CHAPTER 12
The brown bottle containing a crystal clear liquid sat on the nun’s bureau. She took a swig, approximating the teaspoonful she had been instructed to place under her tongue for about thirty seconds prior to swallowing. The years she spent in other countries, sometimes in rather primitive circumstances, made her grimace at the thought of ever taking medicine again—especially natural medicine.
Sister Scholastica trusted Abbot Francis and had long since found the use of doctor strength colloidal silver to be of great benefit for her health. God only knew what viral and bacterial creatures lurked within her.
When the Abbot started to tell her about the many such organisms that inhabit all of us she asked him to stop. He assured her that a healthy immune system kept them all in check. It was only when immune function was too low that these creatures were set free to cause symptoms of one sort or another in the human body.
The doctor monk explained to the very bright nun that all sorts of symptoms and syndromes might be caused by infection. “Syndromes” sounded worse than “symptoms” so she didn’t ask for a clarification ten years back, but had come to understand the word as representing a set of symptoms, not just one. In any case, eyes, ears, nose, mouth, gums, throat, skin, nails, and the various systems which function within the human body can all become imbalanced by the nasty invaders within the body.
When a nun or monk of the Salesian Monastery rises in the morning and is preparing to gather with the community in the Oratory, the monastic’s thoughts are supposed to be on God and the things of God. In the early morning, brief thoughts about the day ahead, asking the help of God for anything which might be thought of as difficult, and making a plan of action to deal with it, are to combine in a brief and simple exercise to prepare for the events of the day.
Today, however, Sister Scholastica had a slight sore throat and felt as if she were “coming down with something.” She was taking colloidal silver as a preventive. The suggested dose for acute or sudden situations was seven teaspoons a day.
Her thoughts naturally turned back to her Postulancy days when she first entered the monastery and when her health was not at its best. Her brother in monastic life, and her Abbot, introduced her to colloidal silver and she became a huge fan of the ultra-pure water which contained miniscule particles of silver suspended in it.
It was originally foreign for Sister Scholastica to think of the human body as one big colloid—a body of liquid with all sorts of things, good and bad, suspended in it. Today she took that concept for granted. The liquid was stored in bottles so as to avoid any contamination which might inactivate the silver particles. Colloidal silver was actually an old-fashioned health treatment, but recent research made the product much better understood.
The wonderful liquid was a natural antiviral and antibiotic. Such potions were used in the ancient worlds of the Romans and Greeks—by Hippocrates himself! If it was good enough for the father of medicine, it was good enough for her. The thought of drinking something containing silver was daunting at first, but after she thought about some of the things she ate and was exposed to her in her earlier career, she got over that.
Monastery visitors had told the community members that there was a blue-skinned man appearing on the television talk shows who had turned the color of Papa Smurf by using colloidal silver. Even so, he continued to take the medicine regularly because he believed it was the source of his vibrant health. It was later revealed that the man was making his own colloidal silver at home and that it was impure, thus resulting in Argyria, the blue skin condition.
Well-documented studies, highly detailed and beyond the interest of Sister Scholastica, confirmed that the colloidal silver she was taking would not turn anyone’s skin blue. The cold weather might, however, because the nun was not fond of that. Many of her earlier years were spent in warm climates—not in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.
She reeled her thoughts back in and did a brief Preparation of the Day and then made her way in silence to the Oratory. The bell calling them to prayer was ringing, and for a monastic this was the voice of God calling. She was the last person to enter and she made the usual bow from the waist while placing the palms of her hands on her knees. She sat in her choir stall, a simple wooden podium made of pine wood, which contained a shelf for her Office book and perhaps a few other books or spiritual papers of one sort or another.
Brother Benedict had made those choir stalls, along with the altar and the ambo from which the Word of God was proclaimed. The two benches which lined each wall of the sanctuary area of the Oratory were also of his creation.
She was saddened by the news of his death last evening. Sister Jane de Chantal had rung the community bell at an odd hour and at the beginning of Grand Silence. It was only for the gravest of reasons that this period of silence between the end of Night Prayer until after breakfast the next morning was broken.
