Merton learns something about being a novice . . .
It was too far from town to go down to Communion every morning—I had to hitch-hike down. And that was one reason why I asked one of my friends, Father Joseph, a friar who had come to St. Bonaventure’s from New York to teach summer school, if I could not come down there for a couple of weeks.
Seeing that I was going to enter the Order in August, it was not hard to persuade the Guardian to let me come down and stay in the big, dilapidated room in the gymnasium that was occupied by three or four poor students and seminarians who had odd jobs around the place as telephone operators and garage hands, for the summer.
At that time all the clerics from the different houses of studies in the Province came to St. Bonaventure’s for the summer, and I suppose they are doing it again, now that the war is over. So in those weeks I really began to enter into Franciscan life, and get some taste of it as it is led in this country and to know some of its pleasant and cheerful and easy-going informality.
Summer school had not yet started, and the clerics had plenty of time to sit around on the steps of the library and gymnasium and tell me stories about how it had been with them in the novitiate. I began to get a picture of a life that was, in their estimation, somewhat severe, but was full of its own lighter moments.
St. Anthony’s monastery, they said, was the hottest place they had ever seen, in the summer time, and the chapel was stuffy, and was filled with a sickening smell of wax from all the burning candles. Then there was a certain amount of work to be done. You had to scrub floors and wash dishes and work in the garden. But then you got some time to yourself and there was recreation too. I got dark hints of humiliations that were to be expected, here and there, but they all agreed that the novice master was a good sort of a fellow, and they liked him. They told me I would too.
Merton is in the thrall of the idea of being a novice in a monastery. He hasn't had to deal with the day-to-dayness of being part of a religious order, so even mundane details like burning wax and dirty dishes and floors hold a certain excitement for him. Everything is polished with newness and hope, that feeling you get looking at a pile of unopened Christmas gifts or sitting in a brand new car. It's all about possibility.
Here I sit on the cusp of summer. Outside my office window at the library, trees are flushed with green. All day, I watched people shambling, ambling, loping by in shorts and tees as I worked. The temperature at 3 p.m. topped out at around 81 degrees. I actually contemplated walking up the street to get an ice cream cone about mid-afternoon. I held on to that thought for several hours. Because, in my experience, anticipation is much better than gratification.
In my childhood, the build-up to Christmas was huge. This was in the days before streaming services and VCRs, when you had to watch A Charlie Brown Christmas or Santa Claus is Coming to Town or How the Grinch Stole Christmas on its broadcast date and time. If you missed the scheduled airing, you had to wait another 365 days for the chance of seeing the program again. So, even Christmas television specials stoked the fire of longing. And that was the best part of the whole season--the wishing and wanting and dreaming.
Now, it is next to impossible to sustain that kind of anticipation indefinitely. Eventually, Christmas arrives or you board the plane for Hawaii or you go pick up your new pair of glasses. Then, you are confronted by reality. You get a biography of Alfred Nobel instead of the Nobel Prize in Literature for Christmas. A hurricane hits Waikiki the day you arrive and causes a two-week electrical blackout. Your new glasses make you look like Truman Capote after a three-week bender.
Yesterday morning, after a long weekend of rehearsing and performing for a live recording of a radio show, I FELT like Truman Capote after a three-week bender. I. Was. T. I. R. E. D. I had no wishes or wants or dreams, aside from five more hours of sleep and/or a hefty amount of caffeine. I was anticipating a pretty rough day.
About ten in the morning, I received a text, informing me that my sister, Rose, was rushed by ambulance to the hospital for a possible stroke. Two sentences, and all of my exhaustion burned off like a comet screaming through Earth's atmosphere. And what was left was a day of worry, more texts, prayer, and more worry. I went from wishing, wanting, and dreaming for additional hours of sleep to wishing, wanting, and dreaming that my sister was alright.
In short, the universe gave me a reality check.
Longtime disciples of Saint Marty know that Rose is my older sister (by two years). She has Down Syndrome and is in the later stages of Alzheimer's. For the last year, she's been suffering from seizures, which, according to doctors, is an expected symptom of the disease. There's not a whole lot to be done, except to medicate and hope it works.
I went from anticipating a day of complete and utter tiredness yesterday to a day of anticipating a phone call telling my my sister was on life support. And a LOT of people sending up healing thoughts and prayers to the universe, Jesus, Allah, Jehovah, the Force, whatever.
By the late afternoon, Rose had opened her eyes. By evening, she was eating mashed potatoes, pudding, and ice cream, washing it all down with chocolate milk.
This might not sound like a miracle to some of my disciples, but, to me, it really was like opening up a present on Christmas and finding an invitation from the Swedish Academy to travel to Stockholm to accept my Nobel Prize. Or plane tickets to Honolulu. Or the newest iPhone. Or a pair of glasses that make me look like George Clooney. In fact, it was like all of those things combined.
Today, Rose is sitting up in a chair and eating and talking. She will probably come home tomorrow, according to the doctors.
In this case, gratification certainly outstripped anticipation. Rose certainly isn't out of the woods. She still is in the later stages of Alzheimer's. When I go to see her after she gets home, she still won't know who I am. However, she is eating, drinking, laughing, and talking.
And for that miracle, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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