This story appeared in my “The Hapless Homesteader” column in Countryside magazine:
Late September, Two Thousand and Four. It’s been over thirty years since I rode the Dog, but here I am, getting out of the car in the North Little Rock Greyhound station. Amanda still can’t believe I’m doing this. “This is going to be a twenty-four hour ride on the bus. Nobody rides the bus. It’s tacky. You could get knifed, or knocked in the head, or fall in with seedy characters. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you over to the airport? You can catch a flight to Pittsburgh, rent a car at the airport, and be there before dark.”
“Nah. I used to ride the bus all the time, when I was in the service. I know nobody rides the bus, but that will give me a chance to stretch out, unwind, see a bit of the country, and get myself prepared. I’m really kinda looking forward to it.” I looked down at my baggy shorts, flip-flops, and t-shirt. “Insofar as ‘seedy characters’ are concerned, none of these other passengers looks nearly as seedy as I do.”
We walked over to the ticket counter, where I got a little tag for my duffel bag. I shouldered my backpack, stuffed with books, toiletries, and one change of clothes, picked up the duffel, and headed toward the loading area, just as the big bus with NASHVILLE over the windshield rolled in.
Scout was racing around the terminal, fiddling with the snack machines. Amanda didn’t look very happy. “Are you sure you’re coming back?” “Of course. They haven’t expressed much interest in keeping me, anyway.” “I don’t understand this.” “Me neither. But I guess it beats having a husband who runs the bars or kicks the cat. I’ll be back before you know it.”
It has been a long time since I rode the bus. I don’t think busses were this big in the ‘70s. Hugs and kisses all around. I gave the duffel to the driver, who stowed it in a compartment below. This isn’t like the airlines. I’ll have to change busses four times before I get to Pennsylvania, and I’m responsible for transferring my own luggage each time.
I climbed aboard, figuring to pretty much have my choice of seats. Surprise!! Regardless of what you, or I, or Amanda thought, it seems that everybody rides the bus these days. At least one person occupied each of the double seats, except one. I quickly stowed my backpack overhead, and slid into the window seat, hoping that none of the remaining Little Rock boardees would take the vacant aisle seat beside me.
Well, I guess I didn’t look as seedy as I’d hoped. A rather large group of Mexicans followed me onto the bus, and the very largest gentleman of the group, weighing close to 300 pounds, gestured inquiringly at the empty aisle seat. “Si,” says I, “por favor.”
I began to remember some of the lessons I’d forgotten from my bus-riding experiences Back In The Day. Try never to sit next to anyone in need of a bath. Try never to sit next to anyone who will want to chat throughout the trip. My seatmate certainly filled those qualifications well. He smelled pretty good. He didn’t talk at all. The final rule, however, is always to sit next to someone relatively small, since you are essentially sharing an undivided space—a love seat, if you will. The senor did his very best to squinch himself into his 50% of the space, but with little success. He constantly mumbled apologies, and I constantly reassured him, “de nada (it’s nothing)”.
About an hour’s layover in Memphis, where everyone had to get off the bus and piddle around the terminal while the bus was fueled and a new driver took over. When you get off the bus, the first thing you do is to find the door which you will use to get back onto the bus. Then you either stand in line at the door, or mark your place with your luggage, so that you can get on early, and get a decent seat.
I went to the bathroom, bought a drink, and kinda lounged around the crowded station. Through the doors leading to the busses, I could see a large group of police officers, some in uniform, some dressed in those over-the-top SWAT getups—camouflage trousers, black shirt with POLICE in great huge yellow letters across the back, and three or four detectives in civvies. Must have been at least ten or twelve of them, sitting and loafing around against a wall in the open area where the busses arrive. In their midst, wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, was one of the largest human beings I have ever seen in my life. Shaved head. Not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. Made Swartznegger look like a girl! He also had more chains around his body, waist, wrists, and ankles than Jacob Marley’s ghost. He seemed to be well-acquainted with the cops, and was smoking and joking with them.
Oh, this is just great!!! I’ll probably find that I have swapped my harmless, chubby Mexican seatmate for Hannibal Lecter!!! I quickly got into the re-boarding line, just behind a short, smallish muscular black kid with dreadlocks. “You reckon he’s going on to Nashville?”, I asked, gesturing toward King Kong. “I don’t think so. He got off one of the other busses, and the welcoming party was there to meet him.” “Good.”
The bus was even more crowded than before, and Bob Marley and I shared a seat. He was a student at Vanderbilt, heading back to Nashville. He didn’t take up any room at all, didn’t chat, and smelled fine. The new bus driver, a semi-large black guy, mounted the bus, then turned to the passengers.
