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“A common misconception.” The monk adopted a lecturing tone. “Saint Benedict described speech as disruptive to a disciple’s duty for quietude and receptivity, and a temptation to exercise one’s own will, instead of God’s. As adherents, we respect his call for silence, but take no vow. That said, we only speak when necessary, and idle chatter is discouraged. We take our meals in contemplative peace, perhaps listening to a reading by a fellow brother.”

“This isn’t idle chatter right now?” Hi dodged my second jab.

“Of course not,” the monk replied good-naturedly. “To instruct the inquisitive is to spread the joy of God. My name is Brother Patterson. I’m Guestmaster for today’s tour. Were you planning to join us?”


“Tory Brennan,” I replied. “And yes, that’s why we’re here.”

“Wonderful.” Patterson beamed. “We have so few younger visitors. Please follow me. Others have come today as well.”

We exited into a tidy flower garden.

A wealthy-looking couple was gabbing loudly about the proper care of azaleas, while a trio of nuns glared in disapproval. Beside them, an elderly couple whispered quietly in what sounded like German.

“Welcome to Mepkin Abbey.” Patterson addressed the group. “We are a Roman Catholic order of contemplative monks, more commonly known as Trappists. We live in silence and solitude, according to an ancient discipleship that focuses on seeking God through communal living. We praise our Lord through prayer, meditation, work, and hospitality. Again, welcome.”

The female azalea freak dabbed on shiny lip gloss. “What’s a Trappist?”

“The movement originated in Normandy in 1664, in reaction to relaxed practices in many Cistercian monasteries. In 1892, blessed by the Pope, the Trappists formed an independent order dedicated to closer adherence to the Rule of Saint Benedict.”

Lip Gloss blinked. “Saint who?”

“Saint Benedict,” Patterson answered patiently, “who wrote his Rule in the sixth century, describing the ideals and values of monastic life. The Trappist goal is to adhere to his three vows: stability, obedience, and fidelity to monastic life.”

“Fidelity?” Lip Gloss’s bald husband snorted. “What, you don’t like broads?”

Again, the polite smile. “As Benedictine monks, we are sworn to God, but that doesn’t mean we dislike women. In fact, each Cistercian order has a women’s branch. Ours is known as the Trappistines.”

“Are there a lot of Trappists?” Hi asked.

“Depends on your perspective.” Patterson linked his hands and began moving into the garden, inviting the group to follow. “There are 170 Trappist monasteries around the world, home to approximately 2,100 monks and 1,800 nuns.”

Hi nodded. “Not too many folks.”

Patterson responded with a small smile. “Monastic life is not for everyone.”

“Sounds good to me.” Shelton walked alongside me as we passed rows of blue hydrangeas, white lilacs, and yellow jessamine. “Peace and quiet. Where do I sign?”

“First, we must see if you’re a good fit.” Patterson grinned, playing along. “Do you possess the physical, psychological, and spiritual vigor to live by our principles? Are you fully committed to a life of all-encompassing, continual prayer?”

One of Shelton’s eyebrows rose. “Continual?”

“We wake at three for Vigils, followed by private meditation, then Lauds at five thirty before breakfast. The remainder of the day is divided between prayer, work, and private spiritual devotions. We retire at eight for the grand silence, lasting twelve hours.”

Shelton cocked his head, as if considering. “Eh, probably not.”

Patterson nodded. “You also need a diploma, work experience, and a Catholic background. Plus no debts or obligations to a wife, children, or parents.”

“Then I’m out on all counts,” Shelton said. “Maybe when I’m older.”

“Who but the Lord knows?”

Brother Patterson led us to a courtyard fronting the monastery proper. In its center stood a fifty-foot tower housing four bells, stacked one atop the other.

“The Tower of the Seven Spirits,” Patterson said. “Its bells announce each of our daily prayers.” He pointed to a group of stucco buildings on our left. “Those are the cloisters, where our brothers reside.”

Straight ahead was the church itself—a simple white stucco building topped by an iron cross. Warm yellow light spilled from within.

We crossed to the church and entered through carved wooden doors. The interior was bright and harmonious, with a tile floor and a yellow pine roof. A small nave offered seating for a few dozen. The altar was set at the transept crossing, with a massive organ just behind it. A round lantern window high above threw patterned sunlight across the stark white plaster walls.

“No adornments.” I noted the absence of statues, paintings, or stained glass.

“Continual prayer requires strict discipline,” Patterson explained. “External decorations, no matter how uplifting, would only be a distraction.”

After allowing the group a few minutes to observe, Patterson led us back outside and down into a small ravine.

Hi drew close and whispered in my ear. “This place is huge. Way bigger than I thought.”