The Servant

by James C Hunter

  I was never really sure if there was any meaning or significance to all of these “Simeon coincidences.” My wife Rachael was always convinced that there was.

  BY THE LATE 1990S, to all outward appearances, I had the world by the tail.

  I was employed by a world-class flat glass manufacturer as general manager of a plant with more than five hundred employees and just over $100 million in annual sales. At the time I was promoted to the position, I was the youngest G.M. in the history of the company, a fact of which I am still very proud. My employer ran a very decentralized company allowing me great autonomy, which I relished. I had a pretty healthy salary that included significant bonus dollars provided we hit certain goals and measurables at the plant.

  Rachael, my beautiful wife of eighteen years, and I first met while attending Valparaiso University in northwestern Indiana where I graduated with a business degree and she an M.A. in psychology. We desperately wanted children but struggled with infertility for several years. We did the fertility treatments, shots, tests, poking, prodding, acupuncture, you name it—all with no results. Infertility was especially hard on Rachael, but she never gave up hope of having children. I would often wake up at night and hear her quietly praying for a child.

  Then, through a series of unusual but wonderful circumstances, we adopted a baby at birth and named him John (after me) and he became known as our “miracle” baby. Two years later, Rachael unexpectedly became pregnant and our second “miracle” baby, Sarah, was born.

  John Jr., now fourteen, had just begun the ninth grade, Sarah the seventh. From the day we adopted John, Rachael cut back her therapy practice to just one day a week as we believed it was important, if possible, for her to be a full-time homemaker. In addition, the one day a week gave her a little break from the “mom routine” and also enabled her to keep her professional skills sharp. We were very thankful that we were able to swing it financially.

  We owned (along with the bank) a very nice home on the northwest shore of Lake Erie, roughly thirty miles south of Detroit. A thirty-foot offshore-style pleasure boat was conveniently parked in a hoist behind my home (next to a Sea-Doo jet ski), we had two new leased cars in the garage, we took at least two family vacations a year, and we still managed to put a pretty good chunk of money in the bank each year for college and retirement.

  As I said, to all appearances, I really did have the world by the tail.

  BUT, OF COURSE, things are not always as they appear. The fact was that my life was falling apart. Rachael had told me a month earlier that she had been unhappy in the marriage for some time and insisted that things had to change. She told me that her “needs” were not being met. I could hardly believe my ears! Here I thought I was providing everything a woman could ask for and yet she said that I wasn’t meeting her needs! What other needs could she possibly have?

  Things with the kids were not going so well either. John Jr. was getting increasingly mouthy around the house and had even called Rachael a bitch three weeks earlier. I was so mad I nearly hit him and ended up grounding him for a week after that incident. He bucked any kind of authority or instructions from adults and even got his left ear pierced! If it hadn’t been for Rachael, I would have thrown his butt right out of the house. My relationship with John Jr. had deteriorated to grunts and nods.

  My relationship with my daughter Sarah also seemed to be heading south. We had always shared a special bond and I still get misty-eyed thinking of her as a little girl. But she seemed distant and even a little angry with me at times for no apparent reason. Rachael often suggested that I talk with Sarah about my feelings but I could never seem to “find the time” or, more honestly, the courage.

  My work, the one area in my life where I was sure I could count on success, was also taking a turn in the wrong direction. The hourly employees in the plant had recently campaigned to have a union represent them. Emotions ran high during the campaign, but thankfully the company managed to win the election by fifty votes. I was elated, but my boss was upset that the vote had even taken place and suggested that it was a management problem, which was my responsibility. I wasn’t sure what he meant because I was convinced the problem was not me but those union-pushers in the plant who always wanted something for nothing! The corporate human resources manager even suggested I take a look at my leadership style. That really ticked me off! But she was a liberal, touchy-feely, cause-oriented gal and what did she know about running a large business anyway? She talked theories. I was concerned with results.

  Even the Little League baseball team I had volunteered to coach for the last six years was struggling. We won more than our share of games and generally finished respectably in the league, but several parents complained to the head of the league that their kids were simply not having any fun. I knew I could get a little intense and competitive at times—but so what? Two sets of parents even requested that their sons be transferred to other teams. That was a real blow to my ego.

  And there was more. I was always a happy-go-lucky, carefree kind of guy with few worries, but now I found myself brooding about practically everything. In spite of all the status and the material toys I possessed, on the inside I was filled with turmoil and conflict. Living for me became a futile exercise of going through the motions. I was becoming moody and withdrawn. Even minor irritations and inconveniences bothered me out of proportion to reality. In fact, it seemed that everyone bugged me. I even annoyed myself.

  Of course, I was much too proud to share any of this with others, so I managed to keep everyone fooled. Everyone except Rachael.

  OUT OF HER DISTRESS, Rachael firmly suggested that I talk things over with the pastor of our church. In a weak moment I agreed—but my main motivation was to get Rachael off my back. Now understand, I was never the religious type. I always believed church had its place provided it didn’t interfere too much with your life.