“Welcome-to-Greyhound.-I’m-Dennis,-and-I-will-be-your-driver-for-the-next-few-hundred-miles.-This-is-a-no-smoking-bus.-That-means-no-smoking-anywhere-on-the-bus.-If-you-smoke-on-the-bus,-you-will-be-put-off-the-bus.-This-means-no-smoking-in-the-seats.-If-you-smoke-in-the-seats,-you-will-be-put-off-the-bus.-This-means-no-smoking-in-the-aisle.-If you smoke-in-the-aisle,-you-will-be-put-off-the-bus.-The bathroom-is-located-in-the-rear-of-the-bus.-This-means-no smoking-in-the-bathroom.-If-you-smoke-in-the-bathroom,-you-will-be-put-off-the-bus.-Thank-you-for-choosing-Greyhound.”
We settled in, headed eastward across Tennessee. Somewhere out there, in the middle of nowhere, between Jackson and Nashville, a young, good-looking cowboy kid, about 22 or 23, got up from his seat near the front, leaving his pretty young companion, who was about the same age, and strolled back to the bathroom.
In approximately two minutes, Dennis pulls over to the side of the Interstate. I turn to my seatmate. “Flat tire?” “I dunno.”
Dennis marches to the rear of the bus, bangs on the bathroom door, which slowly opens, discharging the cowboy and a cloud of cigarette smoke. Without a word, Dennis marches the kid to the front of the bus, pausing at his seat just long enough to collect his baggage and girlfriend, then escorts them off the bus, and onto the shoulder of the road.
Man, you’ve never heard a quieter bunch of fifty or so folks in your life. We watched, unhearing, as Dennis gave that kid the chewing-out of his life right there on the side of the highway. After three or four minutes, the three get back onto the bus, the cowboy most sheepishly. Dennis remained standing.
“This-is-a-no-smoking-bus.-If-you-smoke-on-the-bus,-you-will-be-put-off-the-bus.”
At the next stop, which was a closed filling station is some nameless central Tennessee hamlet, Dennis pulled over. He motioned to the couple, who followed him, baggage in hand. Once again, the mute passengers peered out the starboard windows, witnessing a pantomimed tongue-lashing. I turned to my Rastafarian pal. “I quit smoking almost twenty-five years ago. If I ever gave a thought to starting again, Dennis has sure caused me to think again!”
As Dennis wound down, he thrust his right arm forward in a “get out” gesture, much in the manner of Simon Legree casting Little Nell out into a snowstorm. At his point, the cowboy produced his package of cigarettes, walked over to a trashcan, and tossed them inside. Then, with two bowed heads and one triumphant one, the trio re-entered the bus. “This-is-still-a-no-smoking-bus.-If-you-do-not-believe-me,-you-may-ask-this-gentleman-here.”
Nobody felt the necessity of asking the gentleman.
Changing busses in Nashville, then off toward the north, as night falls. Somewhere between Nashville and Louisville, the driver pulls over at a fast-food place for a thirty-minute break, so that we can get something to eat. Louisville. An autumn moon, nearly full, rises over Kentucky. Then Cincinnati at 1:00 AM. Changing busses again. I grab a Pepsi and a couple of cans of Pringles and climb aboard.
This time, I’m sitting in the aisle seat, next to a young guy, maybe eighteen or so. While we’re waiting for the bus to pull out, he’s cranked around in his seat, chatting with his buddy in the seat behind me. In Russian. After awhile, I say, “If you want to sit with your friend, I’ll be glad to swap with him.” Substantially more conversation in Russian. Turns out that the friend’s girlfriend is seated yet further back. With my orchestration, about six or seven people play a quick game of musical busseats in order to get the Commies all seated together, to the accompaniment of many gestures of thanks, to which I babble, “Da, da, da”, representing exactly 50% of my repertoire of Russian words.
I am now seated on the aisle, across from a shore-enuff genuine Amish father, and his little girl, about five years old. You sure don’t get this …er…diversity on Delta Airlines. This guy is wearing a heavy long-sleeved white shirt, buttoned to the neck, starched overalls, heavy boots, and a wide-brimmed black hat, which he’s placed on the overhead rack. Beard just like Abe Lincoln’s. The little girl looks like Laura Ingalls. Bonnet and all. They’re sharing a little bag of potato chips, which goes fast. I wasn’t sure if Amish folks ate chips. They do.
