospitality—a gift she hadn't had the "hospitality of heart" to recognize and reciprocate. For Benedictines, hospitality isn't abstract but integral to spiritual life. Visitors to monasteries often marvel at the warmth they experience. Sisters introduce themselves, ask about guests' backgrounds, and express genuine interest in their well-being. This tradition dates back to the earliest desert monks, who would break whatever fast they were observing to share meals with visitors. Perhaps the most radical aspect of Benedictine hospitality is its special attention to the poor. "Great care and concern are to be shown in receiving poor people and pilgrims because in them more particularly Christ is received," Benedict writes. This directly counters conventional practice, where celebrities and powerful figures receive deference while homeless people are treated with suspicion. Benedict insists we must reverse this mindset—it is the poor who deserve reverence. One of the most striking characters in The Rule is the monastery "porter" or doorkeeper. Benedict instructs that this person should answer every knock with "Thanks be to God" or "Your blessing, please." Compare this to humorist Dorothy Parker, who reportedly answered her phone not with "hello" but with "What fresh hell is this?"—an attitude many of us adopt toward interruptions and demands on our time. These monastic greetings embody profound psychology. "Thanks be to God" expresses openness to the good that might emerge from an encounter. Even more remarkable is "Your blessing, please," where the community member asks a blessing of the stranger rather than the reverse. The porter is saying: I am no more holy than you because I live within this enclosure. I too need the blessing of others. We are all "of this earth." This radical hospitality challenges us in an age of increasing polarization. When the people of St. Cloud, Minnesota experienced a rapid influx of Somali Muslim refugees, tensions escalated to violence. Residents feared their community's character would change. Yet Benedictine hospitality calls us to extend a hand, bow to others, and pray together—to see Christ in the stranger. Hospitality extends beyond welcoming physical guests to cultivating an openness of mind. How receptive am I to new ideas that knock at the door of my thinking? When I discover people I know have voted for candidates whose positions I find abhorrent, my first inclination might be to drop them as friends. But Benedictine hospitality asks whether I'm at home enough in my own beliefs to disagree without feeling betrayed. Rabbi Rebecca Dubowe wisely notes that it's far more important to ask "Who are you?" than state "This is who I am." As diversity increases and politics polarize, Benedictine hospitality becomes essential. When change comes to our families and communities, do we slam shut the doors of our homes and minds? Or do we join with those who say, "Your blessing, please" and "Thanks be to God?"

Chapter 7: Work as a Sacred Calling

"Therefore we intend to establish a school for the Lord's service. In drawing up its regulations, we hope to set down nothing harsh, nothing burdensome." This gentle invitation from The Rule of St. Benedict offers a revolutionary perspective on work—not as drudgery to be endured but as a pathway to meaning and service. An ancient wisdom story illuminates this approach. A merchant once sought advice from a monastic elder about his business. "As the fish perishes on dry land, so you too perish when you get entangled in the world," the monk said. "The fish must return to the water, and you must return to the spirit." Troubled, the merchant asked if he needed to abandon his business and enter a monastery. "Definitely not," the elder replied. "I am telling you to hold on to your business and go into your heart." This integration of inner life and outer work speaks directly to our contemporary struggle for meaning. Novelist Joshua Ferris described the workplace as "life's strangest environment, the one we pretend is normal five days a week." Yet for many, it's where we spend most of our waking hours, seeking more than just a paycheck. One woman's journey illustrates this quest. Her earliest vision of work came from watching her parents—her father loading barrels of roofing cement at 3 A.M., her mother standing in rubber boots hosing down cucumbers at a pickle factory. Their work was labor. She decided her path would be different, embracing the Greek definition of happiness: "the use of all one's talents in the pursuit of excellence." Her breakthrough came when the Washington Post hired her right out of college. Yet on the eve of starting this dream job, she sat alone in a restaurant crying, overwhelmed by isolation and inadequacy. Her solution was to throw herself completely into work, staying late most nights and living for the thrill of front-page bylines. Later, at an even more prestigious newspaper, she won numerous awards but felt an inner deadness. "I had a job that included my life, not a life that included my job." The Benedictine motto Ora et Labora (Pray and Work) offers a different model. While The Rule insists monastics must work—"If they don't survive by the work of their hands, they shouldn't be called monks"—it equally emphasizes balance. Benedict elevated work to a level of holiness, referring to community prayer as the Opus Dei, "the work of God." In this way, he positioned prayer and interior development as the central work of the monastery, with other duties flowing from this foundation. The Rule provides practical guidance for working in ways that nourish rather than deplete the soul: Be the first to show respect to others. Listen. Charge only what is just for goods and services. Lead by example rather than words. Avoid favoritism. Give each according to their need. Take sufficient rest. Care for tools and resources as sacred vessels. Avoid speaking ill of others. Above all, "Your way of acting should be different from the world's way." In an age where most workers report job dissatisfaction and poor work-life balance, these principles offer transformation. As poet Mary Oliver writes, "My work is loving the world." This perspective isn't limited to helping professions. A vice president at a major airline once shared that the highlight of her day often came from visiting a fast-food restaurant where the cashier always offered a kind word and wished customers a "blessed day." That cashier was "loving the world" through her work. New York Times columnist David Brooks distinguishes between "resume virtues" and "eulogy virtues." Resume virtues describe marketplace skills, while eulogy virtues define character—what people remember at our funeral. Were we kind, brave, honest, faithful? Were we capable of great love? "People on the road to inner light do not find their vocations by asking, what do I want from life?" Brooks writes. "They ask, how can I match my intrinsic talents with one of the world's deep needs?" This approach points toward eudaimonia—the Greek concept of well-being and meaning that emerges when our work benefits others as well as ourselves. When we make this our aim, we discover not just the classical definition of happiness, but the measure of true success. Our work becomes, in Mary Oliver's words, loving the world.

