by James Martin
For the past few days, Anne felt crushed by work. Her firm had recently picked up a new client who needed an immediate audit, thanks to an embezzling business manager. Anne could never understand how so many people could steal from their employers, but she saw enough of it to know that it happened frequently. This latest disaster was typical. Kerry and Anne were auditing a firm whose business manager set up false companies that billed his company for services that were never rendered. It came to light only when the business manager bragged about his malfeasance to another employee, oddly proud that he had tricked the CEO for so long. Working on those jobs was satisfying, because Anne felt she could help set things right, but it also made her feel almost unclean. That audit made her want to visit the monastery.
After assuring Kerry she wasn’t going to become a nun, Anne halfheartedly organized the financial records she had been reviewing, grabbed her jacket, piled into her car, and set off toward the abbey.
As she drove along the Blue Route, it occurred to her that she was actually looking forward to this. Visiting Father Edward was the right thing to do, a kind of payback for all the kindnesses people had shown her after Jeremiah’s death—the visits, the phone calls, the flowers, the cards, the casseroles. The day after the funeral, when she told Jeremiah’s father that she wouldn’t accept any more food or flowers, he said, “It’s their way of showing you love. You have to let them love you like this.” Eddie wasn’t often right, but she knew he was then.
In some odd way, those many kindnesses and her visit to Father Edward seemed connected—a cycle of giving, receiving, and being grateful.
The sun hung low in the sky when Anne arrived at the front gate. On the long driveway, she passed a woman with her head bowed, walking slowly. Farther up, an elderly man strolled around aimlessly, and under the arches of the church’s portico a few more people were huddled together, chatting. Was she intruding on some religious conference? She still had no idea what happened at the abbey other than a few simple facts: the monks prayed, went to Mass, made jam, and didn’t have sex.
And, again, she had come unprepared: she had no clue how to find Father Edward. A few hours earlier at work, she had started to call the abbey, but then didn’t, remembering that the monks didn’t have phones in their rooms. The only number listed on their website was for the jam factory, which she didn’t want, and the guest house, whatever that was. She had left a message at the guest house, but didn’t know if it would find its way to Father Edward.
The church loomed at the top of the driveway. Confused, Anne circled back around the parking lot, looking for something indicating where the monks lived. She flushed, embarrassed and angry that she had come without knowing where she was going. “Shit,” she said aloud. Then she noticed, on a post stuck into the ground, a small wooden sign with red lettering that read “Guest House.”
She followed a gravel road to a one-story stone cottage whose mullioned windows, red wooden door, and slate roof made it look as if it belonged to a hobbit. The few people wandering along the driveway peered into her car as she passed. Nosy, she thought.
The abbey’s great bell began to chime in the tall gray steeple. Like anxious deer, the men and women looked up, turned toward the church, and fast-walked up the driveway. Vespers.
Anne rang the bell at the guest-house door. No answer. Maybe all the monks were at Vespers. She pushed the door open to find an elderly woman with dark tousled hair sitting at the desk.
“Oh,” she said, as she slowly stood. “I was just about to open it!”
Anne stepped into a small, red-tiled foyer carpeted with worn oriental rugs and crammed with bookcases. One bookcase was entirely taken up with a display of the abbey’s jams and jellies. Beside it stood a spindly metal rack of note cards. Most cards featured colorful photos of the monastery throughout the year—the abbey church covered with snow, springtime blossoms in the cloister garden, butterflies on the lilac bushes by the driveway, a stand of red-leaved maple trees in the valley. Several cards showed the image of Mary inside the church. One was the card that Father Paul had given her that first night.
On the elderly woman’s desk was a small sign that read, “Guest Master.” Anne suppressed a smile: it sounded vaguely risqué. Then she wondered why the monks needed such a big place for guests. Was this where their families stayed?
“Are you here for a retreat?” the woman asked.
Anne laughed. “Oh no!” She realized that this might sound insulting, so she quickly added, “I’m here to see Father Edward. Is he around?”
