Tess Evans - Book of Lost Threads

‘My name wasn’t always Kevin, of course,’ said the monk. ‘I was baptised Matthew, but when I came here there was already a Matthew, so they told me to pick a saint. I wasn’t too good on the old saints, but I said, What about Kevin? I didn’t tell Father Jerome, but it was for Kevin Sheedy. You know, the footballer? He wasn’t the best player ever, but he was a determined bugger. A good role model for me. I haven’t found it easy, being a monk.’ He took a large gulp of beer. ‘Good old Sheeds. I remember one game against Collingwood-we were three points down. There were seconds left on the clock. Well, Sheeds had been winded only minutes before, but he just snatches the ball out of the air and wham! Straight through the goalposts just as the siren goes.’ Kevin’s eyes shone with admiration. ‘Lucky for me,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘it turned out there really was a Saint Kevin.’

‘What made you come here?’ Finn was puzzled. The man seemed to lack the spiritual dimension that was evident, to one degree or another, in all the other monks he had met.

‘Funny you should ask. I’m an electrician by trade. Had my own little business and everything. I went to church but was never particularly religious. In some ways I came here kicking and screaming, but he got me in the end.’

‘Father Jerome?’

‘No-God.’ Kevin was suddenly shy. ‘I had a calling, you see, and in the end I knew I had to come.’

‘I don’t think I believe in God.’

‘Doesn’t matter, mate. As long as He believes in you.’

Finn’s talks with Boniface were different, but imbued with the same strong faith. He spent an hour a day, four days a week, with the old man, usually sitting in the little summerhouse in the front garden. Boniface spoke slowly, as though weighing the value of each word.

‘God has already forgiven you,’ he said once. ‘Your task now is to learn to forgive yourself.’

‘That’s easier said than done.’

The monk remained silent.

‘I mean, how can I do that? Can’t you help me?’

‘I wish I could, Finbar, but we all have to find redemption in our own way. Sit with me a while. The answer is in your heart and you will only hear the voice of your heart when all other thoughts are silent.’

Finn had never met anyone like Boniface and tried to define his unique qualities. Was he an ascetic? Not really. Asceticism suggested a remoteness, a severity, that was the antithesis of the genuine human warmth complementing the spirituality that lit Boniface from within. On that first night, he had humbly served Finn soup and made up his bed before bestowing a blessing. He could sit with Finn in a silence that was more powerful than words, but when he spoke, his message was simple and compassionate. The more time he spent with Boniface, the more Finn sensed that his humanity and spirituality were one.

He offered these thoughts to Kevin one day when they were working in the garden. ‘Father Boniface is amazing. He hardly says anything when I meet with him, but I always come away-refreshed. What’s his secret, do you think?’

Kevin leaned on his shovel. ‘Boniface is unique,’ he said. ‘A saint, in his own way. He’s managed to cut through all the palaver, all the crap, and see things with the eyes of faith. Look here.’ Kevin indicated the garden. ‘What do you see here, Finn?’

‘A vegie patch.’

‘Yes?’

‘Beans, carrots, zucchini, tomatoes…’

‘Yes?’

Finn was at a loss. ‘An organic vegie patch?’

‘All that. But do you know what Boniface sees here?’

Finn shook his head.

‘He sees this garden as a little world with its insects, worms, plants, the earth itself-all part of God’s creation. I’ll never forget the first time we met. There he was, one of the most senior and learned priests in the Order and here was I, a nobody, with dirty hands and muddy boots, smelling of manure. Do you know what he said? How blessed you are to be young and strong, Brother Kevin, doing the work of God in your garden. How wonderful to be an instrument of His creation.’ Kevin thrust his spade into the earth once more. ‘What I’m trying to say, Finn, is that Boniface is the most Christ-like person I’ve ever met. Or am ever likely to meet.’

Finn looked at the garden again and continued to dig with a new reverence.

He had found some peace in his time at the monastery, but the silent reproach of Amber-Lee’s ghost still haunted Finn. Although it happened less often, there were still nights when he awoke with a vision of a single shoe or a bloody sheet, or the taste of damp earth filling his mouth and nose.

‘It’s called post-traumatic stress disorder-PTSD,’ Father Jerome had told him. ‘You’re having what are known as “flashbacks”. It’s hard to control their frequency, and the triggers are often quite unpredictable. PTSD is common among soldiers who’ve seen action. After the First World War they called it “shell-shock”. No-one understood it then, but we’re making some progress. If it continues, you may be able to learn to control it, but there’s no cure as such.’

On the Feast of Saint Benedict, Finn went to the chapel for the first time. There had been no pressure to attend, but he felt that it was a mark of respect to honour the founder of the Order. It was also Open Day at the monastery, and his parents arrived after lunch. They were pleased to see him so much calmer. He was still thin and had become a little stooped from his work in the garden, but they saw there was a new, outdoors toughness in his body, and a healthy ruddiness in his cheeks.

‘Time to come home?’ enquired his mother hopefully.

Finn was evasive. He had a plan, and needed to discuss it with Father Jerome. ‘I’ll stay a while yet,’ he replied. ‘I have to help Kevin prepare the winter garden.’

‘Whatever you think best, darling.’ His mother was in her mid-seventies and the events of the last six months had sapped her strength. ‘Just ring us when you’re ready.’

His father clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘Nice to see you so much better, son.’

Finn made an appointment to see Father Jerome the next day. He dressed carefully, and felt a churning in his gut as he entered the abbot’s room.

Father Jerome put down his pen and looked up as Finn, red-faced and a little flustered, took his customary seat facing the painting of Saint Benedict that hung behind the abbot’s desk.

‘Good morning, Finbar.’

Finn had rehearsed the moment and finally decided that it was best to just say what he wanted without preamble. After briefly returning the greeting, he plunged in: ‘Father Jerome, I’d like to become a Benedictine.’ He beamed. ‘Like you,’ he added, unnecessarily.

Jerome sighed. He’d been afraid of this: Finbar’s mother had warned him that her son was inclined to exaggerated gestures, so he proceeded warily. He didn’t want the work of the last months undone. ‘Now, why do you say that, my son?’

‘Because I want to be like you. And Father Boniface. Or even Brother Kevin.’

‘Why do you think we’re here, Finbar?’

‘Because… because, you know… like Kevin says, you’ve been called.’

‘Have you been called, Finbar?’

‘I think so-how can I tell?’

‘You know, all right.’ Jerome returned to the original question. ‘You haven’t really answered me, Finbar. Why do you think we’re here? What is our purpose ?’

‘You help people like me?’

‘Not as many as you might imagine.’

‘You live a good life.’

‘That’s possible anywhere.’

‘You work. Kevin has his garden. Timothy has his infirmary. Ambrose has his wine-making. Boniface has…’ What did Boniface have? Finn felt he was on shifting ground. ‘Well. Boniface is Boniface.’