Miracle on Hill Drive

 I spent December 24^th, 25^th, and 26^th at the St. Meinrad Archabbey.  Driving home I realized a miracle had occurred; a small miracle, but highly singular.

For three days I did not make one joke or pun, did not tell a funny story, and did not put down any person, place, or thing with a biting remark.  For three whole days! That is what St. Meinrad and St. Benedict (The Rule: Chapter 7; tenth degree of humility) do to you.

            

I was the only guest staying for a full three days.  A few other pilgrims came and went, the seminary students were on holiday, and the monks and brothers were in their secret havens.  Decorations were limited to a few Christmas trees and wreaths.  Not a jingle bell or ho-ho-ho or grandma got run over by a reindeer was to be heard.  I ate in Newman Hall, sometimes sharing the room with only one or two other diners.  When you go, hope that the beef barley soup, salmon, and apple-caramel pie are on the menu.

            

However, I did receive one gift—a wide smile as warm as a Christmas hearth—from Fr. Meinrad.

I owned St. Meinrad.  St. Meinrad owned me.

            

Christmas afternoon I walked hatless and gloveless beneath a bright Episcopal-blue sky down the hill, through the village, and up the wooded hillside to Monte Cassino.  I walked through the red doors (never locked), lit a candle, sat down, and said the rosary with Anglican beads, wondering if it would “take.”  It did.

At the rear of the chapel I took down the chain with the sign reading, “Please Do Not Enter,” and walked the narrow steps to the dark belfry and rang the bell a Trinitarian three times.  I got a kick out of ringing the sweet bell over an empty countryside.

              

When I sit in the Archabbey Church I try not to look up—way up—like a dumb, hick tourist at the bold, rich, magnificent stained glass windows.  I try to appear as an old, sagacious oblate from Harrison, Ohio, who is quite used to such things thank you.  (I wait until everyone leaves.)

           

 Stepping outside the rear entrance of the Guest house at night, hearing the bells scaring the birds and welcoming the angels, seeing on the neighboring knoll the Church, fully lit and fully bright is a blessed and everlasting, ambitious memory.

            

Last February Rev. Dave Halt (St. James Episcopal, Cincinnati) and I drove to St. Meinrad for my Rite of Final Oblation.  I remember walking to the Church along the hillside through a cool and cloudless night, that for one brief shining moment all this—Benedict, the Archabbey, Fr. Meinrad, the monks, and my priest—were there just for me.

            

Rev. Dave once told me that he believed a place is made more holy by the weight and number of prayers said in it.  Before the altar I made my Oblation and a prayer, promising before God stability of heart, fidelity to the spirit of the monastic life, and obedience to the will of God.  The Archabbey Church was made a little holier that night.  A prayer said.  A prayer granted.  Another miracle on Hill Drive.

by Oblate Andrew (Ron Beathard)