Page 35 of Saint
I lift my eyes to the hills.
“But I’ve come to see that while this hill was an invitation to the brothers who moved here in the late nineteenth century—an invitation of shelter in winter and shade in summer—the brothers still had to build the abbey themselves, you see. They still had to build the foundations of their new life. This place couldhelp, but it could not become anything other than what it was. It could not do the work for them.” He paused then. “Do you understand what I am saying?”
Halfway. Enough to have felt the hope sliding out from under me like a rug. Enough for that oil-slick danger to start pooling at my feet again. “I can’t stay here,” I said dully.
He turned his eyes to me then. “You can,” he said gently. “But not tonight. Not yet. Do you really feel called to this life, Aiden?”
I nodded. It was outlandish, absurd even, but that call was the only reason I was alive and breathing for this conversation. It was the only thing I’d felt in years stronger than the poison which swam in my mind and grasped at my thoughts.
“Then we can start today. Part of life in an abbey is obedience. Obedience to God and obedience to your superior, which would be me.” The abbot pulled his hand out of his robe pocket. He was holding a business card. “Your first task is to leave here and go straight to this office, please. Once you’ve gone there and done as she’s asked, then you may return. That might be tomorrow, it might be a week from now, but either way, the door is completely open to you when you come back. And then we will begin.”
I took the card.Rosie Campolo, LP.
“A psychologist?” I asked.
The abbot touched my shoulder. “The abbey will help shelter you, Aiden, but you must build the foundations yourself. You must be ready in order to begin.”
I know now that God was with me that day. He sent me Brother Connor and not Father Harry. He made it so I got Dr. Rosie’s card, so I gottoDr. Rosie that day. And when I returned five days later, after a three-day in-patient stint and with a checklist of the things I’d need to do to bring my secular life to a close, the abbot welcomed me with a warm smile and open arms.
I owe my life, in the most literal sense, to him and Dr. Rosie and this abbey.
I owe my life to God.
21
I carrythe tray outside at precisely the right time. I can tell the story has ended because Jamie is asking another polite question, which is how do normal, non-Aiden people become monks, and Brother Denis is answering him.
I set the glasses down for everyone and sit on the bench right as Brother Amos declares, with great, beardy affection, “But we are glad you came into the gift shop that day, Brother Patrick. Who else would lift all our heavy things?”
“And who else would have started Lectio Lexapro?” Brother Titus asks, and the other brothers rumble in agreement, lifting their glasses to me.
“Lectio Lexapro?” Jamie asks. “What’s that?”
I look down at my beer, letting someone else take the lead on explaining it. It feels weird to talk about my little group of friends to someone who actually does Things That Matter. All I did was find the other brothers living with fussy brain chemistry and suggest we hang out from time to time.
“Brother Patrick started it as a bible study group of sorts,” Brother Denis explains. “Lectio divina is individual contemplation of scripture, but some monks practice communal lectio too. And so Lectio Lexapro started as a way to study scripture together and in conversation with our experiences of mental illnesses, but it grew into more than that. It’s our time to talk about all kinds of things.”
“Monastic life with a mental illness is different,” Brother Titus says. “And a lot of older monks are really resistant to the idea that God can use things like therapy and head meds just as much as he can use prayer and contemplation to help.”
“And so everyone in Lectio Lexapro has lived with a mental illness?” Elijah asks, and I feel his eyes slide over to me.
I keep my gaze on my beer, afraid to look up at him. Afraid he’ll see—I’m not sure what. Afraid that he’ll seeme, maybe. Afraid that he’ll see the truth of that night and why I left.
“Everyone,” Brother Amos confirms. “I mean, we welcome anyone who wants to join. But that’s our focus. Brother Patrick said when he first gathered us all up that the Bible tells us to lift our eyes to the hills, but that we should lift our eyes to each other first. And that’s been our guiding vision ever since.”
“I think that’s wonderful,” Jamie says.
Of course he does.
“Okay, it’s my turn to ask questions,” Brother Thomas says to Jamie. “Take a drink and then tell me the grossest thing that’s ever happened to you as a librarian.”
The table laughs, and the conversation swings over to Jamie, who is gracious and gently funny as he recounts some good public library stories for us. The table is totally engaged, smiling and laughing and drinking with him, all eyes on the sweet baker with the sticky-outy ears and the button nose.
All eyes, that is, except for his fiancé’s.
I look up to find Elijah watching me with narrowed eyes, his fingers tracing agitated circles on the belly of his tulip glass. He’s looking at me like he’s never seen me before, like I’m an utter stranger to him.
I can almost see the question in his eyes, shimmering under the beer garden lights.
