I HOPE YOU CAN FIND whatever it is you are missing.”
The cell had not gotten any larger in my absence. Five days in this room was going to be the death of me. I lay down on the bed and fell asleep again. The dinner bell woke me just before 5:00 p.m. I walked to the front desk where Virginia waved to me and pointed to the door where the brothers ate their common meals, called the refectory. There were plates and cups and utensils along the wall and a large pot of soup on a butcher block. A variety of uncooked vegetables rounded out this fine meal.I will lose five pounds at this place, I thought. I noticed that all of the monks were thin except one.He must be sneaking Snickers when no one is looking, I thought with a twinge of malice. Then I realized that, if I were stuck here, I would probably do the same.
I sat at the silent table and slowly began eating my bean soup and raw carrots. To my surprise, it actually tasted pretty good, kind of like when you are camping and even Spam is something to salivate over. One of the brothers was reading something from the old Scottish writer George MacDonald as the rest of us quietly slurped and listened. One of the brothers motioned for me to pass the salt, and when I handed it to him, he smiled and nodded. Most of what was read passed over me unattended, but the reader caught my attention with “Begin to love as God loves, and thy grief will assuage; but for comfort wait His time. What He will do for thee, He only knows. It may be thou wilt never know what He will do, but only what He has done. It was too good for thee to know save by receiving it. The moment thou art capable of it, thine it will be.”
Grief, I thought,does not assuage. Mine has not diminished or healed. I wondered silently if anyone in the room had suffered through what I had. I glanced at Brother Taylor, sipping his soup. I wondered,Does he know about disappointment with God? Or has his life been sheltered and cloistered, reading his dusty books and praying five times a day, unaware of the pain outside these walls?
The silence of the meal was peaceful. It was nice not to have to make conversation, to be clever or seem interested. We just ate. It was strange to do something as intimate as sharing a meal with people but yet not speak to one another. Somehow I felt a sense of belonging even though I had not spoken a word or been spoken to.
I retired to my room and sat there in silence for three hours. Several times I got up and paced the floor like a caged animal. I positioned my chair in front of the window and stared at the bricks. A bell rang, which summoned us to the chapel to participate in what they called “compline,” the final service of the day. I didn’t feel like praising God or even praying, but I wanted out of my cell. The monks chanted a number of psalms, mixed with some prayers and passages from the New Testament selected for each day of the year. The chapel was more ornate than I, as a Methodist, was used to. After a few minutes I got comfortable with the pageantry. The gold and silver and stained glass, along with the smell of incense, seemed to usher me out of ordinary time and space. The sound of the monks chanting began to move me and made the back of my throat hurt from the ache of unshed tears.
We retired in silence after the service. I went
