I am sitting in the "sun room" of the monastery infirmary — a beautiful space, transfigured by light pouring in from several windows that go almost from floor to ceiling — not a likely setting in which to be introduced to feelings of hardened skepticism toward life. Maybe because my heart is lulled by the radiance of the sunny room and the gentle murmur of our conversation, maybe just because I'm feeling hopeful and grateful today, my guard is down. In a moment, I trip, I fall, and find myself wallowing in the heart of post-modern darkness. This wasn't planned, but all at once my conversation partner is relating to me a story about the suffering of a child which might be the most unsettling I've ever heard. A kid, nine years old, is playing on the grass in the stillness of a summer day on a farm in rural Iowa. Something makes him look up. Standing in the door of the barn loft, about twenty feet above the ground, he recognizes his father. He is about to jump. The wretched man hesitates. He appears to be unaware of his son playing in the yard, but the little boys' eyes are riveted on him. The child is struggling to understand, only slowly and imperfectly comprehending the nightmare unfolding before him. The nine year old doesn't know what depression is, and has no idea that his father is it's slave, but he intuits that something is wrong because of the uncanny impression made by his father's strong lean frame wavering against the blackness of the empty loft. Now, his nervous system is rocked by the frenzied movement of other figures approaching the barn, his brother, a neighbor. A shriek sounds oddly like his mother's voice. A collective cry pierces the air as his father loses his footing — and stands upright again. Then he jumps. In a moment, the crumpled figure on the ground is surrounded by people bending over him. The little boy freezes. He is just an eye. A minute or two goes by. He feels himself suddenly swept up in his mother's arms and rushed into the house. A few minutes later, his father is carried in the front door and laid on the bed in a nearby room. A priest is called in. The boy doesn't realize, and will only learn later, that these are the last moments of his father's life. As the man lays dying, he becomes remarkably serene and lucid. He makes a confession of his sins to the priest telling him with sublime earnestness that he is genuinely sorry for taking his own life, for the hardship it will bring upon his beloved wife and children, and for all the sins of his life. Having made his peace with God and the church, he dies. What life is in store for the child waiting in the other room? What seed of bitterness toward all of life is planted in the heart of a child who, one bright summer day, is given a front row seat at his own father's suicide? What new therapy do you prescribe for this? What do you call a world where something like this happens — "post-modern"? No — that won't work. The incident took place in 1931. The boy, is Bro. Giles who turned eighty eight this year, and is quietly, peacefully relating this story to me in the sun room of the monastery infirmary. The man before me is one of the holiest monks at New Melleray Abbey. I doubt he has ever visited a psychologist in his life, but I have a hunch he's going to be o.k. I have that feeling because when he gets to the part about his father having the time and presence of mind to make a complete confession before he died, he is suddenly overcome by a feeling of gratitude that makes his face luminous. I don't believe I've ever seen a man look so serene, so truly happy, so trusting of the goodness of God, and of life as Giles at this moment. The man is absolutely convinced of the perfection of a world of darkness now restored to light by the redemption accomplished for us in Christ Jesus!

Father Raphael