Lessons from In This House of Brede

Vocations can come to the most unlikely people in the most unlikely circumstances, and there's no resisting.  It's as if God put out a finger and said 'You.'

My father's aunt was a religious sister and I have very fond memories of visiting Sister Rose at the convent.  I was always intrigued and awe-struck by her habit: rosary beads dangling from the black cord around her waist, the white whimple underneath a black veil, and a silver Latin cross sharp against the black of her long dress.  

Equally striking was the sound of the convent: silence.  No matter the time or day of our visit, we would walk the halls to go to the Chapel or visitor's room and hear...nothing.  No television, radio, or shouting.  Silence.  

And this wasn't even a cloistered community!   I had no experience and little knowledge of that particular vocation, so I was excited to read In This House of Brede by Rumer Godden.  

At times I felt as though I were reading an enlightening behind-the-scenes documentary about cloistered nuns; other times, I was gripped by a riveting narrative about women of various personalities and talents living out their vocations together; then I was spiritually moved within my soul and even brought the themes and ideas to my prayer at night.

Godden spent three whole years living in the gatehouse of an English Benedictine Abbey to acquaint herself with life behind the gates of a cloister.  That experience and first-hand observation breathes truth and validity to her novel.

Former Stanbrook Abbey in Worcestershire, the real-life model for Brede Abbey

It is, indeed, a fascinating novel.  The whole concept of living in a cloister--spending one's life behind a gate, never to move about in society--is curious.  How do they do it?  Why do they do it?

The idea is that the world needs people of prayer.  The Kingdom of God needs the power of concentrated, dedicated prayer.  In a sense, cloistered sisters do not leave the world; they are physically removed, but they imbue the world with their intercessory presence.  This work they carry on while on their knees in their community's chapel is quiet, perhaps largely unrecognized.  But what would the world be without it?

Indicatively, there is one particularly powerful scene in the novel where one of the nuns--Dame Philippa--learns that a former co-worker (Penny) is in a near-death situation after complications following an abortion.  Now, should Penny bleed to death in the hospital room, she may die with that mortal sin on her soul.

Philippa reaches out to her fellow nuns, requesting their prayers for Penny.  Philippa herself passes most of the night in the chapel, pleading that Penny will live.  She is not alone; instead, a quiet train of nuns come in and out of the chapel as the hours of the night pass, Penny's life wavering between this world and the next.  

The nuns storm heaven; they keep vigil for Penny, even though none of them save Philippa even know the girl.  They love her though: they love all people the way they are called to love God.

The nuns in Godden's novel are Benedictines and, according to the Rule of St. Benedict, take three vows upon profession: stability, conversion of manners, and obedience.

It is the final vow that I've been considering most of all, especially in my prayer.  

"Dame Philippa won't have won until she can do what she is asked, what is needed, without a battle." 

Do I always do what God asks of me?  And if I do, is it done reluctantly, begrudgingly, only because there is no other option?  Or do I embrace God's Will ... without a battle?  

The greatest beauty of this book, in my opinion, is witnessing how the protagonist grows spiritually and learns to obey fully, giving herself to God and to her community.  As one of the nuns quotes St. Basil:

"When you have become God's in the measure He wants, He, Himself, will know how to bestow you on others." 

How Philippa is bestowed on others is inspiring, fulfilling, and a great witness to God's working in our lives.  He has the perfect plan, as long as we respond to the fullest to our vocation.

The book is unabashedly Catholic, as one should expect of a novel about cloistered nuns!  And it's very catholic (universal) in its Catholicity, which I find particularly interesting.  A cursory glance at some online reviews revealed that the book's appeal is far and wide.  Professed atheists recommended In This House of Brede, explaining that they read it even multiple times.  

Perhaps such enthusiasm stems from the supremely engaging plot.  Godden presents a cast of characters who are alive with their faults and uniqueness.  They interact, argue, comfort, and forgive.  The nuns all wear the same habit and have the same vocation, but they are each written as individuals.  

The structure of the plot is similarly appealing.  It is not chronological, but rather weaves back and forth from past to present, from scene to scene, as well as from nun to nun.  It is the steadiness of the liturgical year and daily cloister timeline, marked by the chapel bells, that structures the skipping narrative.  It is the House of Brede that anchors the book--as well as the lives of its inhabitants.

Bowls of flowers surrounded the high altar; the candles made points of flame above them, and, in the centre, the disc of the white Host was enthroned in the glittering monstrance.  Was it fancy because she was so tired, thought Philippa, a mere illusion, or was the Host penetrated with a light of its own?  A kind of window through which, had she the eyes, she could have looked straight into heaven...

Godden converted to Catholicism one year before In This House of Brede was published.  Reading this book has made me a better Catholic.  I suppose that is the highest praise a book can receive.

Honor Thy Father

I've had many fathers in my life.

