Seeing in a New Way

Like an arrow the sunlight pierced through the slit window of his tiny cell. When it reached Brother Martin he stirred, then right away sat up. Morning had arrived; time for him to splash his face with water, slip on his clothes, say his prayers and make his way to the kitchen.

Every day he did this and as usual he was first up. He drew back the bolt and opened the door to the day. Fresh air rushed in to take away the smell of last night’s cooking. Martin collected his water buckets as he always did and walked out into the frosty morning.  Already the sun was thrusting through the trees. He shook the last sleepiness from him and headed for the spring.

In a tree close to him a bird began to sing. Brother Martin looked up startled. It was a strange bird, a lovely new song. The unfamiliar notes made something burn within his chest. When the bird flew up at his approach he watched as it headed away into the distance. The feeling inside him strengthened. This was disturbing. Martin bent his head down and strode determinedly on to collect the water.

The other brothers were up and active when he returned. The kitchen buzzed with morning chatter. This was not a silent order! The Bishop had been visiting to welcome in Lent and the meal last night had not gone well. Brother Ignatius growled that Brother Francis had burned the meat to a cinder. Brother Francis complained; how was he supposed to cook properly when Brother Peter stoked the fire up like the very flames of hell. Brother Peter said this was nonsense while Brother Justin butted in, ‘Then what about Brother John? He managed to turn the bread into stones.’ And Brother Luke sneered, ‘Not much like our Lord then who refused to turn stones into bread.’

Bother Martin watched irritated. What moaners they were, even drawing Christ’s tempting by the devil into it. Had they forgotten how each of us is responsible for our own failure? They were such blamers. Martin didn’t like what he was thinking. They were his brothers and here he was, judging them. It made him feel apart from them. So he worked with exra intent that day trying to shake off his discomfort. He gave all he had to the tasks that were his lot. He didn’t notice how this affected the other monks, how they also became careful and purposeful. Brother John even sang along with his daily dough-kneading.

Brother Martin was too absorbed trying to put out the flame growing hotter inside him. Questions started to form. Could there be something better than this life? Is it possible to find a truly spiritual path? He couldn’t answer, nor could he turn the questions away. They dogged him throughout the following days. His life had changed colour. He saw it as grey, endlessly the same, meaningless.

When he carried the buckets to the spring he found himself looking and listening for the bird, until one day when he was filling the buckets, an enormous force surged up and took over his mind. That bird could fly where it wished. Why couldn’t he follow it? He could leave the monastery and like the bird follow where his spirit urged. Martin’s whole body shook at the idea. Water spilled over his feet, not that he noticed. Brother Peter and Brother Ignatius raised their eyebrows at each other when they saw the half empty buckets Brother Martin placed by the stove.

No matter how hard Brother Martin worked the idea would not depart. He lay awake at night and when the morning sun touched his eyes they were already wide open to meet it. He made his decision. He jumped up, washed and dressed and forgetting his prayers, ran to the kitchen. Before he collected the buckets, he filled his pocket with left-over food. Yes, he would go out, get the water, come back and leave the buckets by the door and then … and then head off into the unknown. He would discover where the bird had gone. He would find God!

He hurried down to the spring – for the last time. He drank some water. How sweet it tasted. He walked back along the path. The sun shone on his back. How warm it felt. He realised how much he loved this daily walk. He passed by the ancient stone walls of the monastery, punctuated by arches and windows he could number in his sleep. He saw the sparrows hopping about in the courtyard garden. He approached the door with its familiar beams, sturdy enough to last for another five hundred years.

Brother Martin stopped. Tension stretched him like a bow string. He pictured the bird and its soaring flight towards wondrous possibilities. He lowered the buckets to the ground, turned and stepped away from the door. The sun, filled with promise, was lifting itself up towards the endless sky; the hazy mountains in the distance seemed to be waiting for him.

Inside he heard Brother John’s deep voiced song as he kneaded the dough; he heard the chop, chop as Brother Luke, humming softly, sliced the vegetables picked fresh from the garden so everyone could eat plenty tonight after the day's Lenten fasting; he heard poor old Brother Ignatius counting as he washed the plates. There would be such a great pile of them, best if he took over when it came to the heavy pots. And hadn’t he promised Brother Peter he would help him in the herbarium.

Brother Martin breathed in deeply and the flame within him flared up. Then with a long sigh he breathed out. He noticed that in the place where the fierce fire had been there was a glow. It was like the gentle, warming coals of the stove – he smiled, seeing it all in a new way. How truthfully that warmth also embodied the monastery’s beating heart.

Brother Martin turned again to the door, pushed it open and went in. ‘Pleasant out?’ asked Brother John. ‘It’s better in,’ said Brother Martin.