Abbey of the Holy Trinity – Fond Musings by a Former Novice

By Greg Telesco (guest contributor)–

As I begin writing, peering out the window of my 2nd floor room, the Oregon rain this time of year soothes me as I reflect on one of the most important times of my life – nearly 40 years ago. This room I sit in, a compact, simple space with a narrow bed, small desk and a high-backed rocking chair reminds me of a nearly identical guest room in what was the Guest House at the Abbey of the Holy Trinity in Huntsville, Utah. Room number 12 to be exact.

My retreat begins in this unassuming space at Our Lady of Guadalupe Trappist monastery in Carlton, Oregon. My annual retreats here for the last 20 years always take me back to my time as a novice at the Trinity Abbey in Huntsville. Some memories have faded while others are still deeply vivid.

It was providential to discover an insightful blog in the form of Michael Patrick O’Brien’s – “The Boy Monk”. I read and marveled at his experiences at Holy Trinity Abbey. His biographies of the various monks, many of whom I had deep meaningful relationships with, sparked a sea of vivid, warm, nostalgic thoughts and feelings. I’ve been eager to read Michael’s book, Monastery Mornings, and decided this retreat would be the perfect opportunity. Michael has graciously allowed me to share my own musings and offer perhaps, some additional insights into this very special community of men who, similar to Michael’s experience, mentored, taught, inspired and left me in a state of awe.

When I entered Trinity Abbey as a Postulant in 1984, I decided on Brother Gerard as my monastic moniker. Gerard is the middle name my parents gave me. My mother, a saint in her own right, had a particular fondness for Saint Gerard as he is the patron saint of motherhood and by extension, expectant mothers. I wanted my monastic experience to be a new, clean slate. A re-birth, as it were. Out with the 22 year old stock broker; in with Brother Gerard. It somehow helped enable the transformation into this wonderful new reality of a contemplative, God-centered, monastic life.

In Monastery Mornings, Chapter 8: The Slowest Superhero, Father Patrick Boyle is featured. I was a stressed out stock broker and completely unfulfilled in my life. My mother, a very saintly woman, suggested I make a retreat at the monastery in Huntsville. Like Michael, my family had been going up there for years to visit so it wasn’t an unfamiliar idea. Father Patrick was her confessor. I took her advice and booked a weekend retreat. I requested a meeting/confession with Father Pat. At the end of our meeting, he got down on his hands and knees and kissed my feet in the most complete act of love and humility I had ever experienced. I was thunderstruck in a way that rare and illusive epiphanies are had. My internal voice screamed, “I WANT TO KNOW WHAT HE KNOWS!” It’s beyond the realm of possibility for anyone to have an encounter with this saintly man and not come away with a sense of awe and humility. I often marvel at the idea if there was ever an individual who engaged him for even a moment and didn’t come away deeply moved. Was that even possible? Thus began my endeavor for the vocation as a Cistercian Monk.

One of my primary roles, one that is passed down from novice to newest novice, was as the Bell Ringer. I LOVED it!  The best part was Brother Bernard’s precise instructions on the hidden art of getting both bells going simultaneously. The double bell effect was generally reserved for Solemnities and Feast days. With both arms, I learned how to pull down on one rope which was the big bell then the other smaller bell. I learned to time the retract such that I was lifted, first one side then the other, thereby inducing a bounce similar to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. The act wasn’t complete without an award winning facial distortion. Perhaps not very “monk like” but it was a deep source of amusement for me in an otherwise austere environment.

There was only one downside to being the bell ringer – 3:30am Vigils. The job description meant I had to be up very early to wake the monks with the cloister chime (fancy name for doorbell). It was a tremendous responsibility. There were some very difficult mornings when I sometimes wondered if I was not only waking the monks, but God Himself. I had a good run. Brother Bernard passed the job to me and I, with some lament, passed it on to my newbie successor, Brother Stephen.

Brother Stephen, by the way, is now Father Stephen at the Trappist Abbey of the Genesee in upstate New York. I have stayed in touch with Father Stephen and Brother Bernard (Kevin) over the years. I was deeply honored when Father Stephen kindly invited me to attend his ordination many years ago.

One of the great ironies during my time as a novitiate was that I was tone-deaf along with a sub-par singing voice in a community of virtuoso choir monks. I disguised my hideous noise-maker in a low, deep bass, such that the aged community found my chanting inaudible. To this day, I have never learned how to sing and the band I play drums in never fail to give me a mic that somehow has managed to stay defective for the 20 years we’ve played together.

In Monastery Mornings, near the end of Chapter 4 entitled, “The First Huntsville Odyssey,” Michael recalls his introduction to the monastery and in particular, to Brother Felix at the Gatehouse/Bookstore: 

I think Mom was looking for a particular book that day, so she turned to Brother Felix and started to ask, “Do you know what I’m looking for….?” Before she finished her thought, he politely interrupted and said, “Yes, I do know, you are looking for the same thing as the rest of us – peace.” His words were not profound, poetic or prophetic, and the only thing they managed to do was to change our lives.

As I read that exchange, my thoughts turned to my own first introduction to Br. Felix. It was the first day of my Observership eating with the monks in the refectory. I was sitting at the Novice table which was next to the coffee dispenser. Brother Felix limped over with his tin cup in hand (he had suffered a stroke which left him with a partial disability). He then proceeded to break out in a surprisingly good Irish Jig in front of us. I boisterously (and inappropriately) laughed out loud whilst the rest of the monks looked up with bemused, followed by resigned looks on their faces reserved, it seemed, only for Br. Felix. He walked away with his usual wry half-smile and a twinkle in his eye at achieving the desired affect. He had a wonderful sense of humor and if he suffered discomfort from his condition, it was hardly noticeable.