“I’m Maddy,” said the woman, sticking out her hand. “The monks just went to Vespers, but we got your message today, and he’s looking forward to seeing you. You can sit here for a bit until prayers are over, if you’d like.”
Sighing heavily, Anne sat down on a high-backed wooden chair and examined some magazines on a coffee table before her: America, Commonweal, U.S. Catholic, First Things, Liguorian, St. Anthony Messenger. She dimly remembered seeing her parents read some of these and flipped through one of them. Lots of photos of the pope, various cardinals and bishops, people in the developing world, and happy Americans smiling as they left Sunday Mass. She tossed each magazine back on the table, one by one, then took out her cell phone, and began checking her e-mail.
“Excuse me,” said Maddy, “I’m afraid you can’t use your cell phone here. We try to keep things quiet.”
More rules. Another reason she didn’t go to church. Then she figured that since this woman undoubtedly knew what went on here, she’d satisfy her curiosity.
“Can I ask you a stupid question?” asked Anne. As the words came out of her mouth she anticipated Maddy’s response. She was not disappointed.
“There are no stupid questions.”
“Okay,” she said. “What do the monks do all day? Other than pray and make jam?”
Maddy laughed. “Well, that’s a full day, if you ask me. Between prayer, community business, and working in the jam factory, some of these guys are busier than I am. And I’m pretty busy.”
“So,” said Anne, feeling that her question had been politely avoided, “they do . . . what, exactly?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Maddy. “Well, their day is pretty full. I guess you know they start their prayers at three thirty and—”
“What—three thirty?”
“Yes, that’s Vigils, and then—”
“Three thirty in the morning?”
“Yes,” Maddy said, relishing Anne’s surprise. “Then comes some personal prayer and reading until about four, I think. Then they get dressed, I guess, and have breakfast. After that, there’s Lauds, which is their morning prayer, and then Mass, and then . . .” She trailed off. “You know, I always forget the exact schedule. Wait a minute . . .”
She reached into a drawer and pulled out a well-worn sheet of paper headed with the word “Horarium.”
“Here,” Maddy said. “Horarium means ‘the hours.’ It’s their schedule of the day. Take a look.”
Maddy led Anne through the day. Before Mass, the monks prayed the Angelus, whatever that was. They said that prayer three times a day, said Maddy. Then they worked either in the jam factory or in jobs around the house until noon.
“So what kind of things would they do?” asked Anne.
“Well, a few work in the jam factory, both in the business office and on the factory floor. And of course they tend the gardens and harvest vegetables, and there’s lots of cleaning to do, with the bathrooms and all that. And then some of them work in the kitchen; and then there’s a novice director, a director of the young monks in formation, which is their word for training. And some of them do spiritual direction for people outside the house; and there’s the sacristan, who takes care of the church; and then the infirmarian, who takes care of the monks in the infirmary; and then the guest master . . .”
“Isn’t that you?” asked Anne.
“Oh no!” Maddy laughed. “I’m not the guest master. That’s Brother James. I j
ust help out and sub for him when they’re in chapel. They call me the ‘sub–guest master.’ Abbot Paul calls me the ‘guest mistress’ or sometimes the ‘mistress of guests,’ which makes me laugh.”
If Maddy hadn’t been focused on the page, she would have seen Anne smiling. That last title sounded even more suggestive.
“So then,” she said, “here’s the rest of the day.” Midmorning prayer in the workplace, and then Sext, which is another prayer in the chapel, then their big meal at twelve thirty, followed by washing dishes. After that, a rest or a walk. At two o’clock came mid-afternoon prayer followed by more work. Then they could pray (Anne thought, Pray again?); rest (That’s what I’d be doing); or exercise. She pictured them jogging around the grounds in their long black-and-white habits.