Summary

The journey through Benedictine wisdom reveals a profound truth: the chaotic world we navigate today isn't so different from the tumultuous 6th century when Benedict first penned his Rule. Then, as now, people sought meaning amid uncertainty, connection in fragmentation, and peace in turbulence. What makes this ancient wisdom so powerful is its remarkable simplicity and adaptability. We don't need to become monks or nuns to benefit from practices like deep listening, intentional silence, radical hospitality, and balanced living. These principles offer practical pathways to wholeness in our fractured world. When we listen with "the ear of the heart," we move beyond reflexive reactions to genuine understanding. By creating pockets of silence in our noise-saturated lives, we recover our capacity for discernment and wonder. Through community, we discover we are "like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep." When we face our imperfections with courage rather than denial, we paradoxically become more fully ourselves. And by approaching our work as an expression of service rather than merely ambition, we transform daily tasks into meaningful contributions. The Benedictine way doesn't promise overnight transformation but invites us into what Benedict calls conversatio morum—a lifelong journey of becoming. As Sister Thomasita wisely observed when a frustrated practitioner complained about falling short of monastic ideals at home: "You are living conversatio. Your struggle, that's the conversatio." We don't have to be perfect. We just have to be human. In embracing this gentle path of continual beginning, we may discover what Benedict promised—hearts "overflowing with the inexpressible delight of love."

About Author

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Judith Valente

Judith Valente is an award-winning author, poet, and journalist. She is a sought-after speaker and retreat leader on living a more contemplative life, discovering inner wisdom through poetry, and finding meaning in your work. She is a lay associate of the Benedictine monastery Mount St. Scholastica in Atchison, KS, which is the subject of her award-winning 2013 memoir, "Atchison Blue: A Search for Silence, a Spiritual Home and a Living Faith," chosen by Religion Newswriters Association as one of the three best spirituality books of that year. Her new book "How to Be: A Monk & a Journalist Reflect on Living & Dying, Purpose & Prayer, Forgiveness & Friendship" is a dialogue between two spiritual seekers exploring life'scomplex questions. Her co-author is Brother Paul Quenon, a Trappist monk of the famous Abbey of Gethsemani who knew the great spirituality author, Thomas Merton.Her 2018 book, "How to Live: What The Rule of St. Benedict Teaches Us About Happiness, Meaning, and Community" has been used by book group members throughout the world seeking to live a more contemplative life in the secular world. She is also co-author with Brother Paul Quenon of "The Art of Pausing: Meditations for the Overworked and Overwhelmed," winner of a 2013 Catholic Press Association Award.She is a former on-air correspondent who covered faith and values for Religion & Ethics NewsWeekly on national PBS-TV. She also worked as a staff writer for The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal and was twice a finalist for the Pulizter Prize in journalism. She has won numerous broadcast awards, including two Edward R, Murrow Awards, arising from her work as senior correspondent and investigative reporter for the NPR affiliate, GLT Radio. She also was a correspondent for Chicago Public Radio. She currently contributes articles to National Catholic Reporter and U.S. Catholic magazine.Ms. Valente is also a poet whose poetry chapbook, "Inventing An Alphabet," was chosen by Mary Oliver for the 2005 national Aldrich Poetry Prize. Her second collection, "Discovering Moons," was published in 2009.Ms. Valente holds a B.A in English and classical languages from St. Peter's University in Jersey City, NJ, and an MFA in creative writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She is married to former Illinois Judge Charles Reynard, also a poet, with whom she co-edited the 2005 anthology, "Twenty Poems to Nourish Your Soul," winner of an Eric Hoffer Book citation. The couple operates an alfalfa farm in central Illinois, where Judith is a member of the Grand Prairie Master Naturalists, a group that cares for the Illinois prairie. She is also on the board of the International Thomas Merton Society.

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