Poor Sebastian — he's as conscientious and faithful a monk as you'd ever want to meet. But don't tell him that — he won't believe you. Several months ago, Kevin, the head cantor, who leads the monks when we sing the Divine Office, asked Sebastian if he would stand in the choir stall next to me, the assistant cantor. Sebastian seemed a little surprised — he does not consider himself a singer, and probably, if you asked around, few of the monks would describe him to you as a singer. With that forthright and completely transparent gaze of his, over which passed the most fleeting hint of anxiety, he said. "O.k. - I mean...I'll do what I can."

Monks admire a guy like this. He is the kind of monk who other Trappist monks quietly respect because he seems almost unconscious of himself and is always readily available to the community for what ever we ask him to do. Actually, he sings rather well, though, you have the impression he's working hard to sound like he thinks a cantor is supposed to sound. Anyway, it's nice to listen to him sing. I tell myself — "On some level Sebastian knows he's well-regarded by the other brothers", but I'm not sure.

Tonight, we were at Vespers. The psalms are sung "antiphonally" which means, the two sides of the choir alternate, singing two lines each. At one point, while we were chanting the psalm, Sebastian got mixed up and when it came time for our side to sing, he skipped over a verse and started singing the wrong line. For just a moment, he and I were singing different words, and he was singing as loud as I was. This sort of thing is not uncommon when thirty five men sing together seven times a day every single day. Brothers lose their place on the page. His mistake hardly phased me. What got my attention was his reaction to his mistake. Having sung a few of the wrong words, I saw his back suddenly stiffen and he wagged his head rather emphatically, as if to say "I can't believe you did that!" He didn't say this — but that's what he was thinking. His whole demeanor expressed it: the way he suddenly went rigid and then sort of withered there in the choir stall as if a great weight were being lowered down on him. He never quite straightened up after that. I felt for the guy. I wanted to say, after Vespers was over: "Hey — it's no big deal bro...don't worry about it."

He was right next to me as we hung up our white cowls, and I thought I might say something, but he was engaged suddenly by another brother who had a question about where he had stored the melons they picked in the garden that day. I could tell by Sebastian's demeanor and gentle rhythm of voice, that he had recovered from the painful moment in choir. "Why have him revisit it?" I thought. The fabric of our cowls absorb the smell of incense and so there was a pleasant aroma in the half light of the sacristy as the setting sun shone through the thin pointed arched windows. I felt that sense of well-being that I am prone to at this hour of the day and on my way to supper, prayed that what ever angel had delivered my brother from his moment of panic, would stay with him through the night when monks are visited by many thoughts.

Father Raphael