Praying with the Monks

The bells rang slowly and I immediately fell into step with their rhythm but then I suddenly became aware of their low tones. It seemed that I could almost feel them more than hear them. They had the same resonance of my heart beat or maybe my breath, not the typical higher piercing pitches that call us to Sunday mass. I took a moment to breathe in the cool air of Montserrat and turned the corner entering the Abby. Last night we had prayed at the shrine of the Virgin of Montserrat. I knew it wasn't possible for anything to top that this morning. But I also wasn't going to miss an opportunity to be a part of the morning prayers with the Benedictine Monks. Surely, this was a once in a lifetime event. The few worshipers that began the trek alongside of me at the sound of the first bell slowly increased until as I reached the door I was one of many. 7:30 AM is definitely a favorite time of day for me but it's rare to be a part of a large group at that hour. I found my way to a seat in the first few rows and quickly lost any semblance of time or place. As the monks began walking into the worship space, my focus was entirely on each man. Some walked in alone, some in pairs, and some took a moment to be with the Virgin of Monserrat before coming down the stairs to pray. This is definitely not like videos I had seen with the Benedictines marching in single file and pealing off like a marching band to take their places in unison. So as each walked in, I put myself in his presence and thanked him for his lifelong dedication to prayer and chanting.

The prayer service began and I went back to my early days of converting to Catholicism as I looked for signs in the crowd as to when to sit and stand. No matter how focused you are, the novices are always a half beat behind the regulars and I could feel the dissonance in my missteps. The prayers and songs were, of course in Spanish so I was not connecting to the message, only the feeling of being in the presence of God in this new and solemn way. I somehow had the foreknowledge that this was a memory to which I was going to want and need to return. I had no desire to be that tourist filming the Benedictines at prayer but I did discreetly recored a minute or so of the audio. As time went on I became aware of another presence in my close proximity. It was quickly followed by a thought that was mine but from eons ago. At the same time as I felt the being and thought the thought, I recognized it as coming from 8 year old me. As clear as if one of my fellow worshipers had leaned over and whispered in my year, she said, "Can you believe we are here?" It startled me so that I had to confirm with my inner self that it had really happened. Yes, little Tere was here and with me in this place 5,000 miles and many decades away. When would this little pony-tailed girl growing up in rural Council Bluffs, Iowa in the 60s, and baptized as a Presbyterian ever have heard of the Benedictines? The conversation between us continued with more exclamations of wonder. "We are here, in SPAIN!" I looked to face her dead on and all I could do was smile. Yes, my little one. We have come so far from our childhood of long ago and here we are in Spain, following in the footsteps of St. Ignatius of Loyola and praying with the Benedictines. Who would have ever thought this could be possible? Only God.

Only God could have had a plan that would move a child from Iowa to Florida to California and 60 years later after several decades of teaching in Catholic and public schools find a way to guide her in the ways of the Ignatius and the Jesuits. And then at the end of that career present to her an opportunity to travel to Spain and follow the Camino Ignaciano accompanied by fellow Jesuit teachers and administrators. Only God.