Wind and Rain, Bless the Lord!

I had wrapped myself in my rain jacket and was walking as fast as I could from the seminary campus with my hood covered head dug tight into my soaked stiff chest.  It was still pitch black at 5:52 am with the only light coming from the orange lamps which illumined the front of the abbey church, reflecting a shine upon the sidewalk leading me toward dry refuge.  Hurricane Isaac had finally reached the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain a few hours prior, bringing side sweeping sheets of rain and 75 mph wind gusts with him.  As I continued the journey I could see how the entire area of the abbey grounds was now entrenched by an inch deep puddle with the church building now resembling a sort of mighty ship emerging from the harbor waters, completely unshaken, unmoved.  By the time I had reached the covered doorway my pant legs were drenched and my muscles were still tightened from the work it took to walk against the blowing gusts.  Luckily my boat was firmly moored, ready for six o’clock vigils.

It took every bit of strength I had left to open the towering wooden doors; it seemed as though my spirit was being tested by the powering winds of heaven and earth.  As soon as I was safely within the walls of the church and the door was shut behind me, I quietly slipped off my jacket, hung it on the post, and quickly began whipping the droplets of water from the lenses of my glasses using the inside cloth of my front pants pocket.  Once I positioned them back on my face it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the solemn darkness within the sanctuary.  The only lights were those which hung above the altar revealing the two rows of choir stalls below: each facing the other, one of the north side, the other on the south.  The sanctuary lamp flickered a small candle light above the tabernacle; all is well, my Lord is here.

The abbey church is humongous; the prized pearl of the bayou.  It’s a good 50 yard walk to the choir stalls and by the time I had reached them, I quickly recognized the four early bird monks who are always there seated before I arrive each morning.  And this morning of all mornings, why should a silly hurricane keep me from attending prayer with the monks?  As I slipped into my cedar plank seat it had occurred to me that I hadn’t taken a breath since entering the church for fear I would disturb the monastic silence.  And so upon slowly exhaling I looked up to see the large fresco of angels circling above me, singing their celestial hymn.  When I looked down toward the wall opposite from my stall, I noticed the fresco of old father Abraham with knife in hand, all too ready to sacrifice his son Isaac at God’s command.  Luckily for Isaac, the hand of the angel of God is keeping Abraham from going through with the deadly blow, and luckily for me, Isaac is only blowing back as a category 1 this morning.

The wind can be heard swirling all around the outside of the church building as tiny droplets of rain sizzled loudly on the window panes much like bacon on a hot iron skillet.  As the remaining members of the monastic community begin to trickle in from the passage way which connects the church to the monastery building, a warm feeling of peace and security begins to overwhelm my entire body causing every one of my muscles to go limp.  The inside of the ship begins to creak and groan as it floats atop the troubled waters, or perhaps it’s the hard winds bellowing against the large wooden doors at the entrance.  The howling gets louder and softer and louder as the monks flip through the pages of their prayer books, all to ready to begin this day with thanks, praise, and prayers for the whole world.  As the abbot taps his wooden gavel signaling the brothers to rise, I know I must offer these prayers for those who are not as fortunate as I to be safely in the thick hull of this ancient abbey, those without shelter or who will be without shelter by the end of Isaac’s wrath.

Facing east towards the crucifix each monk crosses their mouth with their thumb while chanting:

Lord, open my lips…

And my mouth shall proclaim thy praise…

The cantor begins the intonation of the invitatory psalm:

Come ring out our joy to the Lord,

Hail the Rock who saves us;

Let us come before Him giving thanks,

With songs let us hail the Lord…

(Psalm 95)

Just another day’s work for the monk.