Vespers she knew. That was the prayer she always seemed to be interrupting, at five thirty. After that came a light “supper,” which sounded pleasantly old-fashioned. Followed by more prayer and reading and finally Compline, or night prayer, during which they prayed the Salve Regina.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“This”—she pointed to the page. “Salve Regina.” Anne pronounced the first word like an ointment—sav.
“Oh,” said Maddy, “the Sahl-vay Ray-jee-nuh. It’s a song to Mary. It goes like this.” She hummed a few bars.
Anne was again startled to hear the tune her father had loved. She had forgotten the name, though Father Paul had told her that first night.
“Oh, yes, I like that song,” said Anne. “What’s it mean?”
Maddy paused. “You know, I don’t know. It’s about Mary—that much I know. Salve Regina means ‘Hail Queen.’ But, you know . . . Isn’t that funny? I’m not really sure what the rest of it means.” She furrowed her brow, disappointed in herself, then laughed. “I only know it in Latin I guess. Anyway, that’s how they end their day, with that song. Then the abbot blesses them, and they go to bed, and the ‘Great Silence’ begins. They’re supposed to be quiet until three thirty.”
“And then they can talk?”
“Well, not really. Not a lot at least. I’m not really sure. They talk at various points during the day of course, but they try to keep silence, and sometimes they even use sign language.”
Anne looked upon the schedule in its entirety. It seemed a daunting way to live.
“That’s a lot of prayer,” she said. “And work, I guess.”
“Ora et labora,” said Maddy cheerfully.
Anne stared at her.
“Prayer and work.”
Maddy looked at Anne with something resembling pity, or so Anne thought. “You know, a few years ago I made a retreat here after I lost my job. I didn’t know what I was going to do. My husband and I needed my salary, since he’s on disability now, which doesn’t cover a whole lot. After a few months of sitting around the house, I felt like I was at the end of my rope. And worst of all, God felt completely absent. I felt like saying, ‘Where are you, God?’ You know what I mean?”
Anne nodded.
“My husband saw a notice in our parish bulletin about a weekend retreat for women, and he kept nagging me until I went. Anyway, I just fell in love with this place. I mean just look at it.” She gestured toward a window that framed a view of the abbey church under a setting sun and vermilion sky.
“Abbot Paul was so gentle on that retreat, and he listened, I mean really listened, like no man ever had to me—not even my husband, whom I love.” Maddy stared into space.
“I love these guys,” Maddy said firmly. “They’ve helped me so much. And they love me back. At least it feels like they do. Not all of them of course—I think I drive a few of them crazy. And, frankly, a few of them drive me crazy. But, you know, when you think about it, that’s not such a bad way to live. Praying and working and loving other people as friends, and thinking about God all the time, right? Not so bad, huh?”
“No,” Anne said, surprising herself. “Not so bad at all.”
15
Father Paul walked into the guest house and grinned when he saw Anne. “Ah, is this a new retreatant?”
“No, Father,” said Maddy. “She’s here to see Father Edward.”
“Yes,” said Paul. “I was just kidding. Though maybe one day you could come on retreat here.”
Anne didn’t know what to say, so she said, “Maybe . . . I guess.” She realized that the nosy people looking into her car were probably on retreat.
Paul took Anne’s hand with two hands and welcomed her. “Father Edward told me that you were coming, but he’s not feeling very well today.”
“Anything serious?”
“No, no, just old age. That, and we buried one of his good friends this week, Father George. They both entered as novices together, about fifty years ago. So that really affected him. Father George was the last member of his novitiate class. Father Edward’s very upset that he can’t meet with you, but he really needs his rest. Abbot’s orders. But he asked me to look after you and make sure you were doing well. Can I at least get you a cup of coffee?”
Anne was annoyed that she had come all this way and wished she had known that the priest was sick. What a waste of time, she thought. Why didn’t the monks have their own phones anyway? What if someone needed to reach them in an emergency? Did they have to rely on a note from Maddy eventually finding its way to them? Life in the monastery seemed consciously, almost willfully, archaic.
