Dispatch from Kopua Monastery, Sunday, April 24, 4 a.m.

I’ve gotten back to my habit from the Philippines of rising very early. It helps, of course, that we spent a large part of yesterday "tramping" the mountain foothills and driving a hilly and constantly twisting road to a deserted section of the Pacific coast with rolling surf crashing against rocks and sand.
After all that I pleasurably dropped into bed at 7:45 right after Compline (the last office of the day). A meaningful ritual closes Compline here bringing the day to an end with a feeling of great peace and comfort. The monks and guests line up at the font in the rear of the church, and the abbot sprinkles the baptismal water with a blessing on each as they bow before the font. How comforting to end the day with the assurance of baptism as we descend into the little "death" of sleep.
As most of you know, the last couple of days have been very difficult for Jeanne, having learned of her mother’s terminal condition with cancer, and her father’s fall and hospitalization. Jeanne’s mother knew she was having a double mastectomy, but did not tell Jeanne so that she could freely leave on our journey. It was an act of extraordinary generosity, and, looking back, we can remember the unusual emotions of her farewell.
That whole situation has, of course, brought up the question of when, or even whether, Jeanne should return home, at least for a brief visit. At the moment her parents are being looked after very well by her physician, the priest and the deacon from St. James Episcopal Church who make daily visits, and by her brother, with whom Jeanne is very close.
The cancer has spread to Virginia's liver, and possibly beyond. We are waiting for test results that will determine the palliative care she will offered. Her father, disabled by multiple mini-strokes, is unable to live on his own and will be transferred to a care facility soon.
It’s so good that Jeanne’s been easily able to stay in touch with everyone by phone every day from the monastery here, and the monks have been wonderfully supportive and helpful. Jeanne has "dumped it in God's lap." She says he does a much better job of handling things than she ever does.
It’s 6:45 a.m., almost time for Lauds, the first office for us late risers. What may seem from the outside to be a cumbersome and intrusive schedule of prayer feels deeply comforting, as we are welcomed again into the rhythm of the Benedictine order of prayer no matter where we are in the world. It’s Sunday, so Mass will be at 10 instead of 6:30, and lot’s of folks from the surrounding community will likely join us.
[A few hours later]
Sunday dinner is a universal, and here at Kopua, hospitality extends to this ritual as well. We were joined at a festive meal by an extgended family as well as assorted other visitors. I don’t know how many were expected, but, like the loaves and fishes, there was enough for all. A man sitting near me was a 40-sonething man from Auckland visiting his mother who lived nearby. He had a long history with the monastery. As a young man he "ran away" to Sydney and promptly became a Buddhist. After being "straightened out" in conversation with a Jesuit, he came back home to discover the monastery at Kopua for the first time, though he had lived in the area since he was a boy. On his first visit, he was invited to join the monks in the "choir" singing the psalms. He tried to refuse but one insisted, even taking him by the arm. He felt awkward and didn’t know what was gong on. Then as he described it, one of life’s "peak experiences" happened. One by one the monks looked at him, only briefly and discreetly-- a look of welcome, of complete acceptance—a look which he was evidently seeking and longing for many years. He stayed here for a year and a half, and thought he would be a monk, but the sense of true vocation never really became clear. He’s now a carpet dyer in Auckland, and about to be married. What I find remarkable is that he comes back often with his family, and with a sense of great ease, still basking in that look of acceptance and love he experienced so many years before.
There is a hermit connected with the community who has lived in a little hut nearby for 25 years. (Almost every Trappist monastery has at least one hermit, a brother who lives by himself in relative isolation except for regular contact with the Abbot. Some of you may recall that Thomas Merton, the most famous modern Trappist, wanted to live as a hermit most of his monastic life, and was finally granted that gift by the Abbot a few years before he died.) Our hermit comes in three days a week from his hermitage to cook and converse a bit with the brothers. This morning, while I was dialing numbers on my phone card for Jeanne, she watched while he came silently into the guest kitchen where we sat and set down a large dish of scones that will be used for a congregational coffee after Mass at 10 this morning.
[After Mass] I get the impression that the Kiwis are, perhaps a bit more liberal than the their Vatican leaders these days. At the beginning of the Mass the aged Abbot recalled the words of Jesus at the heart of today’s gospel reading from John, "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father but by me." He looked up with a sly grin and added, "No one else, not even the Pope, can say those words."
[A monastic picture in words] We’re drinking afternoon tea and the old Irish monk who presided at Mass this morning walks through. He’s wearing an old long stained coat that must have come from the local Salvation Army, rubber boots, and what appears, on his almost emaciated figure, a giant helmet of a wool stocking cap pulled over his ears for the cold wind. All the elements of communion are in a super market plastic bag ready to be taken to the hermit for Mass. He jumps on his four-wheel drive motorcycle and roars away over the hill to the hermitage.