I thank God for the gift of my father, Joe, who has taught me a strong work ethic, faithfulness, forgiveness, and honesty.  I am the person I am today because of him.

But I also am who I am because of Father Vaughan, Father Yanas, and Father Torres, among others.  

When my father is too old and frail to care for himself, I will care for him.  Why should it be any different for my spiritual fathers?

I met Father Ryan in 2008 when he would sometimes offer Mass at my parish, Sacred Heart in Troy.  He faithfully carried a stack of books with him and his eyes had that Irish twinkle in them when he made a joke.  Then I stopped seeing Father Ryan, and I assumed perhaps he moved to another parish ...

But Father Ryan had become ill and could no longer live by himself.  He went to a local nursing him and it wasn't until a few years later that my path crossed his once again.

My friend, Louise, invited me to go with her to visit the sick and elderly priests at a local nursing home.  When I saw Father Ryan, much had changed.  He was wheelchair bound and needed assistance with even basic tasks.  But much was the same: he was still my spiritual father.  

How often had those hands, wrinkled and frail resting on his lap, healed others through the Sacrament of the Sick?  

How often had that voice, now muffled and worn, spoken the words of consecration?

We sat in the group dining room and Louise encouraged Father Ryan to lead us in prayer.  As he prayed aloud, I realized that I was the one being blessed, not the other way around.  Elderly and infirm, here before me was still an alter Christus, another Christ, Christ Himself in His holy priest.  

Father Ryan passed away not long after that and I am grateful I could be there during those final months.  It was just being there: my presence was enough.  Enough for him to know he was remembered, he was valued, he was honored for his priesthood.  

Our priests in nursing homes and hospitals have given everything for us, the Church, acting as channels of God's grace.  That doesn't suddenly stop when they retire.  By sanctifying the suffering of old age, they continue to be conduits of grace. 

Sometimes suffering born with patience and acceptance, offered to the Lord, speaks more eloquently than any homily. 

Yet, how many of our ill and elderly priests pass their final years on earth largely alone and forgotten?  Our priests have been there for us: the day of our baptism; when, crippled by sin, we desperately needed to hear the words of absolution; the day we said, "I do" to begin a life as husband and wife; when we had to bury our loved ones.  

As of December 2014, there are 88 retired priests in the Diocese of Albany.  They have served us; how can we serve them as more and more enter nursing homes or are hospitalized?

We can be present to them, as they have been to us.  Visiting the sick is a Corporal Work of Mercy.  Today I visited Father Rooney in a nursing home.  I received his blessing as I said goodbye and seeing his grateful smile filled me with joy.  It felt as though I was the recipient of the Work of Mercy.

Most importantly, we can all pray.  We may no longer see their faces from behind the pulpit, but we cannot forget our elderly and infirm priests.  Pray for them to have strength, to receive consolation, and be blessed with the grace of a holy death.  

They have given us the sacraments; they have brought us Christ.  As they face the final years of their lives, let us bring them our concern, respect, love, and prayers.  

Let us honor our Fathers.

Lessons from The Betrothed

"...the worst thing that can happen to you isn't suffering or being poor; the worst thing is doing what's wrong."

The Betrothed by Alessandro Manzoni was recommended to me by Pope Francis.  Well, he recommended it to me and to everyone else who read or heard his general audience address back in May.  Pope Francis specifically encouraged engaged couples to read the Italian novel as a source of edification before marriage.

Verdi, the Italian opera composer, called Manzoni's work "a gift to humanity."  For the Italians, The Betrothed ranks as one of greatest examples of Italian literature--second only to Dante's Divine Comedy.

Though named after the couple who represent the novel's principle characters, the work is more historical fiction than romance.  The work is set in northern Italy (mainly Milan) in the early 1600s.  

The Betrothed begins with the anticipated wedding of Renzo and Lucia.  When Renzo approaches their parish priest on the day of the wedding, cowardly Don Abbondino suddenly presents a host of excuses and declares that the wedding simply cannot happen that day.  Renzo eventually learns that a wealthy aristocrat, Don Rodrigo, has threatened the priest.  Rodrigo has his eyes set on Lucia and is determined to have her as his own, through threat and force.

Renzo and Lucia must flee their small town and part ways, a separation that spans two years and most of the novel.  

"Farewell, my mother's house, where I used to sit, with a secret in my heart, listening to the ordinary sound of ordinary people's feet...Farewell that other house, to which I am still a stranger, and at which I have so often glanced out of the corner of the eye in passing, with a blush; in which my heart thought to find a tranquil, lasting home with my husband.  Farewell, little church, where my soul so often recovered its peace, singing the praises of the Lord; where a certain rite was prepared for me, and promised to me; where the secret desire of the heart was to be solemnly blessed, and love was to become a holy duty; farewell!  He who gave you so much joy is everywhere; and he never disturbs the happiness of his children, except to prepare for them a surer and greater happiness."