  The pastor suggested I get away by myself for a few days and try to sort things out. He recommended attending a retreat at a small, relatively unknown Christian monastery called John of the Cross, which was located on Lake Michigan near the town of Leeland in the northwestern section of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. The pastor explained that the monastery housed thirty to forty monks of the Order of St. Benedictine, named after the sixth-century monk who devised the “balanced” monastic life. Now, as in the previous fourteen centuries, the monks lived structured lives centered around three priorities—prayer, work, and silence.

  Overall, I thought it sounded like a silly idea—something that I would never follow up on—but as I was leaving, the pastor mentioned that one of the monks was a former Fortune 500 executive named Leonard Hoffman. That caught my attention. I had always wondered what had ever become of the legendary Len Hoffman.

  WHEN I ARRIVED HOME and told Rachael what the pastor had suggested, she beamed at me. “That’s exactly what I was going to suggest for you, John!” she said. “I saw a piece on Oprah just last week about businessmen and-women going on spiritual retreats to sort out their busy lives. You must be meant to go.”

  Rachael often made comments like that, which irritated me no end. “Meant” to go? What was that supposed to mean?

  To make a long story short, I reluctantly agreed to go to John of the Cross the first week in October—mainly because I feared Rachael would leave me if I didn’t do something. Rachael drove the six hours to the monastery and I was silent for most of the trip. My pouting was intended to communicate that I was not happy to be going to some dreary monastery for an entire week and that my misery and huge personal sacrifice were for her sake. Pouting was a tool I had used since I was a kid.

  We arrived at the entrance to John of the Cross at dusk. We turned onto the two-track path and drove uphill and back toward the lake about a quarter of a mile. We parked in a small sandy parking lot next to an old wooden building with a “Registration” sign nailed to one of the huge white porch pillars.

  A few smaller buildings were scattered around the premi
ses and all were built on a magnificent sand cliff a couple of hundred feet above and overlooking Lake Michigan. The setting was beautiful but I didn’t mention that to Rachael. After all, I was supposed to be suffering.

  “Take care of the kids and house, honey,” I said rather coldly as I grabbed my bag out of the trunk, “and I’ll call you Wednesday night. Who knows, maybe after this week I’ll be the perfect guy you want me to be and then give it all up to become a monk!”

  “Very funny, John,” she responded while giving me a hug and kiss. With that she was in the car and off in a trail of dust.

  I THREW MY BAG over my shoulder and headed toward the registration building. Inside I found a simply furnished, immaculately kept front desk area staffed by a middle-aged man talking on the telephone. He was wearing a black robe that covered him from chin to toe. The gown was gathered at his waist with a length of black rope.

  As soon as he hung up the phone, he turned to me and warmly shook my hand. “I’m Father Peter; I help run things here at the guest house. You must be John Daily from downstate.”

  “That’s pretty good, Peter. How did you know who I was?” I replied, not about to address anyone as “Father.”

  “Just a guess based on the application your pastor sent to us,” he answered with a warm smile.

  “Who is in charge of things here?” the manager in me wanted to know.

  “Brother James has served as our abbot for the past twenty-two years.”

  “What on earth is an abbot?”

  “The abbot is our elected leader and has the final say in all matters concerning our little community. Perhaps you will get a chance to meet him.”

  “I would like to request a single room this week, Peter, if that’s OK with you. I brought some work along with me and I could use some privacy.”

  “Unfortunately, John, we have only three guest rooms upstairs. Our guests this week include three men and three women, which means that the women will share room number one, our largest room. Our guest from the Army will have room number two to himself, and you will be rooming with Lee Buhr—he’s a Baptist minister from Pewaukee, Wisconsin—in room number three. Lee arrived a couple of hours ago and is already settled in. Do you have any other questions?”

  “What are the festivities you’ve got planned for the week?” I asked, somewhat sarcastically.

  “In addition to our five daily chapel services, we will have seven days of classroom instruction beginning tomorrow morning and continuing through Saturday morning. Classes will be held in this building from nine to eleven in the morning and again from two to four in the afternoon. In your spare time, you are free to roam the grounds, read, study, talk with our spiritual guides, rest, or do whatever you feel moved to do. The only area that’s off limits is the cloistered area where the monks eat and sleep. Is there anything else I can answer for you, John?”

  “I’m curious, why do you refer to some of the monks as ‘brother’ and others as ‘father’?”

  “Those called ‘father’ are ordained clergymen while ‘brothers’ are laypeople from many different walks of life. All of us have made a commitment to work and share our lives together. The thirty-three brothers and fathers share equal stature here. Our names are given to us by the abbot when we take our vows. I arrived here from an orphanage forty years ago, and following my training and vows I was assigned the name Peter.”

  I finally asked the question I was the most interested in. “I would like to meet Len Hoffman and talk some things over with him. I understand he came here some years ago to join your little group.”

  “Len Hoffman, Len Hoffman,” Peter repeated as he scanned the ceiling, searching his memory. “Oh yes, I think I know who you mean. He also has a different name now. I’m sure he’d love to talk with you. I’ll place a note in his mailbox with your request. Come to think of it, he’ll be teaching your class on leadership this week. I’m sure you will get a lot out of the class, everyone always does. Good night, sleep well, John, and I hope to see you at the 5:30 chapel service in the morning.

