It happened again, a little after one this morning — that weird disturbance in the woods that every so often erupts and invades my sleep. The night was silent, as only the prairies of Northeast Iowa can be at one in the morning. Suddenly, the sound of a lone coyote rose from the woods, peculiarly expressive of something too elemental to express; that ancient howling whose source is a place we cannot go with our rational minds. The howling grew louder, as if feeding itself, and then drew to itself another voice, a second howling, oddly complimenting it. Another voice joined in, and others, until they were a choir and then suddenly, as if such pure abandon to lament could not be sustained, the howls broke up into what sounded like insane laughter — uncanny high pitched yelps leaping over one another, rendering in sound a perfect chaos of noise and then subsiding again into silence and stillness.

I lay awake, poised upon a moment of indecision whether I should go back to sleep or be awake. The silence of the night seemed more precious for having been done such violence and then restored. I thought to myself: "There is something sacred about this moment — a monk needs to be there." In about two hours, the bell for rising would ring and the monks would begin their vigil, that is, our celebration and anticipation of Christ's return. But, in my heart, I was already celebrating. Something about the howling — it's animal quality and resistance to understanding; its crescendo to perfect madness and final absorption in the surrounding stillness of the woods — all this made me mindful of Christ's short life on earth. What an insane reception we gave the Son of God. How completely we manifested the darkness inside us in response to the Light He revealed to us. How impotent were our cries of hatred on the third day when life arose from death and our viciousness and stupidity were forgiven. How beautiful that two thousand years after the event, it's effects are manifest in a thriving community of monks. The coyotes could sustain their song only a few moments. The chanting of the monks continues an unceasing song of praise that has been sung for centuries and which I am privileged to lend my voice.

Father Raphael