Historical circumstances magnify the conflict when a famine hits the area.  Renzo finds himself squarely in the middle of the bread riots in Milan, where the peasantry balk at the high prices and violently rebel.  Bakeries are looted, scapegoats targeted, and Renzo has a warrant for his arrest as the authorities try to set a deterring example to the rioters.

Later is the threat and destruction that accompanies the German army as it passes through the region on its way to Mantua.  To supplement their already low pay, the German soldiers consider treasures along their way assumed supplemental income.  Homes are invaded, made filthy, and ransacked.  Property is destroyed, fields and crops decimated by the ranks of men looking for food.  The Italian folk must flee and seek refuge elsewhere, many of them eventually returning to nothing.

And most heart-wrenching and destructive is the wave of the bubonic plague that rages in northern Italy from 1629-1631.  History calls it the Great Plague of Milan.  Up to one million people, or 25% of the population, may have perished.

Manzoni's depiction of the plague is grippingly horrifying.  He describes the appatorie, bell ringers who lead the carts of corpses, warning those still alive that the pestilence is approaching.  

Behind him came two horses, stretching out their necks and digging in their hoofs as they strained their way forward; and then a cart laden with dead bodies, and another, and another, and another, with monatti walking alongside the horses, urging them on with fists, whips and oaths.  Most of the bodies were naked, though some were carelessly wrapped in a few rags.  Piled up and interwoven together, the dead looked like a cluster of snakes slowly reviving in the warmth of spring, for those grisly heaps stirred and slithered horribly at every jolt.  Heads wagged, maidens' lovely hair fell this way and that, arms freed themselves from the tangled mass of limbs and dangled and beat against the wheels.  

Renzo, two years estranged from Lucia, searches for her in the lazaretto, a quarantine station.  The local officials turned over care of the lazaretto to the Capuchin friars because no one else would assume the responsibility, which was akin to a death sentence.  Manzoni states that during the seven months that Fr. Felice oversaw the lazaretto, some 50,000 people sought shelter there.

The Lazzaretto in Milan in 1880, a few years before it was demolished

In the midst of extreme suffering, motherless babies suckling goats for milk, and thousands dying all around, Renzo seeks out Lucia, not certain whether he will find her dead or alive.  Yet first, he learns of another's presence in that den of death: Don Rodrigo, the assailant that tore the lovers apart.  If not for his lust and injustice, Renzo and Lucia would be husband and wife, united even if in death.

Father Cristoforo, the saintly friar who acts as a spiritual guide and mentor to the betrothed couple, admonishes Renzo when he vindictively threatens to quash the remaining bit of life in Don Rodrigo.

"You know," continued Father Cristoforo, "that God can hold back the hand of a bully, and you've said so yourself many a time; but remember that he can also hold back the hand of an avenger.  And because you're a poor man, because you've been wronged, do you think that God cannot protect a man--a man whom he has made in his own image--against your vengeance?  Do you think he'll let you do whatever you please?  Never!  But do you know what you can do?  You can hate your neighbor and lose your own soul.  By indulging that one feeling you can lose all hope of God's blessing.  For however things go with you hereafter, whatever fortune may befall you, you can be sure that everything will be as a punishment to you, until you forgive him..." 

For all that Lucia and Renzo endure, as a couple and individually as they struggle to reunite, their suffering is far better than that of Don Rodrigo.  The former is redemptive, if put to good use; the latter damning, if not repented.

My mother has often echoed that sentiment to me.  Often, when something is challenging or just not going as planned, she will reflect to me, "Well, at least we didn't sin."  

Manzoni's novel is a tale of persevering love, of a promise made between two betrothed that the violence of history threatens to sever.  It is full of sinners and saints both: not all of the clergy are saints, though some are; not all of the sinners are beyond the scope of God's mercy.  Justice and forgiveness play their part as the weight of Renzo and Lucia's promise to marry is tested, strengthened, and purified through the fire of suffering.

"God is the God of the poor as well as the rich; but how can you expect him to help us if we sin against him?"

A Victim Soul

I went to visit Michael at the hospital this past Sunday.  

It was a pristine fall day.  You could tell it might well be the final day of warm temperatures and being able to run outdoors without a coat or hat.  As Michael told me, observing from his hospital window, "It's a perfect day."  

I picked Sunday to visit him because the next day he was having an esophagectomy.  It is the surgery we tried to avoid as long as possible, ever since Michael received the diagnosis of achalasia back in 2005.  An esophagectomy is the surgical removal of the esophagus.  The surgeons move the stomach up, connecting it with the neck, to become a neo-esophagus.  Most candidates for the surgery are those with esophageal cancer.  But some achalasia patients, whose esophaguses have deteriorated too much, also require it.  Such is the case with Michael.

