- Mar 11, 2019
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Long Slow Journey
“If you only knew who God is… and how much He deserves to have you study His unsearchable riches, His generosity, His extreme goodness, His love—and again, yes, always—His love, for love is the essence of His being.”
—Gabrielle Bossis, He and I
One of the blessings of getting older—despite all that one endures—is, for me, a great gift.
When I was a young monk, I was strong, busy, and often driving for the community. It was good for me. Yet, learning to settle quietly in God’s presence took many decades, and not without much frustration.
Working in the infirmary, caring for the elderly, helped me understand human weakness, especially in times of decline and vulnerability. Yet I also used that work, in part, to avoid deepening my relationship with God in any real way. Slowly, over the years, God worked on me—allowing me to struggle, fall, rise again, and gradually grow in trust.
God’s mercy and love can seem harsh when we are confronted with inner realities we did not know we carried. My monastic vocation brought many of these to light. Yet even in that, there was grace.
I still work. I remain Prior and Guest Master. By temperament, I am a good manager, so I am not overwhelmed. I have great respect for our Abbot and will serve as long as he desires, or until age no longer permits it.
By God’s grace—and only by His mercy—I have come to love solitude deeply. I find myself drawn into the vast, bottomless ocean that is God. In times of both consolation and desolation, I am slowly learning that His love does not change.
I pray the Chaplet of Mercy each morning before Vigils. Each day has its own quiet uniqueness. This morning, as I prayed slowly, I was drawn to contemplate Jesus washing the feet of the Apostles. Though He knew He would be abandoned, though He knew Judas’s intent, He still knelt before each one in love.
Then, suddenly, it was my own feet He was washing.
I recoiled inwardly—almost horrified by the turn my meditation had taken—yet I stayed with it. One of my sufferings in old age is my longing for God, alongside the painful awareness of how little I truly love Him. My heart remains guarded in ways that only grace can gently work open.
God as servant—everything turned upside down.
If I could weep, I would have. That, too, is a small sorrow I must carry and be patient with. I often feel like a moth drawn to light, continually meeting an invisible barrier—yet the pull only grows stronger.
When I speak with guests, I often feel they are closer to God than I am. Perhaps that is why I am a monk. I need the community; I cannot do this alone.
The Abbot understands me well. I have a tendency to isolate, which is not the same as solitude. He gently challenges me to remain connected. I am grateful for that, even when it stirs resistance in me. The resistance passes.
On Holy Thursday, the Abbot washes the feet of the community, mindful of its meaning. This morning’s grace has deepened that meaning for me. In the Rule, we are called to be obedient to one another—not only to the Abbot.
Yes, getting older—with all its burdens—may be the most important time of all, for those who are given the grace to receive it.
—Br. MD
