Winds of Life, page 1
Winds of Life
THE BENEDICTION OF PAUL
BOOK ONE
PATRICIA MCCLURE
Copyright © 2024 by Patricia McClure
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author and publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design by Getcovers
Edited by Maggie Sokolik
We learn from stories.
To the greatest storyteller I know, my husband, Wally.
Contents
1. Saint Alberic’s Monastery
2. Guest Master
3. Baby Sitting
4. Day In. Day Out.
5. The Decision
6. Welcome
7. Map to Heaven
8. Easter
9. Jesus and Jam
10. The Graveyard
11. The One
12. That Monk
13. Celibate for a Day
14. Goat Sacrifice
15. Kittens, Cats, and Other Felines
16. It is Written
17. Flight Insurance
18. Obedient Son
19. Broken
20. School
21. Gracie
22. Old Men and Women
23. Brother Mellitus
24. Mothers’ Day
25. Barb
26. Sin
27. Jesus is Coming
28. Return to Sender
29. Doing the Right Thing
30. Merlin
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Series: The Benediction of Paul
Chapter 1
Saint Alberic’s Monastery
Psalm 64: 3
To you we pay our vows.
You who hear our prayers.
On a crisp March morning, in the darkness before sunrise when nature alone stirs, Father Joannicus Brookes rose after a fitful sleep. His black habit was chilly, waking his sleepy body as he quietly crept from the monastery to the church. He chose the connecting hall rather than suffer the wind with its hint of snow. Moving swiftly and silently, he prepared for the best hour of his day, where not even heavy thoughts of the night could reach him. Morning prayers would begin soon, with the ringing of the bells. He and his confreres would gather to recite the psalms. This Benedictine ritual would continue even after his death.
As he stepped into the sanctuary, his nose filled with the scent of wax and incense, reminding him of the first day he entered the Catholic church. He had been a Baptist then. Peace embraced him like a lover. The flicker of candlelight guided his way from the atrium into the church proper. In the dimness, he glided to his assigned monastic seat, a haven away from the worldly woes that haunted him. He breathed deeply, releasing the rumbles of his mind. Although plain and sturdy, the cushioned chair was as comfortable as a feather bed. The large room caressed him in warmth. He tucked his hands under his scapular, the long piece of cloth hanging from his shoulders to the floor like a tapestry covering his chest and back. He closed his eyes and relaxed as if sinking into a hot tub. His heart and soul swelled with God’s touch.
An earthshaking thud ripped Joannicus from his cocoon. He whipped around to see if the walls still surrounded him.
Two novices ran into the church and skidded to a stop.
“Oh my God, did you see that? I’m going down there.”
Joannicus made a soft noise of displeasure. They were talking before the nightly silence officially broke.
The shorter one took a step closer in the dim light.
“Father Joannicus, the barn just collapsed. We’re going there to help.”
The taller one elbowed and hissed, “May we?”
Joannicus nodded as they hurried away. The taller one stopped and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Be right there,” Joannicus responded.
He waited. The wind howled, causing him to shudder. Joannicus despised the cold, so he would stay and pray instead of running to help.
The bells did not ring that morning, for the novices had forgotten their duty in their excitement. That word had haunted him all night. What was his duty? As a professor of theology, he had a teaching job, but his responsibility was to God. He marveled. How easy it was for some to forget why they gathered in the dark. He rose, made his way to the atrium, and stood at the large window, viewing the farm and graveyard—a blending of life and death. The pre-dawn snow blew sideways as he bit his lower lip.
When he entered the monastery of Saint Alberic’s at age 18, he knew the will of God. He would dedicate his existence to prayer, and God would take care of the rest. From the window, he watched the glow of lights and the black dots of monks, moving like ants on ice cream. He worried that the world, like the weather, would refuse to keep its distance. He said softly, “Don’t concern yourself about money, what to eat, or where to sleep.”
Worry would not step away. The college’s financial troubles had crept into his office on official letterhead, requesting him to teach without salary. The Dean of Theology teaching for free rankled him. He had no problem with doing charity or the work of God.
What bothered him was the double standard, the presumption that monks didn’t need cash. That stung like the winter wind. Monks had expenses, too. They may follow a Rule written in the Middle Ages, but they had bills like everyone else. He didn’t take a vow of poverty, but he lived frugally. Benedictines took vows of obedience, conversion, and stability. The Catholic Church did not subsidize monasteries. They stood alone. The monks had to support themselves by earning money.
Monks survived by teaching. One less paycheck put a chink in the monastic budget. Older monks needed hip replacements, ancient tractor parts broke, and now, apparently, a barn was without walls. There were no answers in the freshly fallen snow.
Have faith; God will provide.