I entered Michael's hospital room knowing what lay ahead for him in the next twenty-four hours.  A seven-hour surgery...the removal of a major body organ...extraordinary pain...a long recovery.  The knowledge weighed on me and, though I haven't cried in the past few weeks--even when Michael had his life-threatening bleed--I felt teary-eyed walking into his room that Sunday afternoon.

Michael knew he would be having surgery and told me the doctors would be taking out the bad part of his esophagus so he wouldn't keep getting sick.  He was peaceful and sat chatting with me as he completed his fifty-piece tiger puzzle.  A scarecrow from our Aunt Cindy decorated his little shelf and his calendars hung on the wall (Michael loves calendars and owns probably seven or eight).  

The same Aunt Cindy had brought him some pictures of when we were kids and I looked through them.  There was one labeled, "Cassandra's Baptism Party, October 1984" and there was Michael as a two-year-old, with suspenders and a big smile.  And I thought: he's the same person.  Here he is, thirty-three, and in so many ways he's exactly the same.  That untouched innocence, trust, simplicity, joy.  My life and sins and transgressions have tarnished and clouded my soul.  His?  His is still pure.  

We had a nice visit and I kissed him on the top of his head as I left, telling him, "I love you, Michael."  It was in the isolation of my car that I felt I could cry.  My heart was so sad for him.  He was happy with his puzzle; I was sorrowful for what I knew lay before him the next day.  

"Lord, to whom shall we go?"  

I don't understand this.  I don't like this.  I want health and stability and healing for Michael.  Why more pain, more surgery, more uncertainty?  Would he even make it through the surgery?  Was this Sunday afternoon visit my last with Michael?  God can call any of us home, at any point.  But Michael has come close to death many times now.  

Still I returned to: "Lord, to whom shall we go?"  And I said aloud in the empty car: "Lord, I believe that you love Michael.  I believe you love Michael more than any of us could possibly love him.  I believe you have a plan.  I don't know why and this makes me so sad.  But I believe you.  Jesus, I trust in you."

Sunday night we were uncertain as to whether the surgery would even take place.  Michael's prep for the surgery had been problematic; he had a fever, his blood pressure was low, and he had vomited.  Either avenue was paved with suffering: a serious surgery or the waiting game where his esophagus could potentially bleed again, at any point.

My parents arrived at the hospital at 5:15 AM Monday morning.  Michael was sound asleep; his night had been peaceful, thanks be to God.  The surgery was on.  When he awoke, Michael talked to my parents about how he was looking forward to Thanksgiving.  He was content, trusting.  

Monday was a long, long day.  I've read in books about keeping presence of God, but I don't really think I practice it all that well most of the time.  Well, Monday I kept presence of God.  I was thinking of Michael, of my parents, of the surgeons all day.  They never left my mind and my prayers continued through breakfast, through laundry, through grocery shopping, through cooking...  

I knew this surgery was complicated and complex.  I also knew there were so, so many people praying.  And it was freeing because I knew this had to be.  There were no other options for Michael.  We had tried everything else and this was all that remained.  So there was a sense of surrender.  And there was a realization that Michael's medical case had become so high-level that only God could direct it.

He was in the OR for ten hours.  Finally I heard from my Mom that the surgeon said Michael had done well and the doctors were pleased with how the surgery went.  He had made it through; he was still with us and the surgery was done.  Thanks be to God!

A blanket of grace covered Michael.  Of that I am sure.  Monday night things seemed quite bleak, as Michael was in extreme pain.  We called upon our friends and family to continue their prayers.  On Tuesday morning, my parents visited him in the surgical ICU.  In my Mom's words, the change in Michael was "remarkable."  He was alert, his pain was manageable, and by noon he was happily watching "The Price is Right."  

Later that evening, Michael's primary care doctor went to visit him and prepared himself as he rounded the corner to Michael's room.  As he entered, he was astounded to hear a cheerful, "Hi, Doctor Costello!  How are you?"  Michael presented so well that the doctor even had to question him as to whether the surgery had indeed taken place!

I'm not sure what people do when they face suffering like this, in the absence of faith.  I know God never abandons anyone, but I also know that Michael was, and continues to be, surrounded with the power of prayer.  My Mom told Dr. Costello that she attributed Michael's condition to those prayers and he replied, "That's the only explanation."

Michael has a long road ahead of him still.  Today his feeding tube wasn't functioning and they had to place a PIC line in so he can receive nutrition.  On Monday he will attempt drinking something for the first time and the doctors will watch how the liquid moves through his new digestive track.   

But there is much hope and it's moments like Michael's unexpected, positive condition yesterday that remind me God is near.  And when those moments are dark and uncertain, God is even nearer.  We may not see the visible signs, but my faith assures me that He is.  

