The Mission
Brother Thomas pulled on his black tunic and buckled the leather belt. A visitor. A rare occurrence at this out-of-the-way place. He retrieved his scapular from a hook on the wall and pulled it over his head. The Rule of St. Benedict was clear. A visitor was to be offered kind hospitality, and was to be attended to by an appointed monk for the duration of his visit. The extent to which a visitor was allowed to observe or participate in the life of the monastery would be decided by the Abbot.
But their Abbot was severely ill, hospitalized up in San Luis Obispo, and had appointed Brother Thomas as his Deputy. Thomas felt the weight of responsibility to conduct himself as the Abbot would wish.
In addition to his duties as Deputy, Thomas knew himself to be a reasonable choice to assess visitors’ characters and motives. He had practiced for a few years as a psychiatrist before the unexpected death of his wife and his subsequent decision to live by the Rule of St. Benedict. He’d had even more “street” education when, with the Abbot’s permission, he’d volunteered as a counselor at the Army base when the Vets returned from the War back in the ‘40s.
Thomas was wary of providing more than a brief retreat to just anyone who asked. This was a monastic order, striving to be self-sufficient and devoted to spiritual concerns. In the past, he’d dealt with itinerants who were looking for only a handout, or who were hiding from the law, or who had frank religious delusions. For good reason, he was cautious.
But now, he had better go meet this visitor. And his dog, according to Brother Will, who could barely contain his excitement about the animal. Will was raised on an Idaho ranch and had loved his many dog companions. His eager description of “the prettiest black and tan Shepherd pup I ever saw” led Thomas to place a kindly hand on Will’s shoulder. “During however long the visitor is here, it will be your duty to attend him.”
The visitor, a tall man in chinos and jacket, stood waiting at the gate. Brother Thomas judged him to be in his mid-forties, about ten years younger than himself. The shorn hair with sidewalls above the ears and the straight posture suggested military. Indeed, when Brother Thomas requested identification, the visitor frowned, but handed over a military ID and discharge papers.
Thomas studied the papers, then handed them back. “Mr. Mallory, is it? You asked to stay with us, wanting sanctuary. Are you in trouble with the law?”
“No, no. I meant to ask for . . . just a quiet place to think about things. A retreat.” The visitor looked Thomas in the eye, a gambit used by many liars trying to appear truthful.
“I was hoping to spend a week, perhaps . . . to meditate on my life.” Mallory looked to the ground. “Seek some spiritual guidance.”
“How was it you came here?”
“By chance. By good fortune, I hope. I saw the sign out on the coast highway.”
Thomas stroked his grizzled beard. “Are you Catholic?”
“No. I mean, yes, as a child.” Mallory had the grace to blush. “But I’ve fallen away from the Church.”
Thomas considered the visitor’s petition. This man, a Catholic and ex-military, seemed to be genuine. Not a pilgrim, exactly, but yes, a seeker. Thomas gave him a thin smile. “For now, you may stay two nights.” It was all Thomas would promise until after consulting with the Abbot. With the Abbot ill, these were not the best of circumstances to offer hospitality for any length of time. He’d telephone his Superior at the hospital later in the day. Thomas regarded Moka, who sat quietly in the car. “And you must take full responsibility for the animal.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We have shelter for visitors in the greenhouse. Brother Will will attend you.”
