St. Meinrad

St. Meinrad, in southern Indiana, is one of two Archabbeys in the United States (the other is in Pennsylvania). I had the privilege of spending most of last week at their conference center. Twelve students came together from two seminaries to study spiritual formation. Six of the students were from Emmanuel School of Religion in East Tennessee and six were from Lincoln University and Seminary in Illinois. I am a student at the latter.

Our professor lives most of the year in Austria. One of the students had flown in from his home in Portugal; another had recently been to his home country of Korea. As is usual in these settings, only two of the students were women. I was one of them.

The Abbey is 150 years old, the cathedral spires rising hundreds of feet above the hill on which the church sits. Connected on one side is the monastery where 70 or so monks (some of them have never lived anywhere else) live. On the other side of the cathedral is a four story dormitory for 700 or so Roman Catholic Seminarians. Under separate roof is a gymnasium, library, and assorted out buildings. A cemetery on-grounds is the final resting place of dozens of monks. No names are written on tomb stones as it is only necessary for God to know who they are.

We were housed in the conference center, a newer building with dozens of rooms, both single and double. Although perhaps expecting some sort of monk-like cell-like room, the rooms are quite modern, all with private baths, desks, comfy chairs with footstools, lots of lamps....but no TV.
In fact one of the days I was there I heard what could only be a TV coming from one of the sitting areas. I hastened toward the sound to see what the news of the day might be. Alas, the only available channel was from the Vatican, teachings from one of the Cardinals. I hastened on.

Meals were taken in the conference center dining room being brought in from the Abbey kitchen which is housed in the dormitory. The kitchen includes a bakery....enough said. Along with our group there were about a dozen other folks there: a group of five guys from Canada who come every year and a few nuns on retreat.

We were the only non-Catholics on ground during the week. One of our students struck up a conversation with one of the monks (who was strolling around the grounds) and finally asked him what the monks thought of 14 Protestants coming for the week. He thoughtfully pondered the question and finally said, "It is a great mystery."

St. Meinrad is known outside of the Roman Catholic world for two things: Abby Press and for the quality of its caskets. Both businesses are on the grounds of the Abbey, along with a book store and gift shop. The gift shop also offers a cafe and the bakery treats we enjoyed all week. So I would say the Abbey is known for three things: publications, caskets, and bakery items.

Twice a day we joined the monks in the cathedral, for noon prayers and for vespers at 5 PM. If you are not catholic it only takes a time or two to 'get the hang' of a catholic service. There seems to be a lot of standing and sitting. Not much kneeling during these two services. The monks lead the songs, which are straight from scripture, and the congregants are invited to "Please sing softly, allowing the monks to set the pace and lead."

Shaped notes are used in the printed material. This is a throw-back to hundreds of years ago. There may be one word in the hymn with nine or ten shaped notes clustered as if for dear life above it. It takes a couple of services to realize that every note in the tight little cluster gets sung...in a specific order that takes some doing to understand...thus the admonition to sing softly. The acoustics are so perfect in the cathedral that one little errant note, even sung on key can be heard around the apses and naves and whatever other little nooks and crannies cathedrals have. I found this out the hard way. My student friends who were sitting across the church from me heard my miscue. It was after that the caution to sing quietly and let the monks lead appeared printed on the daily program.

Our first day there was All Saints Day. Pretty impressive robes and things. The Archabbot was resplendent with two assistants helping him with the staff and his head covering. You can tell by my vocabulary that I am not Roman Catholic. The next day could only be described as casual Wednesday, with khakis and jeans, tennis shoes and plaid shirts.

All of the Meinrad monks are white by race. They wear black robes. Imagine our surprise to see two black monks...dressed in white robes. I thought it was very racial until we discovered they were visiting from an African nation where the monks wear white robes.

There was a lot to take in and a lot to learn. But every morning the beauty of the place erased all the ignorance and the bells tolled out a welcome to the new day. Ah, the bells. Quite worth the drive to hear the bells chiming over the rolling Indiana hillsides calling the town to arise and be about the business of their lives.

There are not more words. And that's what I think about it.

Fall Festival is billed as the biggest street fair outside of Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Right here is southern Indiana.

