Nobody asks who you are at the sink
Home for four days, so I did a shift at the gurdwara washing steel plates after langar. Hundreds of them. You stand at the big sink with whoever turned up: a retired doctor, two university kids, a man who came in off the street for a meal and stayed to help.
Nobody asks who you are at the sink. Nobody asks what you believe. You scrub, you pass, you rinse, you stack. Somebody makes a bad joke and everyone laughs anyway. That's seva.
Three provinces of highway behind me, and this was the most rested I've felt all month.
Before the drums, the prayers
People are always surprised when I tell them a ceremony in our house starts with almost an hour of prayer. Catholic prayers first, then the Priyè Ginen in Kreyòl, French and langaj, the long litany that calls the saints, the lwa and the ancestors, everyone in their proper order. My knees know exactly how long it is.
Nobody is sticking pins in anything. Mostly we are praying, singing, feeding people, and asking Papa Legba to open the gate so the conversation can begin.
Last Saturday my goddaughter led part of the Priyè for the first time. Her voice shook on the first line, and then it didn't. In the corner an old manbo closed her eyes and nodded. That nod is worth more than every movie version of us put together.
Three months of reading over your shoulders
I've been lurking here for about three months. No religion, no practice, just a lot of reading at 1am. I wanted to say thank you, and share what I've noticed from the outside.
First: almost nobody here is trying to convince anyone of anything. I honestly expected to be recruited. Instead people answer questions and then go back to their gardens and their prayers and their tea.
Second: on the surface the practices couldn't look more different. A Sikh truck driver reciting scripture at a truck stop before dawn. A Wiccan casting a circle in their kitchen. A Quaker sitting in silence. A rootworker sweeping her porch. But underneath, so much of it seems to come down to two things: paying attention, and saying thank you.
Third: the people who've been at this for decades are the ones most comfortable saying 'I don't know.' I found that unexpectedly reassuring.
My grandpa's anniversary is in a couple of weeks. For the first time, I'm thinking about doing something to mark it. No idea what yet. But I think I've learned from all of you that it doesn't have to be impressive. It just has to be sincere.
Thanks for letting me read over your shoulders.
Brother Columba's stall
Vigils is at 4:15am. This time of year it's fully dark, and the abbey church is lit only enough to read the psalms.
Brother Columba died in September, aged ninety-one. He had the same stall in the choir for sixty-two years: back row, left side, under the window with the cracked pane. He always arrived first, sat with his eyes closed, and always, always cleared his throat right before 'O Lord, open my lips.'
Nobody has taken his stall. It isn't a rule. We just haven't.
Last Tuesday I was the first one in. I sat in my place, novices' row, front. The church was completely silent. And then, from the back left, under the window with the cracked pane, someone cleared their throat.
I didn't turn around. I don't fully know why. Maybe because turning around would have meant deciding what it was.
The bell rang, the others came in, Father Prior intoned the opening versicle, and we sang the Invitatory as usual. Afterwards I told our novice master. He is not a man given to drama. He listened, nodded, and said, 'Columba never missed Vigils in sixty years. I don't suppose he wants to start now.' Then he sent me to help with the bread.
I'm not writing this to claim a miracle. I'm writing it because the communion of saints, which I profess every Sunday, felt very close that morning. Close enough to clear its throat.