Remembering with tears....

The altar of the monastery where I once lived

I knelt down on the cold hard floor, leaning up against the back of the pew. Just the act of kneeling brought back memories, memories of the many holy weeks I spent in the monastery. In the silence that filled the church, with the organ quietly playing the meditation hymn, the past seemed very present. I thought about that past. I remembered what it felt like. And the tears came. I did nothing to stop them.

It was how I remembered.

You would have to know how Holy Week is kept in a monastery, and the impact it has upon the heart and soul to understand my emotion. Monastic custom required more silence than usual, a stricter fast, and many more prayers. These were not just acts....they were very consciously tied in with the passion account, the acts of remembering the story of Jesus and his suffering and death.

What I remember most was the silence. We did not speak at all those last days of Holy Week. The bells, too, were silenced, as was the organ. Only the bare chant remained, one of minor cords and sorrowful tones. All was simple. All was very plain.  It made the gospel come alive to the heart and soul.

I once thought I could never leave the monastery because, whatever else that happened, Holy Week ceremonies and customs were too precious to ever give up.

But I did give them up.

And so I wept on Sunday. I did not weep because I was sad. I wept because of the beauty of what I remembered.