Full Circle

Mike Tyson’s fastest knockout took eight seconds.  Iron Mike had nothing on Brother Phillip.  The monk required less time than that to knock the wind out of my sails. 

 

I thought I could surprise him with the flower gardens.  The fact is, he had been carrying a pebble around in his pocket, anticipating a day like today.  We wouldn’t need to send this one to the judge’s scorecards.  The referee had already raised Phillip’s hand.  I never tried to one-up Brother Phillip again.

 

Of course, Phillip was impressed with the gardens.  The monks were given a half hour of recreation time before the seven o’clock prayers.  That was enough time to walk around and inspect all of the flower gardens inside the loop made by St. Bernard Drive.  Phillip and I made that walk many times.

 

The years began to slip by.  I quit thinking about what I should do next.  For the first time in my life, I was contented.  The world could stay the way it was forever, and I would be okay with that.

 

But change is inevitable.  On a spring day in 2003, I woke up with a sour feeling in my stomach.  It must have been bad dreams about the past, that happened from time to time.  It was too dark to head to the fields so I turned on the lights in the barn.  I cleaned and oiled the plow, we had just used it the day before. 

 

A little bit of work usually helped me shake off those feelings.  I had almost forgotten about it when I heard the siren in the distance.  After a few seconds, I realized the direction the sound was coming from.  There was only one road there.  The vehicle was heading down St. Bernard Drive.

 

A feeling of dread hit me, like a brick.  I dropped my tools and began running toward the monastery.

 

The ambulance had parked and the crew was inside when I got there.  In the lobby, Abbot Patrick was talking to some of the monks.  He turned toward me when I came through the door.  I could tell by the look on his face.  It was Brother Phillip.  I sat on the floor and started crying.

 

Abbot Patrick walked over to me, put his hand on my shoulder, and knelt down.  He began to pray.  I had learned a lot about the Benedictine order by then.  I recognized the Prayer to Saint Benedict for a Happy Death:

Intercede for us, O holy Father Benedict.
And obtain for us the grace of a happy death...

 

When he finished the prayer, he added, “And Father, please remind my good friend Evan that he is stronger than he realizes.  Tell him, we will need him now more than ever.  Amen.”

 

I took a deep breath, and stood.  I reached my hand down to Abbot Patrick.  He was in his eighties by then and becoming frail.  I helped him stand up.  I said, “We will have a fine funeral for Brother Phillip.”

 

I realized it was time for me to step into the role of lead farmer.  I may never have Phillip’s touch, but I knew what needed to be done.  I spoke to Abbott Patrick about St. Bernard’s newest monk, Brother Thomas.  He was young, strong, and had not yet chosen a vocation.  He was the most obvious choice to take over my spot. 

 

I had learned what I needed to know from Phillip.  I now held the black belt in farming.  It was time for me to pass my knowledge on.  The cycle of life moves on.

 

I expected Patrick to agree with me about Brother Thomas.  He said he would speak to him and let me know.  I would have never expected what the Abbot said next.

 

“Evan, do you remember what Phillip said about you, years ago?  He said you had the spirit of a monk.  I’ve never disagreed with that assessment.  When he suggested you live in the monastery, I thought, that’s just Phillip being a rebel.  He did that from time to time.  But now, I’m not so sure.  Phillip saw some things more clearly than the rest of us.”

 

“I’ve spoken to the other monks.  It appears that with time, you have worn them down.  No one had any objections when I brought up letting you have Brother Phillip’s cell.  You are more than welcome to continue to live in the loft.  But you’ve earned the right to live with us, if you would like to.”

 

I couldn’t say yes fast enough.  The loft was awesome from fall all the way through spring.  But I had just turned 40.  I’d been in the South for six years.  I had expected I would eventually get used to the withering heat of summer.  Instead, each year, it was worse.  For the first time in my life, I would live in an air conditioned building.

 

Then, Patrick surprised me again.  “There is a lot to be said for, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans.’”  He pulled what looked like a long brown jacket out of a box and handed it to me.  “Don’t worry, I’m not turning you into a monk.  This isn’t a monk’s vestment.  Technically, it is a Celto-Germanic tunic.  Not a religious garment.  But we thought it would be suitable for someone who is essentially a lay monk.”

 

“It is your call, If and when you wish to wear it.  Regardless, I’ve been thinking of you as one of us for a long time.  You are our monk-in-spirit.” 

 

Once, I had been given a chance to see the Soviet Army from the inside.  Now, I would have a backstage pass to life in a monastery. 

 

The tunic was not suitable for farming.  It would be fine when I mingled with the monks at meals, or when I pulled weeds in the flower gardens.  When I cleaned at the Grotto in winter, wearing the tunic made it easy to pretend I was Brother Joseph.  I also wore it on the rare occasions when I left the Abbey property.