He stared at his reflection in the window. The sound of footsteps alerted him that the other monks were arriving. The outside doors opened, and winter rushed in, bringing in two snow-haloed co-eds. The hike from the dorms put a rose color on their cheeks. They looked very alert for this early hour, a look they lacked in the afternoon during his class. As the monastery’s Guest Master, he knew it was his responsibility to sit with them. They would take this simple act of hospitality and turn it into favoritism. Why were they here? Joannicus consoled himself, knowing that next week, they would pursue a different activity.
Hopefully, one that didn’t involve him.
The girls glowed and giggled.
They are not here to pray. These same students twittered during class about how handsome he was. Father Dimples with the curly hair. He frowned. If only he could not blush when he heard them outside his office discussing the curls on his head that refused to stay put, no matter how short he kept it. He couldn’t wait until he was gray and bald.
“The barn collapsed,” spoke one girl.
He reconsidered his choice to stay warm, thinking if I’d gone to help, I wouldn’t have to endure this.
He couldn’t call them women. They were babies in a woman’s body.
“It is time to pray. Please take a seat behind the left choir,” Joannicus said.
“Where’s the choir?”
He glanced at the monks sitting opposite each other in three rows. Wasn’t it obvious? Hadn’t they been listening in class when they talked about monastic life? Joannicus slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped his rosary. “Two rows behind the monks.”
They stood smiling like sheep waiting for grain. He led the girls inside, knowing that the distraction of their presence would be a challenge. Prayer began with the acolyte’s voice speaking the first words of the day, “Oh Lord, open my lips.” The monks responded, “And my mouth shall sing your praise.”
Attendance was sparse. Joannicus surmised that the unusual events caused monks to skip morning prayers.
Nothing is more important than praying. Thank God we are all alive.
Midway through prayers, most of the community had arrived, some wet, others disheveled from sleep. Brother Ambrose lumbered into the church, last and late. His presence gave Father Joannicus hope. The farm was this man’s life and seeing him arriving at morning prayers spoke volumes about the importance of praying. The giant monk’s shoes squeaked loudly, adding a counterpoint to his heavy breathing. Snowflakes clung to his massive beard as he sat two chairs away from Joannicus and the girls, leaving his usual place empty.
The smell of wet wool and tobacco drifted towards them. The girls covered their noses.
Thank you, Lord, thought Joannicus. The odor of Ambrose as he unthawed would cause these hyper-hormonal women to think twice about coming tomorrow.
After prayers, Joannicus left the students in the atrium, drawing his hood over his head. He hunched against the cold and hurried to catch the community as they walked from the church to the refectory. A small group of people stood bundled tightly together, watching the monks file past them as if counting train cars. Joannicus assumed they were lawyers or bankers from their formal attire and briefcases. He hoped they were just lost and missed the signs to the town. The business offices did not open for another hour. Worrying about the college’s financial future made his stomach squelch the hunger he had felt moments before. He did a reverse turn, jogged to his cell, gathered his leather satchel, and headed down the hill to his office. What could he do to produce mone
His hands were too soft for farm work, his mind too active to tailor. They could open a hotel or a restaurant. Perhaps he could make beds and serve food.
The sturdy brick building of the college glowed with brightness in the pre-spring morning. The wooden floors groaned and creaked as he walked to his office on the third floor. Soon, the halls would echo with student voices, reminding him of the other world, the one that he had successfully escaped.
He had only two skills--teaching and praying. Who would pay him to pray professionally? Today, he did not want to be instructing the hungry youth. He wanted to wail like the wind into God’s ear.
After teaching, he returned to his office, a long, narrow room much larger than his monastic cell. An oaken desk midway separated the space. He had placed a sturdy wooden chair in front of the desk for those times that students insisted on speaking with him. Unfortunately, the pupils were more like starfish than hummingbirds. They clung to him after class.
I am only here to lead you to God, thought Joannicus. The hungry minds did not understand. That was how an old greenish sofa, worn-out chairs, and coffee-ringed end tables brought on the backs of healthy young men ended up in this space. The faded cushions begged ‘to come, relax,’ and yet, Joannicus knew no rest. The struggle for salvation required constant vigilance. As cliché as it was, the devil did not sleep. Therefore, he daily fretted over the souls of his pupils.
Toward the back of the office stood two eight-foot bookshelves, sagging with volumes of words. They needed a good dusting and purging. Even uplifting phrases could block God’s soft, intimate voice that caressed his heart.
The vast arched window complimented the tall ceiling and gave the room a sense of grandeur. Joannicus stood looking out at the snowy hilltop. He’d removed the blinds the day he moved in so nothing would obscure his view of the monastery.
The clock inched as he glanced from his essays to the window. A frozen plant on the sill reminded him that his other plants needed water. He pulled his woolen sweater sleeve down to cover his icy fingers. The radiator hissed in protest as he fiddled with the knob. He climbed onto the arm of the sofa and stretched to turn on the fan that perched atop the bookshelf. That would move the air from the high ceiling to the earthly space where he sat. His hands refused to warm.