That Sunday when I visited Michael, the day before his operation, my Mom heard a homily that seemed to speak to Michael's situation.  The priest said that, in this life, sometimes the ledger will never balance.  There are some people who have to suffer so much--much more than anyone else.  It doesn't seem fair or to make sense.  Yet, we have to look at the big picture.  It doesn't add up in this life; in the next life it will.  Any suffering here on earth will be rewarded one hundred times over in the next life.

Another priest friend told us that Michael is a Christ for us: a suffering servant.  His suffering is calling blessings upon our family.  He is a "victim soul."  As Our Sunday Visitor defines it:

A victim soul is an individual who has been chosen by God to undergo physical, and sometimes spiritual, suffering beyond that of normal human experience. The victim soul willingly accepts this unique and difficult mission of offering up his or her pains for the salvation of others.

Through his suffering, God is working through Michael to sanctify this world...this family...me.  

So Much Suffering

It's strange when a loved one being in the ICU feels familiar.  

Michael is my older brother.  He has a developmental disability and is the bravest person I know.

Five years ago I remember when Michael was placed in the Intensive Care Unit for bleeding in his esophagus.  Those three letters--ICU--sent a shockwave of terror through me.  The closed, locked doors to the entry to the unit ... the breathing tube and computer monitor carefully reporting my brother's vital signs ...everything about it screamed, "This is serious.  This is high level."

When my Mom told me on Friday Michael was in ICU for the same reason, my reaction was different.  I was far from nonchalant, obviously, but it was more, "I'm glad he's in the best hands."

Michael's health has always been complicated, puzzling, and saddening.  There was many a holiday or birthday celebration throughout my childhood when Michael was in his bedroom sick.  The list of his diagnoses is long: kidney disease, Addison's disease, achalasia...

It's the last one that has been the worst.  Achalasia is a disease of the esophagus.  The muscles stop working, so the esophagus can't push food down into the stomach.  But perhaps more damaging is that achalasia causes the sphincter between the esophagus and stomach to tighten.  

The opening narrows to such a degree that food, drink, and saliva can't pass into the stomach.  Everything sits in the esophagus, irritating and eroding.

Michael's esophagus is very damaged.  It's filled with ulcers and tears.  And sometimes those ulcers and tears begin to bleed, which happened this past week.  The bleeding was rapid, profuse, and almost uncontrollable.  At one point the nurses were running--running--my brother's hospital bed into the OR.

Yesterday Chris and I took the kids to a fall festival at a nearby parish.  Mary and Peter decorated pumpkins, jumped in a bounce house, and tried to score a basket.  

It was a beautiful, sunny, cool autumn morning.  Perfect for picking apples, which was our original plan.  It was supposed to be our annual family outing to Indian Ladder Farms.  Michael was especially looking forward to it.  

But instead he was in the ICU and he almost could have died the day before.

I sat with Chris and the children, eating lunch at the fall festival, and couldn't stop thinking about Michael.  He would have nothing to eat today.  Nothing to drink.  His esophagus is too fragile and the risk of another, potentially deadly, bleed is too high.  

My family has become so accustomed to these high-level emergencies that we cope by keep living, keep moving.  But sometimes the intensity of it hits me: he could have died.  Maybe I should be sobbing or shaking, but instead it's just a deep somberness inside.  

Somberness and profound puzzlement.  Why?  Why Michael?  Why is it that I could drive home, away from the hospital, windows down and music blaring, to enjoy a ham and cheese sandwich and warm cup of tea?  Why is it always Michael?  

So much suffering.  

And yet, he may be the happiest person I know.

He went five months with no food or drink, nothing except tube feeding overnight.  I cannot even fathom it, not for a moment.  No sip of water, no ice cream for dessert on Sunday, no warm bread with butter...  Nothing.  And Michael--not a complaint. No bitterness, no jealousy, no resentment.  Just acceptance.

The surgeon called my parents yesterday and related that, after Michael's breathing tube was removed and he could speak, one of the things Michael asked was, "What's your costume going to be for Halloween?"

I don't know why Michael has been given such a heavy cross.  But I do know that God is giving him the grace to carry it and that God is touching people through Michael's innocent and courageous witness.  

I still say, "Why?"  But maybe I should be saying, "Yes, Lord.  Yes to whatever You want."  

Because that is what Michael is saying.

Lessons from Death Comes for the Archbishop

This mesa plain had an appearance of great antiquity, and of incompleteness; as if, with all the materials for world-making assembled, the Creator had desisted, gone away and left everything on the point of being brought together, on the eve of being arranged into mountain, plain plateau. The country was still waiting to be made into a landscape... Looking out over the great plain spotted with mesas and glittering with rain sheets, the Bishop saw the distant mountains bright with sunlight.  Again he thought that the first Creation morning might have looked like this, when the dry land was first drown up out of the deep, and all was confusion.

I remember with great disdain reading My Antonia by Willa Cather as a sophomore in high school.  It was all I could do to get through it (though, undoubtedly, I far preferred her work to the other assigned reading, namely, The Fountainhead).