 

Such was the case, the day I took Abbot Patrick to a doctor’s appointment in Cullman.  His vision wasn’t what it used to be and he no longer drove.  On the way back to the Abbey, I noticed the car was low on fuel.  I pulled in to a gas station.

 

After filling the tank, I entered the store to pay.  Right away, I knew something was off.  I sensed fear coming from the clerk.  The man standing at the counter turned and I saw a gun in his hand.  I had walked in on a robbery.  I froze.  

 

The man looked at me, then focused on the door.  He slid the gun in his pocket and strode toward the exit.  I realized, he saw my tunic, decided I was a monk, and assumed I was not a threat.  Committing armed robbery is never a good idea.  Doing it in front of me and pretending I am not there is terrible way to compound the mistake.

 

I focused on breathing as he walked past me.  In one quick movement, I grabbed his arm with one hand, and threw my other arm around his neck.  I jumped on his back and wrapped my legs around his waist.  He tried to reach for the gun but I had his arms pinned down with my thighs.  I tucked my right ankle securely behind my left knee.  I couldn’t count the number of times I had done the same thing to my uncle.  Thanks to Eastwood, sinking in a body triangle at the same time I locked down a rear naked choke was a reflex for me.

 

We fell into a display rack.  Candy bars and bags of potato chips flew in all directions as we hit the ground.  The man squirmed for a few moments, then went limp.  I pulled his belt out of his pants and used it to secure his wrists behind his back.  The clerk had already called 911.  The police arrived about the same time the man was waking up.

 

Anyone who thinks monks do not have a sense of humor never met Abbot Patrick.  When it was all over, I got in the car.  He said, “Evan, you are really getting soft.  I saw that man’s hands when the police took him out of the store.  He still had all of his fingers.”

 

I took a lot of teasing from the monks over the incident.  Things like that rarely occur in monastic life.  They had a lot of fun with it.  There was an article in the Cullman Times.  The headline read, St. Bernard Monk Foils Robber.  The reporter interviewed Abbot Patrick, and he referred to me as Brother Evan.

 

The thought came to me.  I would have no problem staying at the monastery for the rest of my life.  I fit in there as well here as I had anywhere.  I didn’t know the robbery would play a part in me leaving.

 

I didn’t know that the security system at the gas station recorded two copies of the video feed.  The owner gave one copy to the police.  He took the other copy home.  I didn’t know anything about the internet.  I had never heard of YouTube.  I didn’t know what “going viral” meant.  For a brief moment, I was a minor internet celebrity.  Living in the seclusion of the monastery, I would not find out about it until years later.

 

The incident faded into the past as the days went by.  I focused on the education of Brother Thomas.  He had chosen farming as his vocation, and had replaced Phillip as my partner.

 

He really threw me for a loop.  When he showed up at the farm, I was expecting to teach Thomas about agriculture.  I had no idea he would view me as a personal mentor.  I did not see that coming.

 

After a couple of days of hard work, Thomas said, “Evan, can I talk to you about something?”  The young man began speaking.  He was having doubts about his decision to become a monk.  He was questioning everything about his beliefs.  He wasn’t even sure of his faith.   And for some reason, he thought I was the right person to talk to about it.  The feeling in my stomach told me I was in over my head.

 

Then I remembered the conversation I had with Abbot Patrick, the day I met him.

 

I consider it my mission to serve all of humanity, not just those who share my beliefs.

 

“Thomas, you know I am not a religious man.  But I’ve learned a lot about the people who have chosen to spend their lives here.  It is a difficult life, but a good one for those who belong here.  Some of the questions in your mind, I cannot answer for you.”

 

What I believe is this.  God brings people to St. Bernard for a reason.

 

“I’m a practical man.  I will never tell you I am 100% certain of anything.  But, I am 99.9% certain that you are here for a good reason.  And I do know this.  I want you to be here.  I need you.  And I believe St. Bernard needs you as well.”

 

Thomas and I would talk many times after that.  Like many people, he would spend a lifetime figuring out who he was.  But I could tell.  He never questioned whether he belonged at the Abbey again.

 

The years began to march by.  One day at lunch, Brother Thomas led some of the monks to my table.  He was carrying a birthday cake, with ten candles lit.  It wasn’t my birthday.  Then I realized, it was June, 2008.  I’d been at the Abbey for a decade.

 

I was 45 years old.  At the age where you start losing people, way too often.  Jewel McComb had passed.  I’d gotten a letter from Roberta Nagel.  Kenneth was gone.  Both of George Henderson’s parents, within a month of each other.  Abbot Patrick.  That hit me as hard as when I lost Phillip.

