Dispatch from OLP Tuesday, April, 12

Dispatch OLP, Tuesday, April 12, 4 a.m.

Yes, it’s 4 a.m. again, and here I am with a cup of instant coffee (did we tell you Nescafe is the only coffee available here, and, worst of all, Jeanne thinks it’s “not bad”). Here it’s been a week, and I’m still on this weird time warp of waking up wide-eyed at 4. I’m not complaining. I find I like the quiet of the early morning to write and reflect. And, after all, we do collapse at about 8p.m. I wonder if this is going to work where we’re going today for for few days, Baras Beach. Peter, the proprietor tells us one half of the property is more in the party mode, and our half is (he didn’t exactly say it) for old folks).
Random thoughts today.
Some kind of large toad just hopped behind me and is making his way around the room, hopping on the walls here and there in the vain hope of making an escape through the windows. Yesterday during Vespers I watched as some sort of hour inch lizard made his way up the crucifix at the church (a rather vivid one). It was eerie, but reminded me of all the creatures Christ saved in his sacrifice and resurrection. As Paul puts it, “the whole creation will be set free from its bondage to decay at the revealing of the sons and daughters of God.” toads And lizards no less.

It’s out last day at this wonderfully, welcoming place. I can only hope the rest of our monasteries and communities we visit are half as embracing as this. It’s a modern miracle that by God’s grace such places exist in the world today. And anyone of you would be welcomed with as much warmth as we were, I’m sure.

Another strange thing, when you think about it, and it happens to most of us, I think: We’ve been here six days, and it already feels like a sort of home. I mean we walk confidently through the halls—even at night, get coffee, know where most everything is. How adaptable we are! We were worried that we’d feel “homeless,” but home is where you are, and even more, where you’re welcomed.

Yesterday we had the adventure of washing our clothes. I say
“adventure” because this consisted of long white-tiled tubs behind the guest house and numerous clothes lines to hang them up to dry in the warm breeze and sun. We collected two buckets, one for washing and one for rinsing (I’m sure this is rather elementary to you experienced launderers, but that’s not my job at home.) I became the official rinser, while Jeanne kneaded the clothes in the soapy bucket. From there I rung them and hung them on the lines.
Several nuns soon joined us, and seemed quite amused at this unique shared laundry experience. Whether this was laundry day (Monday, of course), or whether we were such a curiosity, I don’t know. Clearly it was curious to have a man assisting the washing in this culture, and I’m not sure all the nuns approved.
But then, there was a strong element of curiosity for Jeanne and me as well: what exactly do nuns wear under a full habit (like
Scotsmen under their kilts? How many of you have had the opportunity to do laundry with nuns, after all? Well I can report that some nuns wear rather exotic and colorful underwear under their rather severe habits. It’s not exactly “Victoria’s Secret,” but it’s not issued by the Vatican either. I didn’t look closely enough to ascertain the exact cut of the garments in question, not wanting to appear overly curious. But my even furtive glances did reveal some less than “hair shirt” garments. Like girls at a Catholic school, there has to be some statement of individuality under the uniformity of the habits. Of course, there were other foundational varieties, more like my mother’s, which seemed to take up considerable space on the line and lack any color. I wonder if there was some rivalry among orders here. (One nun confided that some of the sisters were rather “conservative”.)

We’re all packed up and waiting for our driver. Is he going to fit all our luggage and two big westerners )well one on a moto-tricycle with no more than a 75cc engine? But, believe me, I’ve seen more packed on one of these engineering marvels than on some American 4x4 pickups.
Finally, and most importantly, we felt led in God’s good providence to this lovely place, which has been a most restful, welcoming, and spiritual stimulating place to begin our sabbatical journey.
The offices and liturgies were all done with great care and loving attention. This was truly the main work of the community, and the work was done sensitively and thoughtfully. The music, some elements of which were different every day, the hymns that joyfully celebrated Eastertide, the leadership with quiet voice and unobtrusive gesture, and the generous times of quiet, all drew us before God’s face every day. Daily Eucharist fell like water on parched soul. I found myself always moved by the prayer before receiving the sacrament: “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” Unworthy, to be sure, but reaching out for Jesus’ healing presence. (By the way, while the guest master knew who I was, there was never a question about our participation.)