This year the weather was perfect; warm days and cool evenings. Each year dozens of not-for-profit organizations set up booths along the street and sell every imaginable form of fried food each competing with the next for uniqueness.

This year, for the first time, fried Kool-aid was offered, along with fried brain sandwiches (a perennial favorite), fried apples, fried grasshoppers, fried...well, you get the idea. Bacon was also featured this year, thanks to a national chain restaurant that advertised its own baconalia festival. Our Fall Festival featured bacon brownies. Next year I expect to find fried bacon brownies on the menu. It is no wonder then to anyone that this city in southern Indiana boasts being number one in the whole nation for obesity. One can counter that this festival only happens once a year but the proof is in the pudding, the fried pudding apparently.

Another event took place at a friend's home. I mention this to remind you what living in the rural south is really like. It was an all-men gathering; a celebration of the home owner's newly acquired band saw. The group of invited men, young and old, stood on the porch, gathered in hushed reverence as the saw was switched on. Amid oohs and aahs, they turned their ears to listen to the quiet hum of the new motor. On and off, the switch was operated by all of them as they marveled at their friend's acquisition. After a fitting time when everyone had listened and switched, they all went inside the home for cider and a discussion of all the different types of Indiana hardwood.

These are my current musings from living here. Sometimes I just plain miss the city. And that's what I think about it.

Vacation

Back from Great Smoky Mountain National Park in beautiful East Tennessee. We started at Milligan College where we saw the lady buffs (as in Buffaloes) beat Union College 6-2 in soccer. Grand daughter Taylor played well.

In a suite at the Doubletree Inn in Johnson City Taylor and I studied while Jim worked on the computer. At one time the three of us had three computers up and running. Church on Sunday found us with 300 others. We were the oldest by 40 years but were warmly welcomed, perhaps as an oddity or because we were with Taylor or perhaps because these are friendly southerners who genuinely like people.

A hike planned for later in the day was thwarted by the sign you see here. Need I say more?

After three days with Tay-bug (family name) we drove to the Smoky Mountains. Trying to stay away from the commercial areas of Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge and Sieverville, Jim had procured a hotel on the edge of town. Our balcony overlooked a mountain and short though it was provided a beautiful morning view. The sun rose behind the hotel and hit the top of the mountain across the street. Little by little, as the sun rose, you could see the sun line moving down the mountain until the valley was fully lit for the day. I never tired of the predictability of the sunrise.

The picture of me was taken on our way to Cherokee, NC, which is not a good way to spend an afternoon unless you love to gamble. What we loved was looking at ridge after ridge of hills that make up this group of the oldest mountains in the country. I did purchase two books on local history, one the life of a mountain woman. The second consists of diary entries from Cherokees both who were removed from the area over the Trail of Tears and those who refused to leave and whose descendants remain in the area to this day. The Trail of Tears is one of those embarrassing events in the history of this country.

And that's what I think about it.

Season Change

The trees are that funny shade of green that signals the end of summer and a change in seasons.

At the same time I am attempting to gear up for two more classes at the seminary, the earth is winding down to take its long winter's nap. We are out of sync with each other and in the battle of sync, well, let's just say, my second place is a given.

Days are shorter and a duck or two has begun the trip south.

Time to take the forsythia wreath from the front door and while it is a spring wreath, no summer wreath replaced it in June. A red and orange leafed one will in a month or so.

I notice the cat is sleeping more...that's funny...how can a cat sleep more than 24 hours a day or so it seems?

Labor Day came and went. Twice I mistakenly referred to the holiday as Memorial Day. Did I miss the whole summer?

Jim planted four huge mums underneath the bird feeder. They compete with the morning glories which have been severely hacked back four times this summer so as to not scare the birds from feeding.

Today is a day of memory for the country. Ten autumns and springs and summers and winters have passed since the attack. Still the freshness of the event remains. We live in an unsafe world whether we abide in the city or country, whether the United States or some other country. Lulled into apathy by wars on foreign soil, we have felt distant or perhaps isolated from these horrors. Nine eleven was perhaps the first time a whole generation of Americans realized that they are not immune to the tragedies experienced by much of the world's countries, tragedies experienced much more often than once every ten years. Brighter, more erudite folks than I have written about this event so I'll just close with a line from a very old hymn of peace, "Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me."

And that's what I think about it.