 

But what can you do?  The best way to honor the dead is to go on living.

 

Brother Thomas would not be the only young monk I would mentor.  Each time a novice started at the monastery, somehow they ended up seeking my advice.  I realized I was in a unique position.  I was an outsider, but someone they could trust and confide in. 

 

Young people are filled with so many doubts.  I did my best to reassure them.  There was one thing I was certain of.  None of them were nearly as messed up as me when I was their age.  Just be patient, my young friend.  It will be okay.

 

I enjoyed the time I spent on the farm with Brother Thomas.  I enjoyed the hours of solitude, in the winter, cleaning the displays in the Grotto.  But nothing made me happier than tending the flower gardens.

 

The project had taken hold at the prep school.  As the seasons passed, many children took their turn, pulling weeds and watering.  It was not necessary to replant.  The marigold and sulphur cosmos were hardy enough to regrow on their own, from the seeds dropped by the previous year’s plants.

 

The flowers became an attraction in their own right.  Many of the visitors to Ave Maria Grotto would also walk through the gardens.  Brother Thomas came up with the idea for the “St. Bernard Butterfly Trail.”  Signs marked the path. 

 

I got used to being interrupted when I was tending the gardens.  People asked questions about the flowers.  For some reason, many wanted to take my picture.  Thomas set up a booth at the end of the trail.  Visitors were encouraged to take some of the seedlings home, and create their own garden. 

 

I’d been carrying Brother Phillip’s pebble in my pocket since the day he gave it to me.  I realized, I would give it Brother Thomas one day.

 

It was May 10^th.  That was a special day on my calendar.  Uncle Eastwood’s birthday.  I celebrated by pulling weeds from one of the flower gardens.  I was 53 years old.  At that age, weeding was more than enough excitement for me.

 

While I pulled weeds, I played the same game I had for years.  I listened to the footsteps of the visitors walking behind me.  I would count the number of people, and try to guess gender, size, and age.  I got better at it as the years rolled by.

 

I knew from the footsteps, it was a solitary female.  Probably middle aged and slender.  What I didn’t know was that she would speak in Russian.

 

“Hello, Private Andreyevsky.  I remember that day in Ushmun, when you showed me where you had burned the fingers and smashed the bones.  I had no idea you would have such a green thumb.”

 

I stood and turned.  The hair had turned gray.  Time had drawn lines on her face.  But there was no doubt.  She was the woman with red hair.  “Hello, Irina.”

 

We walked along the butterfly trail and caught up.  She married Pavel after she left the Army.  Together, they had three children, two boys and a girl.  Two of the kids were already married.  Last year, Pavel was diagnosed with cancer, and died a few months later.  Irina mourned the man she had shared a lifetime with, then decided to find me.

 

I was curious how she did it.  She said, “I’ll bet you don’t know much about the internet.  I typed your name into Google.  After a few minutes of searching, I found a video titled Monk Chokes Out Robber.  It didn’t take long to track you down.”

 

“So tell me Evan.  Do you intend to spend the rest of your life at the monastery?”

 

I had never forgotten the time we spent together.  There was no doubt, Irina was the best thing that had ever happened to me.  I realized what she was asking. 

 

I said, “I’ll go where you go.  What did you have in mind?”

 

“I was thinking, New York, London, Paris, then Berlin.  We should plan on being in Vladivostok by August 18^th.  That is Colonel Kashuba’s 80^th birthday.  He lives with his son now, and walks his dogs every day when the weather is nice.  He’d love to see you.”

 

One more time, I said goodbye to a group of people I had come to think of as family.  I knew the farm would be in good hands.  I had taught my replacement well.  There was just one more thing to do.  The monks formed a line and I hugged everyone.  Except Brother Thomas.

 

He was last in line.  I poked him in the chest with my finger.  I told him to close his eyes, and hold out his hand.

 

On the way to the airport, Irina said, “I haven’t told you the very best part.  My daughter is pregnant.  I’ll be a grandmother before Christmas.”

 

She paused.  I saw the grin forming on her face.  She said, “So, Evan.  How are you at changing diapers?”

 

“I don’t know, Irina.  Eastwood didn’t teach me how to do that.”

 

 

Author’s note:  This is the end of Evan’s adventure.  Next, I will write The Story Of Eastwood.   A short tale describing how his uncle got the nickname.

 

This story is almost 100% fiction.  I hate cold weather.  Alabama is never too hot for me.  But Ave Maria Grotto and St. Bernard Abbey are real places.  If you are in the southeastern United States, you must check out Brother Joseph’s creations.

 

www.avemariagrotto.com