So when friends of ours recommended another book by Cather, Death Comes for the Archbishop, I was doubtful.  Still, I thought Cather deserved another chance.  After all, the book is included in Time magazine's list of 100 greatest novels.

Set in recently annexed New Mexico in the 1850s, I presumed the book would be a kind of who-dunnit.  Maybe a suspenseful murder mystery.  I was prepared to enter into a terrible persecution of Christians in the Native American territory, followed by a stunning martyrdom.  Intrigue, action, conflict--I was ready for it all.

Except that is everything Death Comes for the Archbishop is not.

It is not a thriller.  It is not action-packed.  There is no mystery.  And I did not dislike it; I loved it.  My friends (and Time) were right: this is an incredible novel.

To describe Death Comes for the Archbishop in one word, I would say "peaceful."  Cather's writing is simple yet profound, eloquent yet factual.  She is a master writer.  Her sentences, regardless of the scene they tell, fill the reader with a sense of serenity and beauty.  

But the peace of this book does not mean it is boring.  It is not a page-turner, this is true, but it kept my total attention.  The whole book is very unique.  For instance, there is no outstanding, climactic scene.  Cather herself avoided calling it a novel; she preferred the term "narrative."  It has a little bit of everything.  As Guy Reynolds writes in his essay The Ideology of Cather's Catholic Progressivism, the book contains "folk tale, historical detail, anecdotes about Mexican and Indian life, the spiritual biographies of Fathers Latour and Vaillant."  

Cather's inspiration for the "narrative" was based on the historical figures of the first Archbishop of Santa Fe, Jean Baptiste Lamy, and his friend and vicar Joseph Projectus Machebeuf, who became the first Bishop of Denver.  Cather explained, "I never passed the life-size bronze of Archbishop Lamy which stands under a locust tree before the Cathedral in Santa Fe without wishing that I could learn more about a pioneer churchman."

Statue of Archbishop Lamy outside the Cathedral in Santa Fe

Cather renames her Archbishop Latour, which in French means "the tower."  It is fitting, as he is the fortress of the reinvigorated Catholic faith in this new area of the United States.  His long-time friend, companion, and fellow missionary is Father Vaillant who, as his name implies, is valiant in his efforts to spread the faith.  

The Faith, in that wild frontier, is like a buried treasure; they guard it, but they do not know how to use it to their soul's salvation.  A word, a prayer, a service, is all that is needed to set free those souls in bondage.  I confess I am covetous of that mission.  I desire to be the man who restores these lost children to God.  It will be the greatest happiness of my life.

The two personalities--Latour pedantic, refined, and shy while Vaillant passionate, energetic, and of the people--complement each other as they undertake the task of rebuilding and growing the Catholic Church in New Mexico.

Their task is not an easy one.  The climate and geography of the new diocese is their first obstacle.  Travel is slow and precarious.  The route between towns is sometimes barely discernible and one must contend with extreme heat, lack of water, sand storms, and rocky terrain.  To put things in perspective, consider that it took Father Latour one year just to reach his diocese.  

Then there is the matter of the inhabitants of this desert.  The Native Americans have their own belief system, held from the beginning, that is quite foreign to Latour.  And then there are the Mexicans, converted by the Spanish friars long ago, but hardly educated in the faith.  

This settlement was his Bishopric in miniature; hundreds of square miles of thirsty desert, then a spring, a village, old men trying to remember their catechism to teach their grandchildren.  The Faith planted by the Spanish friars and watered with their blood was not dead; it awaited only the toil of the husbandman.

In addition, the Mexican priests, entrenched in their parishes, are filled with avarice, intemperance, and lust--and do not welcome the interference of foreign, French priests.

The book opens with Father Latour almost dying of thirst in the desert, repelled by this hostile territory and daunted by the task before him.  He survives and decades pass until, as the title indicates, Latour does pass from this life.  Yet this death is a peaceful death of old age and, through struggle and perseverance, he dies at home in this land of desert and pueblos.  

He did not know just when it had become so necessary to him, but he had come back to die in exile for the sake of it.  Something soft and wild and free, something that whispered to the ear on the pillow, lightened the heart, softly, softly picked the lock, slid the bolts, and released the prisoned spirit of man into the wind, into the blue and gold, into the morning, into the morning!

Cather, an Episcopalian, does an incredible job in describing the Catholic faith of Latour and Vaillant.  Consider the following passage regarding Our Lady:

He sat down before his desk, deep in reflection.  It was just this solitariness of love in which a priest's life could be like his Master's.  It was not a solitude of atrophy, of negation, but of perpetual flowering.  A life need not be cold, or devoid of grace in the worldly sense, if it were filled by Her who was all the graces; Virgin-daughter, Virgin-mother, girl of the people and Queen of Heaven: le reve supreme de la chair.  The nursery tale could not vie with Her in simplicity, the wisest theologian could not match Her in profundity.

