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Previously:

At times, we were to collect donations from prayer petitioners. We could, without consequence, converse briefly and politely with the parents of our brothers, but, never to our own parents.

What that must have done to tear their heart asunder, to be permitted to speak with any one of the brothers, but their own offspring.

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I guess my Brothers are content to just chalk it up to more daily penance, whereas, our parents did not realize the yanking and pulling at their hearts, they would be called to merely volunteer for.

Our tormented dear ones, gain some ground, within these incidents, by being consoled in the belief, they are making our lives easier. A parent must often sense, just on the other side of the wall, the energy of the physical presence of their loved one, whom they surrendered to God for His work here on earth.  

To endure this, they hold onto the hope to be rewarded with an honorary place, in what they believe to be the Kingdom of Heaven.

*******

Working outside, we had to quickly gobble up any gifted sweet biscuit or other delicacy. The ‘do-gooder’ knew flipping us a pence, or two, would neither be satisfying nor gratifying.

I think they often felt sorry for us. I certainly feel sorry for us. These men of the Medieval times didn’t have the knowledge of what they had to endure would, one day be highly discouraged and would harvest much less fortune.

I recently heard the completion of the saying, ‘Ignorance is bliss.’ They said, ‘Then knowledge is pain.’, thus my distaste for these times. 

Money was useless to us. But by-passers desiring to express the gratefulness they feel for our doing penance for their prayer intentions will sometimes, put us in unsafe situations.

Our closet area and beds are randomly searched to see if we may have acquired something sweet from a passer-by as a little treat. 

It would be to our greatest well-being that only our cowl, tunic, sandals, shoes, belt, knife, stylus, needle, handkerchief and writing tablets ever be found there.

If anything were found we are severely penanced. This would render a far worse consequence than my having to stand the near full twenty-four hours of one day, when first being shuttled back into this sample of Hell.

I was slowly memorizing some of the Brothers’ names. One, I especially felt concern for, was named Zachary. I was sensing a brittleness in his psyche as I observed his cheek muscles twitch. He was on my mind a lot. I sent him healing on all levels. I just felt he needed some kind of shield of protection.

Rather than yielding clarity to the cause of his morosity, the next incident only increased my bemusement. One morning at Matins, Brother Zachary’s prayer bench was empty. There was no lovely prayerful, contemplative chanting coming from his chapel corner.  

As our group moved on, into the refectory or dining room, each taking our designated chair and place at the table, I was further befuddled. Not only was Zachary missing at the table, so was his place missing, at the table. It was as if he were never there, never existed.

There was no sign he'd ever been there. The two Novices who had flanked him now sat beside each other. No one ever spoke of it. 

I don’t know if maybe he was consequenced so severely, for disobeying some Benedictine rule. What could any Brother do that is so non-negotiable, that his violation warranted expulsion? 

Someone made an example of him to serve as a frightening deterrent against any similar breakage of the Rule. I will leave it there, enough said, except… He was not just an illusion. He isn’t a figment of my imagination. I will miss his comforting alto voice.

To continue the topic of accruing money for penance, I began to understand how the Vatican has become financially secure. It originated with us. As our Monastery ‘fan-base' grew greater, it became richer.

Some might think we would have more comfort, better food, actual metal forks and metal spoons and metal knives to cut into rich red meat or even chicken or pork. 

It doesn’t change our way of life, though. It is our harsh schedule that makes the money. The more brutal, the more valuable and lucrative we are.

The monks benefit nothing, for to have better food, better eating utensils, better beds, would undo the reason the church monastery makes the money, which I'm sure, eventually ends up in Rome.

There is a Catch-22, here, because the church monastery made or still makes money as a result of us monks. There must always be hardships and penance.

If we had more comfortable beds, it would become a double-edged sword for those who benefit from the profits.  

It is a bit like a teeter-totter with the Church Monastery on one end and the monks on the opposite end. The degree to which the Monks suffer, is in direct relationship to the measure of profits.

Abbot Richard ran a tight ship. I wonder if he was schooled by Benedict himself, the one who started all of this.

I do have to speak in his favor. He never asked or demanded us to do anything he did not practice, himself. There was even one act of daily penance he carried out, but left it up to our discrepancy. He said, to my relief, “The wearing a hair shirt is between you and your God.”

I am sure my God knows how freaked out I get when I am trimming my hair and some of the tiniest of hairs get on my neck and/or shirt. There seems no relief, no way to get those prickly little needles out of the material or separated from my skin.

I am certain, all things considered, my God would not ask me to wear a shirt of coarse material made of goats’ hair, that would continuously irritate and agitate my bare skin. 

No, he would never ask that of me, especially since I did not knowingly sign up for this magical, mystery tour through this godforsaken 16th century. I have no idea how long before my ticket expires, before my stay here is terminated.