Christmas Monk

Abbeys and monks have some relationship,
though perhaps only in contemplation of silence.

It is close enough to Christmas for this ... (From "A Christmas Dozen")

Silent Knight

The caretaker of the hunting lodge was naturally startled to hear pounding on the door. It was often months between visits to this desolate spot when winter claimed the beautiful setting as its own. He should have been more startled by the giant figure filling the doorway in the gloom, but a calm settled over the old man as he recognized — felt — the Knight for who he was. Through gesture and pantomime the monk secured paper and pen. By sheer force of presence, the priest imparted the urgency and danger of the small group of campers up in the old logging camp. Fortunately, the isolated lodge had a short-wave radio, its link to the distant world. “Call for help," he demonstrated. Dann’s personal frustration over not having the strength to lift the logs and free the child brushed past his mind like a pestering moth. Hope — hope! The news was not good! With the narrow passes closed by the storm, it would be well into the next day before help could arrive. Personal fears of being trapped and helpless again pushed in upon him. Together they got the message out and started the rescue process. The monk hurled himself into the night.

"Only an hour has passed? Where are they?”
The swirling snows had swept clean the measured footprints, a second by second recording of his earlier race down the rutted mountain path to the lodge.

"Gone? No! ... only paved over to tiny velvet drifts. Faith needs little help,” he reminded himself with a restored resolve and discipline. The nearly full moon coaxed faint shadows from the silent pines, pointing the way back up the mountain. These pines, once coated with the dust red pollen of death — spewed by passing logging trucks, urged him on.

“Snow hides many sins,” he mused. “Not a good thought for today though. Try praying!" the priest chided himself. "Snow — cleansing snow — lends dignity and clarity to some of His finest artistry. Good job Lord... That's better."

Even the barren shafts of dogwood and willow, stark and ugly in the day, flashed silver piping in the night, and in contrast, lent softness to the white pillows on each ladened limb of fir and spruce. The cushioning silence would normally have caused the monk to stop and cherish and praise. Now it served only to muffle the crunch of his 40-inch stride.

Contrast! Gleaming black boots flashing beneath the flowing white robe. His former life — filled with pain and anguish — a house in disarray; now peace — 'cares forgotten among the lilies'.

"Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me."

The continuous prayer drifted out on each puff of frosted breath, later to settle on the crouching manzanita and greet the dawn as jeweled 'pogonip', the 'white death' of Indian legend. The breath of life in the night — the threat of death in the day. The Knight's thoughts turned again to the small girl miles ahead, trapped in the collapsed slag pile of discarded branches and gnarled trunks. His pace might have quickened out of concern, but discipline controlled his steady drive. One hundred giant strides running, one hundred long paces walking — another mile conquered every 8 minutes! The sharp crack of a broken branch pierced the awesome silence and startled a hidden owl from its perch — another ghostly form to glide in the dim moonlight — a lost soul perhaps? Sacrilege? The golden cross on the breast of the priest's tunic flashed a reminder of the stronger light that burned within and allowed such thoughts without harm, 'O living flame of love!' The whirling staff in his hands carved an endless 'figure eight' in the lightly falling crystals, a symbol of balance and strength — a metronome to pace his stride. On — on. He would arrive about midnight. Christmas! Joy! If anyone were present to see, they would have been startled by the intensity of blue eyes shining through the protective slits in the cowled facemask. The decorative embroidered crosses stitched in the hem of the warm hood were but a few of the many functional tools hidden in the simple garb. The Mylar sheet, sandwiched between the layers of wool, kept the keening wind at bay. Only memories crept in.

Christmas — rebirth — it is this monk's birthday also. Back — back. As the mind reaches out, it reaches in. “Wherever the pilgrim wanders, memories remain. Action always speaks louder than words. Being alone is different than being lonely,” he intoned internally. The jumbled thoughts threatened to slow Dann's mission but he gained focus by recalling the words of his mentor, Saint John of the Cross, "'I will not head for the mountains and for watersides, I will not gather flowers, nor fear wild beasts; I will go beyond strong men and frontiers.’"

Dann always felt slightly guilty over his inability to place all of his personal tragedies and pain behind him; months in the jungle prison camps, the torture and the broken larynx. He wrestled continuously with his personal ‘sin of humility’, the belief that his burdens were greater than the next man’s, the taking vows, would make the choices simpler.

Dann was the largest of all the pilgrims in the strange monastic order. He also was the only Knight who could not utter a sound. Ten years of study, discipline and transition had been more difficult for him because of his lost voice. Such a price to pay to become a monk, then a priest, and finally a Knight. But then, he didn't need words — a discovery that had released the young soldier from his despair and fear. Action! "Focus and discipline," he recited, to push the thoughts into the shadows. "’To come to be what you are not you must go by a way in which you know not.'”

An accepted cup of tea before starting back up the mountain had produced some guilt, but also deepened prayer that the meager supplies he had left with the lost party would help sustain them until his return. More critical were the instructions he had left on how to survive and save the little girl while he was gone. Never had his need for speech seemed more important. Whether from faith or fear, the group of itinerant campers was following the monk's instructions very carefully. They had built a lean-to of fir branches to keep away the wind and snow from the shivering child. A small fire glowed — but far away from the collapsed pile of branches and slag through fear of a worse disaster than the freezing cold. The solution was simple but arduous, difficult to convey without speech. Each person stood close to the fire in turn, then hovered close to the child where his radiated heat and breath could keep the girl safe. As long as they all worked in trust and cooperation it would turn out all right, sacrificing their own comfort to save another, while in confidence that the Knight would return. Of course, the message of Christ’s existence on earth served as an example. The example was bolstered through the night by the feeling of an incredible voice calling through the blinding storm — the monk yet miles away. The gift of song is in the heart. Tiny branches quivered with the swell and caress of his yearning and faith.

Dann stood on the bluff awhile, watching the scene in the woods, thinking back to other times, other children, but also to regain the breath and composure expected of a Knight. The small group had worked and prayed as required through the freezing hours and were now secure. They scarcely acknowledged the priest's return and the rewards were rightly theirs. The setting was pastoral. There was no church in the lessening snow. The woven boughs would serve — a safe haven in the friendship of the trees. A simple scene. Four men and a woman knelt in the leaves around a tiny figure, wrapped in the monk's extra white robe. They were all singing of a Christmas long ago.

papa