Cather describes the great pains both priests take to minister to the sheep of their widespread, diverse flock.  Risking their lives, they prevail through storm, illness, and distance to administer the sacraments.  To do so, they leave their families and home, abandon familiar food and native tongue.  
Their sacrifice bears much fruit.  With their presence comes culture and civilization.  Indicatively, the French priests bring fruit trees and cultivate gardens.  Archbishop Latour has religious sisters accompany him back to this diocese, where they begin a school to educate the illiterate natives.  As Mitchell Kalpakgian remarks in his article in Crisis magazine, "The Jesuits, then, bring to the New World what the Church always brings with the Gospel--a human way of life that raises man from the primitive to the refined, from the ignorant and superstitious to the rational and educated, from the meager and the dreary to the abundant and the beautiful.  The Church concerns herself with the whole man, body and soul, and performs both the spiritual and corporal works of mercy in its evangelization."

Latour's evangelization is charitable and respectful: he upholds and admires the beauty and meaning of the culture of the Indians.  He is sensitive to their traditions and customs.  As Cather writes, describing Latour's relationship with his Indian guide:

There was no way in which he could transfer his own memories of European civilization into the Indian mind, and he was quite willing to believe that behind Jacinto there was a long tradition, a story of experience, which no language could translate to him.

It is the diversity of the many Indians that is another gripping aspect of the novel.   I was especially intrigued by the Acoma Pueblo.  Seeking refuge from neighboring Navaho and Apache tribes, the Acoma built their pueblo on top of a mesa, 365 feet off the ground.  A single staircase, carved into the rock, granted access to the top.  God is our rock.  St. Peter is the rock upon whom Christ built His Church.  But for the Acoma, the literal rock is their safety.

The Acoma Pueblo

And so Fathers Latour and Vaillant labor, bringing the Good News to the people of New Mexico.  Their missionary work, born on the back of mules, is inspiring in its fervency, extensiveness, and consequence.  Their friendship is inspiring in its longevity and complementarity.  Through them and the people they minister to, Cather creates an incredible narrative, one I would like to revisit again, perhaps while driving along the mountains and mesas of the southwest.

"I shall not die of a cold, my son.  I shall die of having lived."

Lessons from The End of the Affair

She had said to me--they were nearly the last words I heard from her before she came dripping into the hall from her assignation--"You needn't be so scared.  Love doesn't end.  Just because we don't see each other..." She had already made her decision, though I didn't know it till the next day, when the telephone presented nothing but the silent open mouth of somebody found dead.  She said, "My dear, my dear.  People go on loving God, don't they, all their lives without seeing Him?" 

This was my third time reading Graham Greene and my admiration and enjoyment of his writing has increased with each successive novel.  Greene wrote many books, but there are four especially "Catholic" novels: The Heart of the Matter, The Power and the Glory, The End of the Affair, and Brighton Rock.  Thank goodness I still have Brighton Rock left to read--I really enjoy Greene that much.

It is hard to say, but I believe The End of the Affair may be my favorite Greene novel yet.  Out of all the books I have read and are listed on this blog, it is this one that comes closest to my novel.  Both are first-person point of view--an intimate introspection.  Both also trace a character's conversion, and the demise of a romantic relationship.  Furthermore, the connection between love and hate is explored.

Our books share similarities.  But I wish I could write more like Greene.  He can compose a four word sentence that just hits you with its raw veracity and power.  Greene is coarse: his images are unsettling, his characters flawed and sinful.  Yet his underlying theme is refined and supernatural.  The mixture of base human emotions and actions (hate, jealousy, adultery) and the break-through of grace amidst the muck of sin is riveting. 

In The End of the Affair, Greene takes corrupt human love and from it--perhaps through it--points to the perfect love of God.

In many ways the book is based on Greene's own life.  The protagonist is an author and sometimes reflects on the art of writing.  The End of the Affair is dedicated to a certain "C," which in the United States' edition of the book is spelled out as "Catherine."  This is the woman with whom Greene had an affair for eleven years.  He wrote this book toward the very end of his own affair with Catherine.

The person who tells the story is Maurice Bendrix.  His last name points to something that is bent--what should be straight is forced into a curve or angle.  What is bent in Bendrix is his understanding of love, for his love is one crippled by jealousy.

Maurice, a writer, was studying the life of Henry Miles, a government worker, to glean background for a character in one of his novels.  Through Henry, Maurice became acquainted with Mrs. Sarah Miles, who immediately captivated him.  They began a three year affair, which was frequently poisoned by Maurice's extreme jealousy. 

"Wouldn't you want me to be happy, rather than miserable?" she asked with unbearable logic.

"I'd rather be dead or see you dead," I said, "than with another man.  I'm not eccentric. That's ordinary human love.  Ask anybody.  They'd all say the same--if they loved at all."  I jibed at her.  "Anyone who loves is jealous." 