After awhile, I look over at the little girl, who’s studying the empty bottom of her chip bag. I address the gentleman. “Sir, I’ve got a couple of extra cans of chips over here. Would the little girl like some?” “That’s very kind, sir.” “Glad to.” I pass over the Pringles. The little girl lowers her eyes, and, under minimal parental prodding, “Thank you, sir.”
Reading, snoozing, changing busses in Columbus. Two black girls are in the seats in front of me. About seventeen or eighteen years old. It’s 4:30 in the morning, and they each have cell phones. These phones have illuminated faces like searchlights, and I think they are actually talking to each other. On the phone. With the light in my eyes. I don’t say anything.
Sunrise over Wheeling, West Virginia, is glorious. You should see it sometime. We shortly pull into Pittsburgh, where I carry my backpack into the men’s room. Amanda has warned me about bus station men’s rooms. This one seems okay.
I’ve been on the bus nearly twenty-two hours, and it’s about 7:30 in the morning. It’s getting a bit chilly, and I’m beginning to be able to smell myself. I lay out my toiletries on the long counter, and strip off my shorts, t-shirt, and flip-flops. Nobody pays much attention as I sponge-bathe, shave, and wash my hair in the sink. I put on a pair of jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt.
We leave Pittsburgh at 8:30, on a little local bus line. Almost there. About an hour and a half later, we reach the environs of Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Off to the left, on a hill, I can see a huge structure, which I take to be the basilica of Saint Vincent Archabbey, the oldest Benedictine monastery in the United States. Latrobe isn’t known for much, but is the birthplace of Arnold Palmer, was the home of Fred Rogers, of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, and is the home of the Rolling Rock brewery.
The bus station in Latrobe is in a travel agency, located in the little town’s business district. I’m the only passenger to disembark, and I shoulder my backpack, and retrieve my duffel from the luggage compartment.
As the bus pulls away, I see him standing on the sidewalk near the travel agency. We’ve never met, although we’ve corresponded for almost two years.
He’s about my age, but very small, almost fragile, with skin nearly translucent. He doesn’t spend much time in the sun, I can tell. “Father Donald. It’s good to finally meet you. Thanks for volunteering to pick me up.”
The passengers on the bus are all staring as I shake hands with the man in the black Benedictine robe and hood. He pauses on the sidewalk, offering a prayer of thanks for my safe trip. “It’s my pleasure, George. Let’s get your bags into the car. I think we can get back to the monastery in time for midday prayer.”
Here I am, being driven from the Latrobe, Pennsylvania, bus station toward my guest room at the oldest Benedictine monastery in the United States by a smallish man dressed in the black robes of a monk. What a long journey this has been from Log Cabin, Louisiana, and I don’t mean the eleven hundred miles on the bus.
Father Donald and I chat quietly on the short drive to Saint Vincent Archabbey. We’ve never met before, although we’ve been writing each other on a biweekly basis for almost two years. It’s good to finally see him.
We arrive at the magnificent basilica, nestled in the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania, a bit before noon. I have time to put my bags in my room in the adjoining guesthouse, and clean up somewhat before joining Father Donald for the short walk down the corridor to the small chapel, where the monks assemble for mid-day prayer.
I don’t feel nearly as strange as I did last year, on my first trip to a Benedictine monastery, in northwestern Arkansas. I follow the monks into the modern little chapel, trying to remember just what to do, and copying them as they enter, kneeling and bowing, tracing the Sign of the Cross as they make their reverences before taking their seats. We sit quietly for awhile. Benedictines are not afraid of silence. I like that.
Soon, one of the monks, designated the “hebdomadarian”, begins the ceremony, chanting the first lines of ritual, as the remainder of us, designated as “Choir One” or “Choir Two”, depending on which side of the chapel we occupy, give the responses. The chanted psalms are soothing, with strange emphasis placed on unexpected syllables, and the noonday ritual is brief, after which we file out of the chapel. I follow Father Donald to the guest dining room for lunch.
Steve, from Long Island, is here for the same purpose as I am. He and I are the only guests today, and we share a table with Father Donald, and spend the mealtime getting acquainted. The monastic schedule is basically this: Get up. Go into the basilica for morning prayer. Breakfast. Then the monks go about their assigned monastic tasks, teaching, working, maintaining the guest house, preparing music for the rituals, preaching. Then mid-day prayer in the chapel, followed by lunch. Back to work until evening prayer in the basilica, followed by supper. Then retire to quarters—the monks to the cloister, the guests to the guesthouse. Ora et labora—Pray and work.