As a side note, we liked when Brother Felix cooked our meals as he would usually make his delicious tuna loaf that he dubbed “red dog” but later was somehow resolved by the novitiate to “dead dog”. Apart from the annual Founders Day celebration where we were treated to Hamburgers and KFC,  “dead dog” was the closest thing to a carnivorous experience in an otherwise pescatarian diet.

In Chapter 7 of Monastery Mornings, entitled “Brother Good Face”, Brother Boniface is introduced to the reader. I had no idea the depth of his background as Michael outlined in great detail. My knowledge of Brother Boniface after knowing him for many years, now seems very cursory in comparison. What I do know is that he had deep blue eyes that could penetrate the depths of one’s soul. I recall his quiet manner….and raspy voice that somehow always demanded an attentive ear as he imparted some beautiful, special wisdom that always left me wanting. My favorite encounter with this holy man was only after a few days into my Postulancy and I had hiked a trail behind the monastery that led to a fence and gate after which the trail continued on. I was content to sit in the tall grass at the fence line and contemplate the golden monastic landscape. After a few minutes, I observed Brother “Good Face” slowly meandering up the trail. I seemed to surprise him as he approached as he was clearly lost in deep thought. He smiled, walked over and sat down next to me, pulled on a grass straw and chewed it without a single word spoken between us. 15 minutes later….or maybe it was an hour….he quietly got up and went on his way. Something deep and meaningful was shared between us without a single utterance.

In Chapter 6 of Monastery Mornings, Michael describes Fr. Joseph as “a kind, gentle, hardworking man who looked like he was going to die from acute embarrassed shyness when you made eye contact with him.” What a great description!  I worked for Fr. Joseph cleaning the dairy yard which meant I got to drive a big, green John Deere tractor and scrape the manure to the end of the yard and then use the big front loading bucket to lift the manure over a fence and into the compost pile. I became quite adept driving the tractor and using the various handles and levers that moved the scraper in the back and the bucket in the front.

Then my first Spring came along. In short, I’m just a mere city slicker and the nuances of shoveling cow poop in the Spring had escaped me. The winter runoff turns the otherwise viscous manure into a somewhat liquid pea soup. Scraping and collecting it to the repository took well over 2 hours. The lifting and dumping was far trickier. Sitting high on the tractor seat, deftly manipulating the various levers, I scooped up as much of the green liquid froth into the large bucket as I could then lifted the loader at my usual rate of speed until it came to its abrupt stop high above my head. Next thing I heard was a heavy swish. Next thing I saw when I looked up was a vast wall of milky green that completely enveloped me. I didn’t even have time to look down. After the initial slap, shock and realization of what happened, I scraped and wiped my eyes clean to look around and assure myself that nobody saw what happened. After a few seconds of looking around the yard, I spied Fr. Joseph near a cow stall curled up in a fetal position laughing hysterically. I did the only thing I could do: accept the humility of the moment and laugh at the spectacle that was me.

Needless to say, I was running very late for Vespers and only had time for a cursory shower. The monks had already started the Office and I had to walk down the stalls, past several monks to my place near the end where the monks around me suffered my stench with their usual stoicism and humble resignation. My brethren were indeed holy men. Oh well, as Brother David liked to always say, “The reason why Angels fly is they take themselves lightly.”

The “Honeymoon” for a novice is attributed to Saint John of the Cross. It’s the feeling of pure joy and deeply spiritual moments that seem like they will never end. It does. Then comes the Dark Night of the Soul. Father Leander, my Novice Master, was oft inclined to remind me of the old adage directed at all novices,  “Many are called, but few are chosen”. Perhaps a quote from the Bible… or St Benedict…or Thomas Merton? I’m not sure but it was a reoccurring theme in the Novitiate. Regardless, I was called; not chosen. Not having been “chosen” was a cause for some bitterness at the time of my departure. I blamed God at the time but have long since reconciled my fate and have found peace and gratitude for His choice to reunite me with the bigger external world.

Now 40 years later, sitting quietly and anonymously in the back pews of the Guadalupe chapel, I find myself singing quietly along as the Trappists pray and chant their daily Office. I find myself somehow conjuring the words that should be long forgotten; the Psalms, the Salve Regina – still printed indelibly in my mind. As the re-working of an old saying goes, “You can take the monk out of the monastery, but you can’t take the monastery out of the monk.”

I went on to graduate from the University of Utah with a Finance degree after which I enjoyed a long professional career in a Silicon Valley tech company and now retirement. I still enjoy a mostly quiet, solitudinal life and have immense gratitude for my experience as a monk in the Abbey of the Holy Trinity. I am grateful to Michael Patrick O’Brien in his efforts to preserve the legacy and memories of this sacred Trappist community and the individual monks who lived within. I look forward to receiving his regular articles in my inbox and will for the remainder of my life, pick up and re-read his remarkable and deeply nostalgic book, Monastery Mornings.

*Greg Telesco is a retired, former Silicon Valley software specialist living in Bend, OR. He spent time as a Novice monk at the Abbey of the Holy Trinity in Huntsville, Utah. He is also an avid part-time musician, cyclist, nordic skier, backpacker and alpine climber.