Chapter Two: The Angel and Brother Timothy
Brother Francis wandered outside. His unhurried stride took him into the peaceful cemetery of the monastery. This was one of his favorite spots to reflect, especially in the springtime when all the graves of the departed monks were covered with thick green grass and early flowers clustered around the base of the crosses. In winter, the cemetery was barren, the grass brown and dried underfoot, and the crosses taking on the appearance of dried bones. Brother Francis wondered which open space would be his but didn’t dwell on the thought for too long. Only his body would rest there not his soul.
The crows broke the peace of the chilly day. They roosted in the leafless trees by the hundreds, making jarring, croaking calls, and flapping their wings, hopping from one perch to another, before settling down.
Brother Francis didn’t hold out a beckoning hand to them because they seemed sinister. He knew he shouldn’t despise any of God’s creatures; his namesake wouldn’t, and prayed to God to forgive his inadequacy.
His favorite spot was at the far end of the cemetery where a large stone angel stood gazing down on the resting monks. Brother Francis carefully made his way through the rows of small crosses to a stone bench placed just below the angel’s feet.
He seated himself on the bench, pulled his cloak tight around his neck, and looked up at the angel. He saw that the foul birds had defiled the statue, leaving her arms covered with droppings. After a momentary frown, he muttered out loud: “the spring rains will wash it away; it won’t be long now.”
“Brother Francis.” He heard a voice from behind that he recognized immediately and turned smiling to his dear friend.
“Brother Timothy, my dear child are you following me?”
“I saw you come out here after prayers and felt a word from you might lift my spirits.”
The tall, lanky young man had only recently become a fully sanctified monk after taking his final vows and choosing the name Timothy for himself. When Brother Francis peered into Brother Timothy’s deep brown, almost black, eyes, he thought this is what the Lord’s eyes must have looked like: loving and trusting, innocent of worldly matters — with that one exception that caused those eyes to lose their sparkle and become more like glass.
“Come and sit with me.” Brother Francis patted the bench, “are you feeling troubled?”
“No, not troubled,” said Brother Timothy taking a seat, “just feeling a bit downcast.”
“Perhaps because it is winter; we are all waiting for Nature to renew herself.”
“Yes, perhaps so,” said Brother Timothy.
They both fell into silence.
Brother Timothy followed his mentor’s gaze to the angel.
“He is a fine angel.”
“Do you imagine the angel as male? I have always thought of her as female,” asked Brother Francis.
“Is that so? The posture strikes me as male.”
The angel that stood over them held out her right arm fully extended, with her hand closed, except for an index finger pointing into the sky. Her left hand, she held downward, with her palm open to them. She wore a full-length gown, cinched about the waist, her bare feet protruding from under the edges of her garment. Her head tilted downward, so she gazed at them. Long hair flowed around her face and neck. On her back, she carried a quiver of arrows, but no bow in her hand. Her eyes were half closed giving her a serene expression, as if waiting to be called into action, or in a moment of prayer before battle. The gestures of the two hands seemed contradictory to Brother Francis: one closed and commanding; the other open and accepting.
“What do you think Brother Timothy? Is she, or he, a warrior or a protector?’
“A warrior, I should think, but it’s hard to say.” Brother Timothy looked closer, “his, err her, expression does not seem aggressive.”
“She seems, maybe a bit sad,” suggested Brother Francis. “I prefer to see her as a protector of our departed brothers and us as well.”
“Your spirit is so noble and kind,” said Brother Timothy. “It makes me look up to you as a spiritual guide.”
Brother Francis laughed. “No, no, no, do not give me too much credit. I have many spiritual defects.”
“I wonder, sometimes, what is the purpose of being a monk,” said Brother Timothy. “I feel as if I am flailing about. I try, but cannot seem to conquer my own demons, while you seem so peaceful.”
Timothy was Brother Francis’ charge. His assigned spiritual counselor and he felt much affection for this young man. At this moment, however, Brother Francis felt resistant to delve into Brother Timothy’s spiritual demons. They discussed that unpleasant topic before, and neither of them wanted to bring it back up: that unseemly topic of Brother Timothy’s erotic feelings toward other men. Timothy struggled with them and felt he could never be pure. Brother Francis felt at a loss as to how to advise him. He didn’t want to speak a negative word to this young man that he felt such brotherly love toward. So Brother Francis remained silent with his troubled thoughts.
“What do you think is the true purpose of being a monk?” Brother Timothy suddenly asked.
“I have meditated for years on that question,” said Brother Francis. “I used to think it was to fight sin and become pure. I used to dwell on all my failings and shortcomings trying to be a better monk. I do not know if that made me a better monk. Now, I tend to think that it is to show compassion and learn to forgive.
“Compassion and forgiveness is what the Lord teaches, but they also must be accompanied by repentance and moral improvement,” said Brother Timothy.
“I suppose so.”
“You seem to have mastered those, my dear friend,” said Brother Timothy. “I aspire to be more like you.”
“Please do not be so generous, you will stroke my vanity too much.” Brother Francis laid his hand on Brother Timothy’s knee. “I’m getting chilly. Let us go back inside; too much cold is not good for an old man’s bones.”
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Continue to Chapter Three:
“The Construction of the Monastery”
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c. e. hammock 