Still, she liked Father Edward. Father Paul was nice too. He had been so kind to her that day outside the cloister garden. So she agreed to the cup of coffee.
“And you should come for a retreat,” said Maddy.
Anne nodded politely. “Thanks for telling me what the monks do.”
“Oh!” said Paul. “I’d like to hear about that! What do we do here, O Mistress of Guests?”
Maddy chuckled. “I was just showing her the Horarium, that’s all.”
After thanking Maddy, Paul escorted Anne through the halls of the guest house. As with the main building of the monastery, the guest house was arranged around a cloister garden, this one more modest but still beautiful, filled with skillfully clipped rhododendron and azalea bushes. Over the doors of the guest rooms were oval signs reading “St. Ignatius,” “St. Bernard,” “St. Anne,” and several other names Anne remembered from Sunday school. Each sign, which featured a depiction of a saint, appeared to have been hand painted and lettered, but years ago; the colors were faded almost to the point of transparency.
These were the retreatants’ bedrooms, said Paul, each of them named after a saint. “It’s easier to remember names than numbers, plus the retreatants have a patron saint during their retreat.”
They passed through a narrow, brick-lined hallway and entered the monastery. As they walked through the long halls, the abbot provided a running commentary.
“So the retreatants come and spend anywhere from a weekend to eight days with us. They eat in the retreatants’ dining room and usually join us for our prayers, and for Mass of course. Some of them get up for Lauds, but most of them only make it to the later prayers. And we’re happy to have them. Hospitality is part of our life here. The rest of the day is their own, for prayer of course, but also spiritual reading. And they can get spiritual direction if they want from one of the monks . . .
“This is the kitchen, as you can see, and here’s our wonderful chef, Christian. Who’s from Paris, believe it or not. We have an actual French chef. Bonsoir, Christian, what’s for dinner? Really? Great. You’ve not forgotten about Brother James’s special diet for his little, um, procedure tomorrow, have you? Thank you . . .
“Okay, so obviously here’s the cloister garden, which you can see through those windows. Isn’t it lovely this time of year? Of course every time of year is lovely here, as far as I’m concerned. And that door right there—no, that one over there—leads to the infirmary, where the sick monks stay. That’s where Father Edward is right now, but we pray it’s not for too long . . .
“And way down this hall is the entrance to the church, where you’ve already been of course. You know, you’re always welcome to drop by and pray whenever you want. Here’s the library, which I guess you can tell from all those books in there. That’s Father Brian at the desk, our house librarian, no doubt trying to impose some sort of order on a carton of books that was donated the other day. And outside this door here is the cemetery, where we’ll all end up one day. And here’s my office.”
In their long walk, they passed only a handful of monks, and all of them were silent, though some nodded discretely as they passed the abbot. And of course there was no noise coming from any radios or televisions or computers. Or anything. The silence enveloped Anne. It was like something she could touch. Like a blanket.
Paul led her into his office and invited her to sit in one of the red wingback chairs that flanked a small coffee table. Paneled in dark wood, the abbot’s office contained an immense pine desk with an old swivel office chair behind it, and two tall pine bookcases stuffed with books. Several small framed photos stood on a putty-colored metal file cabinet.
On one wall was a large crucifix: the smooth ivory body of Jesus gleamed against a rough ebony cross. A large print of the image of Mary from the abbey church hung over the abbot’s desk, which was stacked with piles of folders and papers.
“I like that picture,” said Anne.
“Ah yes,” said Paul. “What do you like about it?”
Anne moved closer to the abbot’s desk and gazed at the image.
“Mmm . . . I like the way Mary is looking out at me . . .” She caught herself. “I mean, looking out at the viewer. It’s like she’s not afraid to look out and show everyone what she’s experienced.”
“And what do you think she’s experienced?”
Anne knew what the abbot was doing—trying to get her to talk about her own experiences—but she was grateful for his concern and so accepted the tacit invitation. “She had to suffer a great deal.” Though her answer was calculated, saying it saddened her nonetheless.