Now I Know (25 page)

Kit kept me at it right to the end. He might be little and funny-looking but he's no slouch.

Yesterday, he made me scrub the kitchen floor as my housework. It's H U G E, that floor. Big as a football field is how it felt after about five minutes. And the floorboards are old and splintery and full of ridges. All the time I was scrubbing the others kept tramping in and out, messing up the parts I'd done, because they wanted hot water or cleaning equipment for their own jobs. Adam was the worst. He was in and out half-a-dozen times. I'm sure he was doing it deliberately. And grinned down at me every time with a superior smirk. Could have sloshed him with my floorcloth. I felt humiliated, down there on my knees, bum in the air, scrubbing like a skivvy.

By the time I was finished I was really in a bad mood. And sure Kit had done it to punish me for going out with Adam. I was also moaning to myself about being exploited by a bunch of self-righteous hypocrites, etc. etc. Am I an unpaid char? I was thinking. Did I come here to be treated like a servant while they swan about pretending to be holy? What's scrubbing this floor got to do with me getting well again and finding out about belief?

When I finally got back to my cell, long after the others had finished their jobs, I found an envelope from Kit lying on my bed. Enclosed, a copy of what was inside.

When you've read it, you'll be able to imagine how I felt! I spent the rest of the day thinking about what it says.

I'm beginning to understand what he's driving at.

When the time came to leave I was sorry. Part of me wanted to stay. But another part wanted to be back home. So much has happened in the last few days. I need to sort it out. And I ought to get back to school. I'm missing stacks of work.

This morning I woke very early and felt odd not going down to chapel. How quickly a habit like that gets a hold. I tried meditating in my room but it didn't work. So after a while I gave up and cycled to St James's for Old Vic's early service to see if that helped. The usual six people there, plus the man who always looks nervous when he sees me because he thinks I'm going to have a hissy fit again.

I told Old Vic I'd be writing to you. He said to give you his love and prayers and tell you he plans a visit next week. If I can, I'll come with him. There's so much to talk about.

Love,
Nik
.

Dear Nik
: The job I gave you this morning is the one we all dislike doing the most. Unless you are already a saint, you will have grumbled to yourself about it, just as we do. However, I hope you will understand, when I explain, that in an odd way I was paying you the best compliment I could. For we would never usually subject our guests to such a task. We keep its pleasures for ourselves!

But we have enjoyed having you with us. We have admired the courage with which you have thrown yourself into our unnatural life. For unnatural it is, and hard enough for anyone to enter into, even more so when recovering from such a terrible experience as the one you suffered recently. We have all been praying for you and Julie with extra concern, and will go on doing so until we know you are both fully recovered.

When you arrived, I talked to Philip Ruscombe about you. We agreed that offering you the challenge of our life, and all of it, not just the easy parts, would be the best way to help. In your position, some people need rest and comfort. For others, cosseting is a mistake. They become depressed from dwelling too much on their misfortune. Both Philip and I strongly felt that you would thrive best on re-engagement in the business of life. And that this is what you would want. So we weren't surprised when you accepted our offer.

In these few days I think you have discovered at least a hint of what it is that breeds our belief and sustains our faith. Including the surprise of our doubt. I have witnessed with great satisfaction how you have come to understand the place of Silence in our life; and how the
Opus Dei
—the Work of God—which we perform in chapel (the monk's true workshop) is our power base.

Besides this, you have wholeheartedly shared yourself with us in community. 1 hope what you found helped restore your wounded faith in the ultimate goodness of working people when they live in trust together.

But when I was thinking all this about you last night, I wondered if you had also understood about our holy serfdom! I mean the grinding, tedious aspects of our life—of all working people's lives. Our visitors often miss it, because they are not with us long enough or only have eyes for our obviously religious activities. You have been so inquiring about us that I decided you might even welcome a practical insight into this side of us. And so I gave you the kitchen floor.

Our belief is lived out, is
known
to us through images of action. We pray, we worship, we work manually, we study. We do not live out our belief only in words written down. Indeed, I find it much easier to scrub the kitchen floor than to write this. So when you read it, remember that while you were groaning and grumbling on your knees in the kitchen I was groaning and yes, even grumbling a little, at my desk, writing to you.

I know I shall fail to explain what I mean. But I have learned that in such failure there is a kind of success. For my failure announces the infinity that I call God. It demonstrates God's
unwritableness
(if there is such a word, which I doubt!).

Your ‘cluster' seems to me to be the evidence of your own struggle with that truth. God is not to be captured in anyone's prose. Others discovered this before you. The Psalmist, for example, whose words we repeat at every office in chapel, knew that God can only be celebrated, but never captured, in words of
special
worth. So you too were led to speak, to write, in other shapes—in words of special worth to you. You will not allow me to call them poetry. All right! But the Psalms are poetry, and the Sermon on the Mount and much else in the Bible. Poetry seems to me much closer to
writing God
than is any prose. So will you allow me to make one last Retreat leader's plea and ask you to read more of it? I have attached a poem I have long loved and often found useful during meditation, just in case. It may not be to your taste, but I hope you will give it a chance.

Now about the kitchen floor. Let me try saying it this way:

The young men who come here to try their vocations are of two kinds. The first kind are those who are attracted by the trappings. They love the
idea
of being a monk. They like wearing the habit, like feeling special, enjoy the ritual of chapel, and make a great fuss of their vows. Their attention is on themselves and on the drama, the romance, of being a monk. They are like actors playing monks in a never-ending play. They often do not stay long. They get tired of playing the part.

