Merton returns to his life and writing, haunted by God . . .
The weeks went on, and the weather began to show signs of summer when John Paul suddenly arrived at St. Bonaventure’s, on his way back from Mexico. The back seat of his Buick was full of Mexican records and pictures and strange objects and a revolver and big colored baskets, and he was looking relatively well and happy. We spent a couple of afternoons driving around through the hills, and talking, or just driving and not talking. He had been to Yucatan, as he had planned, and he had been to Puebla, and he had just missed being in an earthquake in Mexico City, and he had lent a lot of money to some gent who owned a ranch near St. Luis Potosi. On the same ranch he had shot, with his revolver, a poisonous snake some six feet long.
“Do you expect to get that money back?” I asked him.
“Oh, if he doesn’t pay me, I’ll have a share in his ranch,” said John Paul without concern. But at the moment he was heading back towards Ithaca. I could not be sure whether he was going to go to Cornell summer school, and finally get his degree, or whether he was going to take some more flying lessons, or what he was going to do.
I asked him if he had kept in touch with this priest he knew there.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “sure.”
I asked him what he thought about becoming a Catholic.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve thought about that a little.”
“Why don’t you go to the priest and ask him to give you some instructions?”
“I think I will.”
But I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was as indefinite as he was sincere. He meant well, but he would probably do nothing about it. I said I would give him a copy of the Catechism I had, but when I went to my room I couldn’t find it.
And so John Paul, in the big shiny Buick built low on its chassis, drove off at a great speed, towards Ithaca, with his revolver and his Mexican baskets.
In the gay days of early June, in the time of examinations, I was beginning a new book. It was called The Journal of My Escape from the Nazis and it was the kind of book that I liked to write, full of double-talk and all kinds of fancy ideas that sounded like Franz Kafka. One reason why it was satisfying was that it fulfilled a kind of psychological necessity that had been pent up in me all through the last stages of the war because of my sense of identification, by guilt, with what was going on in England.
So I put myself there and, telescoping my own past with the air-raids that were actually taking place, as its result, I wrote this journal. And, as I say, it was something I needed to write, although I often went off at a tangent, and the thing got away up more than one blind alley.
And so, absorbed in this work, and in the final examinations, and in preparation for the coming summer school, I let the question of the Trappist vocation drop into the background, although I could not drop it altogether.
I said to myself: after summer school, I will go and make a retreat with the Trappists in Canada, at Our Lady of the Lake, outside Montreal.
The day after Christmas is always a little melancholy. Two months (sometimes longer) of decorating and shopping and baking and wrapping and planning. One day (two if you're lucky) of lights and family and laughter and presents and relaxation. Then, life returns to its normal grind, "Silent Night" fading into memory as fast as Santa on his way to Jamaica for some post-Christmas Eve downtime.
Of course, Jesus is still in the manger. The magi are still on their way. There are still twelve more days in this Christian season of light. Kwanzaa just began. Today is Boxing Day in Britain. And Auld Lang Syne still hasn't been sung. I have always believed, as Dickens via Scrooge says: “I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach.”
I will be honest. Christmas joy has been elusive this year, which is unusual for me. Most people who know me will vouch that I am Mr. Christmas. My decorations go up right after Halloween, and they don't come down until well after Candlemas. This year, however, I find myself dwelling more on Christmases past. My mother's Christmas hams. My sister's piles and piles of presents for my kids. My father sitting in his chair, watching Bing Crosby singing "White Christmas" with Danny Kaye.
Here's the lesson I want to pass along tonight--joy doesn't go away. It's always there, like God. Merton learns this. God simply won't let go of Merton. I've found moments of joy these last few days. This evening, for instance, I went to a good friend's house to sing Christmas carols. Outside, masked, and distanced. It filled my heart, which has been fairly empty for most of Advent.
So, music gave me joy tonight. Music and friends. That's what I have to pass along. Joy takes many forms, many faces. Like God. Merton learns this.
Saint Marty learned it tonight, too.
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