Steve and I, as guests, obviously have no monastic tasks. Therefore, our entire assigned schedule involves three times of community prayer, and three meals. Lots of free time. As I lie on my bed in the small, simple, yet complete guestroom—bed, desk, nightstand, and bath—I unwind from the twenty-four-hour bus ride. My mind goes back to the much longer journey that has brought me—a married, divorced, remarried, highly-medicated, Presbyterian father of five—to a silent room surrounded by celibate Catholic men who have devoted their entire lives to prayer and work.
Let’s go back three-and-a-half years, when I was lying on a similar bed, in a very similar room. I don’t know whether the monks would appreciate having their guesthouse compared to a mental hospital. It’s really quite an experience to lie on a bed in a nuthouse, staring at the ceiling, and reflecting on a half-century of life. I was, for the first time, totally and completely alone, and scared to death.
A marriage of a quarter-century had imploded. A job that I had barely tolerated for a score of years had changed dramatically, with new responsibilities that I felt inadequate to handle. I was about to be fifty years old, and had been considering retirement, a possibility which now seemed impossible. For all these years, I’d recognized those recurring “spells” as depression, although, as an old Marine, I’d looked upon any treatment or medication as weakness. I can tough this out. It might take a day, or a week, or a month, but it’ll go away. This time, I didn’t know if it would ever go away. I didn’t know if I would lose my kids. I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in months.
Last night had been a wild one. A very good and concerned friend, who also happened to be my doctor, actually came out to the house and stayed overnight with me, hoping to help me get a good night’s rest. It didn’t work. The following day, after a meltdown at work, he made an emergency appointment for me with a psychiatrist. In brief, that guy told me that he thought that a month’s regimen of antidepressants could work wonders for me. I told him that I didn’t know what I’d be doing in a day, much less a month. He then said that he could arrange a stay in a …er… controlled environment, if I thought I wanted that. I wanted that very much.
To tell the truth, many of my fellow patients in the controlled environment seemed to be just going through the motions, waiting for the doctor to tell them they could go home so that they could go back to whatever they’d been doing to get them there in the first place. I, however, decided that I’d been doing a pretty poor job of running my own life, and vowed to do whatever these folks felt would help me turn that life around.
I cannot overemphasize the sense of aloneness I felt that day. While lying on that bed, I remembered a snippet of a verse from the Bible, although I couldn’t tell you where I’d heard it, or where it was found. Sorry, folks. No mysterious “voice from above”. No burning bush. No pillar of fire. No descending doves. Just something lodged in the back of my mind. It stuck with me, and I looked it up later, to be sure I’d remembered it correctly. I had.
Be still and know that I am God.
That’s just what I needed to do. Be still. Know. Not “think”. Not “believe”. Know. I’m still alone, though. Then I remembered one more. I had to look it up later, too, to get the phrasing just right.
If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there.
The afternoon of the first day, things began to lighten a little. The doctors were trying me out on combinations of antidepressants and antianxiety medications, and seemed to have hit upon a winning mix. I’d been given something to help me sleep the night before, and felt refreshed for the first time in weeks. I’m going to listen for a change. I’m going to make this work.
After supper, the orderlies began calling out names of the other patients for visiting hours. Nobody knows I’m here. I am alone. They called my name. Must be a mistake. Who knows I’m here? Lots of folks, it seems. Mickey and Frank and Jan and Patsy and Wally and Bill found me. Not all at once, but over the next few days. And came to visit me. Gotta take a lot of guts to go and visit your buddy in the asylum.
That week in the hospital was probably the best thing I’ve ever done. I learned that depression is caused by chemical imbalances that can be corrected by medications. I learned that exercise, along with diet, is vital to regulate internal chemicals that can alleviate those imbalances. The therapists gave me common-sense information—stuff I’d always known, but hadn’t taken seriously. Don’t isolate yourself. Eat right. And most importantly, don’t agonize over things that are beyond your control. There are two, and only two, things that an individual can control—his own thoughts, and his own actions. Period. Worrying about anything else is always a total waste of time.
After a week, I went home to an empty house. But my kids lived with me on an alternating basis—two weeks with me, two with their mother. And my friends kept checking on me. And the folks at work and at church helped me over the rough spots. And I took my meds. And ate right. And exercised. And got better. And didn’t forget those two verses.