The affair abruptly ended during the bombing of Britain in 1944.  Sarah and Maurice were together when Maurice decided to go downstairs to investigate whether they should seek safety in the basement.  A bomb hit his apartment and Maurice found himself buried underneath his front door.  Gaining consciousness, he went upstairs to find Sarah, who looked disappointed to see him alive.  It was the last day of the affair: he never heard from her again.

Maurice (and the reader) are left with a resounding question: Why?  Why did Sarah end the affair?  Did she ever really love Maurice?  


They live two separate lives, until nearly two years later when Maurice happens upon Henry late one rainy night.  They go out for drinks and Henry admits to Maurice that he suspects Sarah is cheating on him.  (Henry, naive and trusting, never had an inkling of Maurice and Sarah's affair.)  His jealousy aroused, Maurice puts into action Henry's discarded plan to hire a private detective.

What Maurice learns is that there is a new love in Sarah's life.  But it isn't who he expected.  When the private detective hands Maurice Sarah's diary, he has the key to the mystery.

Greene deftly switches from Maurice to Sarah as narrator, jumping from past to present and back again.  Sarah has the opportunity to explain the situation from her perspective, through her diary.  

The day of the bombing, she found Maurice under the door and returned upstairs, certain he was dead.  Terrified and desperate, she found herself praying, begging God to spare Maurice's life, offering to believe in God in exchange.  But that wasn't enough of a sacrifice, so to make the deal more enticing, Sarah promised not to see Maurice again.  At that moment, Maurice entered the bedroom alive and practically unhurt.

The end of their affair was the beginning of a new love for Sarah.  At first she hated God and the vow she made to him, and longed for nothing other than to be with Maurice again.

I'm tired and I don't want any more pain.  I want Maurice.  I want ordinary corrupt human love.  Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don't want it now.  Take it away for a while and give it to me another time.

To find a way around her vow, Sarah begins to visit a professed atheist, Richard, who spends his life trying to convince people that God doesn't exist.  In their visits, however, quite the opposite occurs: the man's disbelief leads to her belief.  For how could this man hate someone who didn't exist?  Doesn't hate necessitate an object for that hatred?  

Even though her visits serve to only build her faith (the faith that keeps her away from Maurice), Sarah continues going to see Richard out of pity: she feels sorry he has no one else to hear his arguments.  Her pity also leads Sarah to stay with Henry, even after preparing a letter for him stating she was going to be with Maurice.  

What Sarah realizes through these experiences is that, if she loves as God loves, she can love more than just Maurice.  She can love the boringness of her husband.  She can kiss Richard's disfigured cheek.

In fact, perhaps her love for Maurice was actually an attempt to love God.  For Maurice was the one who paved the path for this greater, perfect, unconditional love.  Maurice encouraged Sarah to search for the truth, just as he tried to present the details of his stories accurately.  Her love for Maurice led her to God.

Did I ever love Maurice as much before I loved You?  Or was it really You I loved all the time?...was it me he loved, or You?  For he hated in me the things You hate.  He was on Your side all the time without knowing it.  You willed our separation, but he willed it too.  He worked for it with his anger and his jealousy, and he worked for it with his love.  For he gave me so much love, and I gave him so much love that soon there wasn't anything left, when we'd finished, but You.  For either of us...You were there, teaching us to squander, like you taught the rich man, so that one day we might have nothing left except this love of You.  But You are too good to me.  When I ask You for pain, You give me peace.  Give it him too.  Give him my peace--he needs it more. 

Sarah and Maurice's love could never satisfy.  There was constantly the poison of the realization that what they had must end.  But God's love was different.  

If one could believe in God, would he fill the desert?

After finishing the last page of Sarah's diary, Maurice realizes that Sarah has always loved him--and still loves him.  He immediately seeks her out.  She evades him, but finally he tracks her down in an empty church and promises her they will leave together to start a new life.  But before anything can happen, Henry calls Maurice a few days later to tell him that Sarah has died of pneumonia.

Now Maurice's hatred is directed to God, the lover who has finally and eternally claimed Sarah.  Little miracles, seemingly the work of Sarah, begin occurring in the lives Sarah has touched.  Maurice and Henry even become good friends.  Instead of comforting Maurice, these instances terrify him.  For if Sarah could make that leap of faith and even maybe become a saint ... could he, would he?

Hatred began the book; hatred ends the book.  Maurice closes with a prayer of animosity, telling God to leave him alone.  But the reader remembers Sarah's insight: one cannot hate someone who does not exist.  Hate and love work together and the path to Maurice's conversion, though perhaps long and filled with bitter struggle, has begun.

They say God is a jealous lover.  He will use many means to capture our hearts.  Even the evil of something like adultery can become the means to a great good: conversion.  God works through our corrupt human love and hate and, instilling His grace, raises us to supernatural height.