The View from a Monastery
by Benet Tvedten
Overview
From the publisher:
In
The View from a Monastery, Brother Benet Tvedten reflects on his life at Blue Cloud Abbey on the choices he's made; on the changes, over the years, in Benedictine life, and on the various monks with whom he's shared his life. A skilled storyteller, he continually dodges our expectations, demonstrating that the monastery, just like the world outside it, is a place filled with life in all of its blessed contradictions. His book offers us a rare glimpse into a world that, despite its apparent simplicity, has much to teach us - about community and faith, about patience and change, about how to find contentment in our lives.
My thoughts
Ever wondered what goes on in the life of a monk? After reading this book, I suspect it's not all that much different than what goes on in the lives of the rest of us who aren't monks!
Monks (apparently) break rules, play practical jokes, try to get out of chores they don't want to do, watch TV, have possessions, harbor grudges ... you name it!
I expected to read this book and walk away feeling a solemn joy for men who are so filled with God that they give their life, their friends, their families and their possessions to Him. Instead I'm walking away feeling that monks are mere men who struggle just like the rest of us. On one hand it's very disappointing. It's quite a sacrifice to still face the struggles of daily life. On the other hand, perhaps it's a bit comforting. I think perhaps we can be very close to God without the extreme measures of cloistering ourselves. Your thoughts?
Favorite Passage
When Father Gregory became manager of the appeal office, I was still there typing enelopes and recording donations. Father Gregory had often complained about not having steady help in the garden. Now he was counting on me. "Things are slack in the office during the summertime," he said. "You'll be able to assist me in the garden."
I wanted to plead that I was constitutionally incapable of working outdoors. As a novice, I had volunteered on a Saturday afternoon to help load hay bales onto the farm's flatbed wagon. At suppertime my hands were so sore and swollen that I could barely hold my knife and fork. My hands were also terribly scratched because I hadn't worn gloves. On Monday morning in the appeal office, I found it painful to type addresses on the envelopes.
Housewives from three counties came here to purchase Father Gregory's tomatoes. What couldn't be sold, he gave away to local hospitals and nursing homes. Someone dubbed him "Tomato King of the Whetstone Valley." If he hadn't had this reputation to uphold, we wouldn't have had to trip over all the green tomatoes he brought into the house to ripen before the killing frost got them.
One Sunday afternoon, Frater Andrew and I were approached by a man at the front door who was in search of a priest. The poor man looked distraught, as if he had some heavy sin he wanted to confess immediately. Frater Andrew and I ran all through the monastery looking for a priest, but neither of us found one. I apologized to the man, who looked even more desperate. "Shucks," he said. "I wanted to buy a bushel of tomatoes."