I suppose I’ve long held an interest in monastic life, but always from a detached and intellectual viewpoint. An unreal, romantic notion of a life of solitude, to be sure. Benedictine monks organize their community life around a very detailed, yet simple, “rule” written by Benedict of Nursia in the sixth century, A.D. Some years ago, I’d read a book, A Cloister Walk, written by Kathleen Norris. In the book, Norris, a Presbyterian, describes her experiences as a Benedictine oblate at a monastery in Minnesota. “Oblates” are laypersons who affiliate themselves with a particular Benedictine monastic community, and attempt to follow the precepts of the Benedictine Rule as best they can, while still living ordinary, uncloistered lives in the “outside world”.
One day, on a whim, I searched the Internet for information on “Benedictine monasteries”. You wouldn’t believe how many monks have websites!! I was unable to find many sites for monasteries in this area, but landed at the rather detailed webpage of Saint Vincent Archabbey, in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. Thanks to the information gleaned from that site, I learned quite a lot about Benedictine life in general, as well as Saint Vincent’s oblate program.
First, oblates read or recite at least a portion of the monastic “daily office” each day. This ritual, sometimes referred to as Opus Dei (“work of God”) is simply a selection of psalms, scripture readings, responses and prayers, recited or chanted by the monks at specified intervals during the day. These readings can be read at home by oblates at the appointed times, primarily the first hours of the morning, and the last hours of the evening, with other, optional periods throughout the day and night.
Secondly, oblates attempt to apply the Rule to their daily lives. Benedict’s Rule is composed basically of guidelines to living a worthwhile and Christian life, along with “housekeeping” instructions which order the daily lives of those who live in religious communities. In addition, oblates try to participate regularly in a practice called lectio divina, or “sacred reading” of the Bible, using a technique of slow, meditative reading and prayer.
At first, I found that I could download the daily readings from the Internet. After a few months, I began to correspond regularly with Father Donald Raila, the oblate director at Saint Vincent. Soon, I had told him of my experiences, and he faithfully and patiently answered my questions, sending helpful information and recommendations for further study.
After a year or so, I asked if I might be considered as a candidate to become an oblate of Saint Vincent’s Archabbey. Benedictine oblates affiliate themselves with a particular monastic house, and, although Saint Vincent was located near Pittsburgh, I felt a great affinity for that particular place, and for Father Donald, who had been such a great help.
Since travel to Pennsylvania was not practical for me in 2003, Father Donald arranged for me to spend several days at Subiaco Abbey, in northwestern Arkansas. There, I stayed in their guesthouse, participated in the daily office with the monks, and was finally invested as an “oblate novice” of Saint Vincent’s. I returned home, spending a year as a novice, then decided to travel to Latrobe in September 2004. I spent a short week at the Archabbey, going about the daily monastic routine, before assembling with others in the basilica for my final oblation ceremony.
So here I am, a Protestant (as are a significant number of oblates) praying with several dozen black-robed Benedictine monks in my own stall in the “monk’s choir” behind the altar of this ornate and beautiful basilica. My wife doesn’t understand this at all. Sometimes I don’t either, but I can’t see that anything other than good has come of this last three-and-a-half years. How strange it is, but I feel very much at home here.
I’ve finally realized that God does not usually speak through burning bushes. Maybe he just whispers into a chemist’s ear, “Mix a little of this, and some of that. You can call it Prozac, and George can have some.” Or maybe puts an idea into Jan and Patsy’s heads, “George could really use a visit about now.” Or gives Elva and Emil the notion that a phone call to George wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Burning bushes and pillars of fire have their place, but God often speaks much more subtly, and through unexpected channels. I like the Catholic notion of guardian angels, and know that they have had their work cut out with me.
The Benedictine medal. The large letters C S P B stand for Crux Sancti Patris Benedicti (“The Cross of [our] Holy Father Benedict”). Surrounding the back of the medal are the letters V R S N S M V – S M Q L I V B: “Vade retro satana! Nunquam suade mihi vana! Sunt mala quae libas. Ipse venena bibas!” (“Begone Satan! Never tempt me with your vanities! What you offer me is evil. Drink the poison yourself!”)
All too soon, it’s time to return home. Father Donald drives me back to the Latrobe bus station, and, with a prayer at curbside for my safe travel, sends me southward.
More often than not, my efforts to reflect Benedictine values in my life have met with dismal failure, yet the rules are simple. Even if you’ve never read Benedict’s Rule, you can probably figure out what virtues he stresses. Obedience. Stability. Humility. Patience. Silence. If you know me very well, you can imagine how big a mess I make of those, over and over again. The idea, however, is not to give up. And the journey is never over.
Information about Saint Vincent Archabbey, Benedict’s Rule, and links to sites relating to monastic life and oblation, can be found at www.osb.org/sva/obl/index.html. By the way, the two verses are from Psalm 46 and 139, respectively.