It's a little after four in the morning on the fifth day of Advent. The monks just finished Vigils, the first prayer service of the day, and at the end, stood in the dark church as the antiphon was intoned: "Come Lord Jesus — O co . . . !" Brother Kevin's voice suddenly broke. (Ever try getting up at 3:00 in the morning and singing a song for thirty people?) Casting a glance in his direction, I found myself looking at Fr. Daniel's empty chair in choir. Kevin, cleared his throat and began again, and looking at the empty seat where Daniel should be, I heard Kevin sing with voice renewed: "Come Lord Jesus! O come to us Lord!" Suddenly, gazing at that chair, I imagined the song was Daniel's and I imagined him snatched up — taken from us by the Lord who, in answer to his prayers, had come at last. This was only a distraction. Daniel hasn't gone anywhere but is very much with us. Daniel is one hundred and three years old; the only human being I've ever known who has lived more than a century. The office of Vigils which starts at 3:30 in the morning, and is one of our more stringent ascetical practices, is not required of the infirm monks and so Daniel is excused. But he was excused decades ago and only stopped coming to Vigils about two years ago — at the age of about one hundred and one. As Advent begins, it struck me this morning, looking at his empty chair, that Daniel is Advent expectation enfleshed. He is a walking embodiment of the sentiment: "Come Lord Jesus!" How long he has waited! How many years he has lived! A sequence of thoughts causes me to momentarily marvel. A regret is born in a moment. It takes only a day to forget an anniversary that you can feel ashamed about for years. In a second or two, an ugly word can escape your mouth that makes someone you love wince. We botch a moment of intimacy. We pass up an opportunity to do good and regret it. Regrets accumulate in a human heart. A twelve year old already has a small collection and can be heard making a sincere confession. By the time you're twenty one, you're regrets are piled up like old newspapers, each "edition" as thick as your thumb, and you haven't even been married yet. How many regrets might a man have who has lived more than a century? And if a sincere regret gives rise to a heartfelt appeal for God's mercy, what inexpressible longing for mercy goes up to heaven from a heart weary with one hundred and three years of memories? Someone decides to go on a restricted diet. With considerable effort they hunker down; manage to keep to the diet, and after two weeks are seen exulting with a friend: "Man — I feel like I've turned over a new leaf!" Maybe, if he perseveres another week, he's heard exulting again, and again a week after that: "I'm actually doing this! I'm sticking to my diet! Can you believe it!" What reward will be meted out to Father Daniel — what exulting will be heard from him who has kept to a restricted diet for seventy years? What inexpressible longing to be united with God must a man feel whose life, for seventy years, has been wholly ordered to contemplation of things holy? Daniel is Advent expectation walking on two legs, and what awaits him at the end of his journey, is offered to us all. He is our brother. We are all one flesh with Daniel. His reward is the reward we all pray for in Advent. I cannot explain it, but I am certain that, on the day he dies, his final victory will resound in the hearts of people who never knew he existed.

Father Raphael