The Prioress had explained to the community last evening that Brother Benedict slipped away around sunset and that they would gather then next day to make preparations for his Liturgy of the Resurrection and burial. The community experienced a mixture of sadness and relief that their brother was now truly free.
The Prioress rapped on the rough wooden wall next to her choir stall with her knuckles and the community rose and traced a small cross over their mouths as she intoned: “O Lord open my lips.” They responded: “And my mouth shall proclaim your praise.”
A series of psalms and readings were celebrated and the Office of Vigils culminated with the Church’s great song of praise, the Te Deum—in English these days. This community liked the Liturgy in the local language of English, the vernacular.
Some people asked the members of the Salesian Monastery if they said their Office in Latin or English, sometimes looking for a more traditional community. This monastery traced its roots back to the early Church. They explained that they were not limited to the last five hundred years of church history but went back even further. This made them a mind boggling mix of modern and ancient attitudes which confused some while delighting others.
Vigils ended with Sister Jane de Chantal quietly proclaiming: “Come Lord Jesus.” This last line of the Bible was also a reminder for the community to keep watch for the God who breaks into each day. It was an invitation to mindfulness and recollection as the day became busy. At the moment, it also signaled the beginning of an hour of meditation, mental prayer.
Some community members stayed in the Oratory, others went back to their rooms, and still others slowly walked about on the monastery grounds. Sister Scholastica went to the sun room and sat in a creaky old rocking chair. She read a page or two from My life with the Saints, comforted by the very human characterization of the holy people portrayed in the book.
She began to talk to Jesus about her gratitude for life in general, a feeling heightened by the loss of Brother Benedict. In time-warp speed, the bell began to peal for Morning Prayer and she returned to the Oratory to greet the God of the morning and pray for the needs of all God’s people.
After a silent breakfast of coffee, toast, and hot cereal, the community members cleaned up the kitchen area and went their separate ways, happy to have some time to themselves on this beautiful Sunday morning.
One of her pet peeves was that sometimes no one answered the doorbell, each person thinking someone else would. It rang as she was heading in that direction anyway so she answered it. A woman in a wide-brimmed blue hat and dark glasses stood before her.
“Good morning. May I help you? I’m Sister Scholastica.”
“Yes, I know.”
As soon as the visitor answered, the nun knew who she was. “What a surprise to see you. Please come in.”
The woman entered and they made their way to the sun room where not long before Sister Scholastica had meditated.
“I realize that it has been years since we have seen one another and that we do not know each other very well, but I felt the need to express my sympathy to this community on the death of George—Brother Benedict.”
“How very kind, but it is certainly a loss for you as well.”
The woman smiled sadly. “Yes, but we released one another long ago to follow the paths that God had called us to as you know. Through that mutual agreement much has been accomplished, even to the point of leading you here.”
Sister Scholastica had a far away look in her eyes as she remembered when the man who ran the hobby shop in New York City sold it in order to enter a monastery. She sometimes purchased leather crafting materials from him and used them as a way to relax and de-stress.
She made more moccasins and leather book cover than she could ever use. She went to the simple profession of his temporary monastic vows a few years after he entered and gave him a hand-crafted leather Office book cover. Eventually she entered that monastery herself. She liked its simplicity, the primitive Rule it followed, the fact that it included both men and women, that the community did not necessarily exclude people if they had a physical challenge. If so, Clare might not be among them right now.
“I appreciate your time and I won’t stay long. There was a need for me to reconnect with the past and this is a marvelous way to do it. I had a sort of near death experience recently and it has made me more grateful than ever for life. It’s nice to see that the spiritual friendship Brother Benedict and I had has been fruitful. My own marriage and life work is quite satisfying.”
The nun thought of the founders of her own spiritual family—Saints Francis de Sales and Jane de Chantal. They remain a magnificent example of spiritual friendship in the Christian contemplative tradition. They were busy and happy, loving God first, then one another.
“May I spend a few moments in the Oratory, Sister?”
The two women walked over to the little barn-like structure which was the heart of the monastery. Sister Scholastica led the visitor to Brother Benedict’s choir stall and explained that this was where their friend and brother had prayed day in and day out for the last fifteen years or so of his life. They hugged, connected by a bond deeper than the meager knowledge they had of one another. The bond of love is stronger than death itself.