Last year, I met lots of wonderful people - new church people, new students, new community members from work, and about a dozen monks. In August, I took a train up to Three Rivers, Michigan to spend a few days with some benedictine brothers.
After a day of travel, Brother Abraham (who is not a father and has no sons...because he's a monk) pulled into the abbey parking lot, pointed at a building and walked briskly away, his black robe billowing behind him. I sunk into the space for a moment. I was alone, standing on the sidewalk of a place I'd never been, in a state I'd never seen, with monks I didn't know. Curiosity overcame the anxiety and I jumped in to the rhythm of this new and strange place.
One of the most memorable moments was a meal of cold broth and brussel sprouts. Soup just isn't supposed to be icy cold, or white and mysterious. As the monk who had been assigned to clear plates as each person finished eating approached, I felt extremely sheepish. I stared into my still full bowl of liquid question marks. My stomach turned. I'll never know if it was from hunger or from the mealtime reading selections on the War of 1812 (we were on scalping and torture). It was probably both.
My cotillion manners and the little bit of Southern propriety I'd learned caved, and I nodded for him to take it to the kitchen. Between the odorless, white soup and the droning voice painting pictures of torture 1812 style, I couldn't bring myself to finish. As I nodded, I caught a glimpse of his shoes. They were hard to miss. I stared at them in disbelief, and watched him retreat into the kitchen balancing my soup bowl so the contents wouldn't slosh to the immaculate floor during the silent meal (that is...silent for those eating).
All of the other brothers wore plain black shoes, save the two that wore socks and sandals. These, though, were fantastic, violently purple Crocs. Suddenly the torture and the soup seemed worthy of a guffaw rather than a moan. I was filled to bursting with joy and the need for laughter.
I have told that story at least ten times since the trip and each time, I rejoice in the opportunity to bring someone into that room with me. I love it so much that I have named the blog after him.
I found out much later that his name is Brother Martin, and by then it was too late. He will always be The Monk with Purple Crocs.
(:
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