An ode of thanks to the Carthusian

A Carthusian monk sits in his cell at the monastery for hours at a time… his whole life has been dedicated to the praise of God’s name. The world would tell him that he is wasting his time, he is not productive. Yet, day by day there he sits.

I marvel at him.., at his image for I will never get to know him. He sits alone, his life, with the exception of some together time in chapel and times for vigorous walks with other monks is spent alone. He knows not the voice of another. He hears not the voice of a partner to talk about his day, and what he did, and what tomorrow will be like. None of that is there. Instead, silence and solitude.

Silence and Solitude.

And he offers up prayers… I wonder if he knows about me. I wonder if he has spoken to God about me…. Maybe not by name, but by circumstance, yes, I am sure he has. He gets no newspapers or television or radio, yet I am sure he has also prayed for Bill Gates, George W., Osama Bin Laden, and Jean Chretien. He also lifts up his voice to God and intervenes for the prostitute whose pimp is beating her up… for the teen who is contemplating self-mutilation out of frustration because he cannot “get” math… for the mother whose child has a fever of 105… for the Elder whose memory is being destroyed by a disease called Alzheimer… for the worker who makes a meager wage yet must wade through waste and garbage to make the money to pay for the food his/her children will eat… for the teacher who stared at the barrel of a gun at school today… for the adult whose life is traumatized by the memories of abuse by someone who was supposed to minister to them… for the doctor whose God given skill will save a life… for the football player at the World Cup games who is vainglorious… for the pusher who has addicted a new kid – age eleven – with some “freebies”… for the talk show host… for the soldier… for the mortician… for those so busy they don’t notice the sunset, the stars, or that pain in their chest… for the mother in child birth… for the person who is breathing their last breath… for the farmer… and, well, that Carthusian is saying a prayer for me.

Silence and Solitude.

I am so damn busy at times I fail to notice it. I fail to take the time to smell the beauty of a rain falling… or grass that is cut… or a hundred other scents… Nor to notice the voice of my child and the sound she can make so splendidly by pulling the bow across her viola. Nor the dance of a bee.

Silence and Solitude.

In some ways, I envy that Carthusian monk… 

Silence and Solitude.

And I want that Carthusian monk to know that what he does for the world is the most important thing! It is far greater than the goal in 72, or winning the top prize of the 6-49, or for that matter a gazillion other things.

Silence and Solitude.

Surround that monk as he prays for me.

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