  “Oh, and incidentally, John,” he continued as I started up the staircase, “Ten years ago the abbot assigned Len Hoffman the name Brother Simeon.”

  FEELING SOMEWHAT STUNNED, I stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs and stuck my head out the open window to pull in several large breaths of fresh air. It was now nearly pitch black outside and I could hear the waves of Lake Michigan crashing against the shore far below. The wind was howling in from the west at a pretty good clip and the dry autumn leaves were rustling in the huge hardwood trees, sounds I have loved since I was a kid. I could see flashes of lightning on the horizon over the huge, dark lake and I could hear the distant sounds of thunder.

  I had an eerie feeling, not uncomfortable or scary, just a sense of déjà vu. “Brother Simeon?” I thought. “This is just a little too weird.”

  I closed the window and walked slowly down the hallway to look for my room. I quietly opened the door marked with a number three.

  A dim orange night light showed me a small yet welcoming room with two twin beds, two desks, and a little couch. A half-open door revealed an attached bathroom. The Baptist preacher was already asleep and softly snoring, curled in the bed by the window.

  I suddenly felt very tired. I quickly jumped out of my clothes and into a pair of sweat pants, set my pocket alarm clock for 5:00 A.M., and climbed into bed. As tired as I felt, I didn’t honestly believe I would make the 5:30 morning service, but I thought I’d set the alarm as a good faith effort.

  I laid my head back on the pillow to sleep, but my mind was spinning crazily. “Find Simeon and listen to him!” Brother Simeon? Had I found him? What kind of a coincidence could this be? How did I ever get myself into this? “You must be meant to go”—five church services a day—I can barely handle a couple a month! What am I going to do with myself all week? My dream—what will Simeon be like? What will he have to say to me? Why am I here? “Find Simeon and listen to him!”

  The next thing I knew my alarm clock was chirping.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Definitions

  Being in power is like being a lady.

  If you have to remind people that you are, you aren’t.

  —MARGARET THATCHER

  “GOOD MORNING,” MY ROOMMATE cheerfully called out to me from his bed before I had even turned my alarm off, “I’m Pastor Lee from Wisconsin. And who might you be?”

  “John Daily from downstate. Good to meet you, Lee.” I didn’t do “Pastor” either.

  “We better get dressed if we’re going to make it to the 5:30 service.”

  “You go on ahead. I’m gonna get a little more sack time,” I mumbled, trying to sound tired.

  “Suit yourself, partner,” he quipped and was dressed and out the door in minutes.

  I rolled over, pulling the pillow over my head, but soon discovered I was wide awake and feeling a little guilty. Rather than fight it, I quickly washed, dressed, and headed out to find the chapel. It was still dark and the ground was wet from a storm that must have passed over during the night.

  I could barely make out the steeple silhouetted against the early morning sky as I made my way over to the chapel. Once inside, I discovered that the old, hexagonal wooden structure was impeccably maintained. The walls were beautifully adorned with stained glass windows, each depicting a different scene. The high, cathedral-style ceiling rose from each of the six walls and converged in the center to form the steeple. There were hundreds of candles burning throughout the sanctuary, the flickering shadows on the walls and stained glass creating an interesting kaleidoscope of shapes and hues. Opposite the door of the church was a simple altar consisting of a small wooden table with the various implements used during the Mass. Immediately in front of the altar and forming a semicircle around it were three rows of eleven simple wooden chairs, obviously set up for the thirty-three monks. Only one of the chairs had arm rests on it. It also had a large crucifix carved into the back suppor
t; reserved for the abbot, I assumed. Along one of the walls adjacent to the altar were six folding chairs, which I quickly deduced were for the use of the retreat participants. I quietly made my way over to one of the three vacant chairs and sat down.

  My watch said 5:25, yet only half of the thirty-nine chairs were filled. No one spoke as people quietly filed into the chapel, the only sound being the melodic ticking of a huge grandfather clock in the back corner of the chapel. The monks were dressed in their long black robes with rope ties at the waist while the retreat participants were dressed casually. By 5:30, there was a body in every seat.

  Suddenly the huge clock in the back began to chime the half hour. The monks immediately rose and began to chant a liturgy, thankfully in English. The retreat participants were given handouts to follow along with but I was quickly lost turning the pages back and forth to the various antiphons, psalms, hymns, and responsive singing sections. I finally gave up trying and just sat back and listened.

  I remembered our pastor saying that the monks worshipped in the centuries-old Gregorian format. A year earlier, Rachael had purchased the popular Chant CD (a recording of monks in Spain) and I had become very fond of it. This chanting was similar, though the words were in English.

  A few of the younger monks referred to their hymnals and other worship guides periodically, but most required no assistance as they moved gracefully through the different parts of the service from memory. Their skills were impressive.

  After about twenty minutes or so, the service concluded as suddenly as it had begun and the monks followed the abbot out the back of the church in single file. I glanced at each face as they left, trying to pick out Len Hoffman. Which one was he?

  IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING the chapel service, I made my way over to the little library, which was just a stone’s throw from the chapel. I wanted to do an Internet search and an elderly and extremely helpful monk showed me how to get online.