Today, he wondered why he had picked a monastery in Montana when there were many Benedictine houses in southern climates. Next winter, he would ask for retreat work in the south. The papers on his desk fluttered, calling for his attention, insisting on his guidance to correct and give hope and insight. He admired the floral handwriting but could not bring himself to read the words. Something was lacking in him, making him hollower than hallow inside.
He needed to reconcile preaching and teaching. Nobody pays a man to preach. Maybe teaching could be the same as saving souls.
His classes were the first to fill, and often, he had students in attendance who had neither paid nor registered.
When three o’clock arrived, Joannicus hurried up the hill to the monastery. The walk didn’t take long, but he shivered with cold. He stopped in the community room for a moment to check his mailbox. He glanced at the chalkboard that had reminders of changes to the routine of monastic living, grateful that nothing had changed. He gathered his memos, hoping for a quick exit, his joy tangible as he thought about the upcoming hour of solitude.
This place looked like any institutional gathering space, with several sofas and overstuffed chairs, tables with puzzles, and shelves with games, missing only a droning television. But today, the area was a labyrinth of distractions. As he walked through the room, the kitchenette, with its tiled counter and large coffee urn, beckoned him to have a cup of warmth on this dreary day. The stone fireplace blazed as a reminder that spring was still sleeping. He moved closer to it for a few minutes of comfort.
“Oh, Father Joannicus,” Brother Mellitus called, eyes twinkling with excitement. “This is our Guest Master. He’s the one who’ll see to all your needs, wants, and desires. Even tuck you in and read you a bedtime story. The man is full of stories, a parable teller like his Savior.”
Joannicus gave him a quizzical look. Besides Mellitus, only Brother Moses stood nearby.
“Brother Mellitus, have you been sniffing the wine? Seriously, I’m sure Brother Moses knows who I am. Thank you for the compliment.” However, he knew it to be a slur.
“I was talking to our guest. Apparently, you’ve been once again pretending you’re a hermit rather than taking hospitality to its fullest. The Abbot’s been looking for you all afternoon.”
Joe’s patience waned, and the clock continued to tick. He took several steps toward the exit. “The Abbot knows my schedule. Since when is Brother Moses a guest?”
Brother Moses lifted his scapular to reveal a curly-haired boy who looked as if he stepped out of the pages of Sears and Roebucks: polished shoes, pressed slacks, and a tie complete with a tie tack.
“So, Holy One, what do you think, a miniature of you? I thought you were alone all those late nights in your office. Guess you’ve got some explaining to do.”
Father Joannicus drew a sharp breath. The accusation of sin reddened his cheeks, though he was innocent of the crime. Brother Mellitus always liked to point out one’s humanity and the potential for failure as a monastic.
Years of contemplative living curbed the defense forming on his lips. He frowned. The child stuck a thumb in his mouth and slid back under the scapular.
“Come on. Even Brother Moses thinks there’s a familial resemblance. We were wondering who the mother was and don’t say, Mary. That story has already been told. Admit it, the boy looks like a little Joe.”
The boy had curls and brown eyes. The comparison was a cruel joke. Mellitus would not ruin his day.
“I’m not Joe. My name is Paul,” a muffled voice said from under the thick black cloth. “Paul Warner.”
“Seriously,” Joannicus said. “Let’s go find your parents and get you settled in.”
“I think you’re it,” Mellitus said, still amused by his observations.
Father Joe’s shoulders dropped. Like a bear thwarted from nocturnal rest, he hugged the crumpled mass of papers in his arms.
“Father,” Moses said. “Perhaps you need to read the Abbot’s memo about Paul.”
“Memo?” Joannicus said, his heart pleading that he didn’t have time for this.
Brother Moses pulled out the message from the notes that Father Joannicus held.
“Alone? All week?” Joe’s voice dipped, and the child eyed him from the folds of black cloth.
“I’m sure Abbot Gordon has a plan,” Moses said. Mellitus laughed.
What was the Abbot thinking? Oh, dear God, it seemed too simple, too obvious.
His mind whirled.
“If you will come with me, please,” Joannicus said, wanting to run away. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Joannicus picked up the small green suitcase and hurried out the door. Paul ran to keep up with him. The three-story guesthouse stood dark and empty across the courtyard.
They entered, and Joannicus murmured a prayer, “I’m coming, God,” feeling the pain of a young lover missing the sight of his beloved between classes.
“Who are you talking to?” Paul asked.
“God.”
“God is here? The man with the necklace is looking for him.”
“That’s called a pectoral cross. The Abbot is not searching for God. He has found Him.”
“Oh,” Paul said. “Is that why I am here? To find God? Does he like to play hide and seek?”
The child had misunderstood. Was there any point in explaining? Joannicus knew nothing about children, and this one would go soon enough. He unlocked a door with the plaque that read Saint Placid. “Here’s your room.” Placid, perhaps this space, would instill calmness into the boy.