The other kind are in love with the
work.
With the business of our life. They sometimes find the trappings irksome, and ask awkward questions of us older brothers about why we do some things which to them seem out of date or which make us different from other people. Why we wear the habit, for example. This can make them at first more difficult to live with than the other kind. But their attention, their
energy
is given to the slog of prayer, the discipline of worship, the hidden grind of our labour.

The first kind are here to fulfil their fantasies about themselves. Scrubbing the kitchen floor doesn't usually feature in their desires. At first, they may think of it as romantic—an act of humility in the style of St Francis. But they like everybody to know how humble they have been! And after a few months of such drudgery, they begin asking if they have not done it for long enough. They think scrubbing the floor is only for beginners. A job for those on the lowest rung of the ladder. For them, monastic life is like an ordinary profession, with a system of promotion, and a hierarchy of seniority. You start at the bottom doing the worst jobs and work your way up to ease and comfort and power over others. They often have a vocation to be Superiors, in charge of monasteries!

The other kind are here to search for God in the work of God in community. These are the people (and they are the fewest of all) who have a true vocation. Scrubbing the kitchen floor may make them grumble, but in their heart of hearts they know it must be done. It must be done for the practical reason that there is no one else to do it. But more importantly, it must be done for the spiritual reason that in the meanest work, in manual labour, in necessary drudgery, we encounter the disgust of monotony.

Those who give their lives to God, rather than to the elevation of themselves, soon learn that scrubbing the kitchen floor is forever the test of the strength of their givenness to God. They know that their life as a monk is not about climbing ladders of professional success, but about lifelong acceptance of their commonplace equality with their brothers, and, through the community, with men and women living and departed all over the world.

This is what I wanted you to glimpse today, on your last day with us. It offers you another clue, another piece of evidence, about what belief is—what belief ‘feels like'.

Belief not only begins as an act of will, but it is sustained by the drudgery of everyday work. My belief is kept alive by the monotony of everyday prayer—which is the same for a monk as daily training sessions are for an athlete, or daily practice is for a musician. It is nothing elevated, you see. It is not usually accompanied by beautiful feelings or holy thoughts. It is not a kind of trip into a spiritual wonderland of pleasure. It is like scrubbing the kitchen floor–a routine necessary chore that helps keep the place clean and in good repair.

When you feel confident in your faith, such work is not difficult. It is even enjoyable. But when you lose your confidence, when you are off form, when the dark night of the soul besets you, and faith seems hollow and ridiculous, such drudgery, though tedious, even disgusting, anchors you to reality. It is all that is left to keep your belief alive. And then, when faith returns, it finds a home fit and ready to inhabit.

In this a monastery is no different from anywhere else. Everywhere in the world there are people who seek only their own elevation—comfort for themselves and power over others. And there are people who give themselves to
the work.

If you remember us at all when you return home, I hope, Nik, that you will think of us scrubbing the kitchen floor.

I pray for you.
Kit
.

P.S. Here is the poem I promised. It is by George Herbert.

Love

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack

From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,

If I lacked anything.

‘A guest,' I answered, ‘worthy to be here.'

Love said, ‘You shall be he.'

‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,

I cannot look on thee.'

Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,

‘Who made the eyes but I?'

‘Truth, Lord, but I have marred them; let my shame

Go where it doth deserve.'

‘And know you not,' says Love, ‘who bore the blame?'

‘My dear, then I will serve.'

‘You must sit down,' says Love, ‘and taste my meat.'

So I did sit and eat.

ENGAGEMENTS

JULIE
:  

Dear Nik: I can see! I CAN SEE!

[
Laughs.
]

Isn't that great!

[
More laughter.]

I expect Mum has let you know.

But I want to tell you about it myself.

[
Heavy breaths.
]

I'll be calm now.

[
Pause.
]

They took the bandages off yesterday. Oh, Nik, I've been sitting up in bed just staring at everything, and grinning like an idiot! Everything looks so new, so . . .
fresh
.

Some things
are
new, of course. I mean, I'm seeing them for the first time. Simmo, for example. Not that she's a
thing.
But, after all this time talking to her and being looked after by her, being dependent on her more than on anyone else, I'd never seen her till yesterday. And there she was! And the other nurses. And the doctors. And this room I'm in.

I'm having to readjust myself. Almost as if I'm a new patient, just arrived.

But the amazing thing was the view out of my window. I still can't get over it. And I just have to tell you about it.

But I've jumped ahead of myself. I should tell you about everything in the right order, the order things happened.

[
Pause.
]

I knew ahead of time when they were going to take the bandages off. They told me a few days ago they thought my eyes were about ready. So I asked them not to tell anybody—Mum or Philip Ruscombe or you or anybody who would worry and want to be here. I wanted to be sure about the result myself first, and have time to cope, whether I was blind or not.

I don't mind telling you now, I was pretty worked up. I prayed about it a lot, and Simmo had talked to me, buoying me up and preparing me for the worst, just in case. She's been really terrific: all along.

But even so, I didn't know how I'd take it if the news was bad. And, to be honest, I didn't think I could cope with people who are close to me standing around and being sympathetic at the same time as I found out the truth myself.

Besides, I knew it would be a strange kind of experience. Having taken my sight for granted for nineteen years and then suddenly to be blind, which is something you can never take for granted, not for a single moment, and then after worrying about it for weeks, to face the unveiling, when I'd discover if the gift I'd always taken for granted had been given back to me . . . Well, I wanted that occasion to be as unfussy, as clear and simple as possible. I wanted to give it all my attention.