The first time I met Duane, he was just an ornament added to a strikingly beautiful sunset on a serene summer evening. Across the street from New Melleray Abbey is Holy Family parish and behind it North Church Field. Running through the middle of this vast prairie is a ridge that appears sharp as a knife when the sun sets behind it. A path that runs along the ridge is a favorite among joggers, young people in love, and contemplatives like Duane. A person walking on that path against the setting sun appears to be walking on the horizon and their figure stands out with an uncanny perfection of detail even at a distance of about half a mile. It was here Duane appeared one evening as I was strolling under the pine trees, meditating on a sermon of St. Bernard. He walks carrying those little "bar-bells" which he lifts in an alternating rhythm as he walks. He is a tall man with a long stride and an unruly mop of hair and so he cut an interesting figure against the sky that magical evening. These walks of mine are prayer time. I'm not looking for conversation. So, when it became apparent in the days and weeks afterward, that Duane and I would be encountering each other pretty much every evening, I became a little anxious. I didn't want to give up my walk around Holy Family Church, but I wished it to be a solitary walk. I had made up my mind on this point. I didn't want to be chatting with people. So, I made a decision. Passing each other on the church driveway each evening, I would greet Duane with a smile. If he offered a greeting, I would return it, but with just a word or two, nothing more. By this, he would realize that I was praying and didn't wish to be disturbed. He would understand. Duane grew up in the shadow of New Melleray Abbey and is familiar with monks. So, I put my plan into action. His reading of my behavior was astute and, after a few weeks, our almost daily encounters in front of Holy Family Church were as graceful as a ballroom dance. "Good evening!" — "Evening!", "Nice out!" — "Lovely!" "Have a nice walk!" — "You too!" After a while, I didn't mind running into him at all. It was like a Medieval marriage of convenience to a woman with whom you share no intimacy, but whose company is agreeable because she makes no demands on you. I was sure Duane and I had settled into this cozy arrangement when, one day, as we passed one another at the end of the driveway, I looked up to see him striding across the blacktop, with one hand extended, grinning from ear to ear, and headed straight for me. "I'm Duane!", he bellowed, positioning himself directly in front of me. I got the joke. We both laughed and I said, a little embarrassed: "I'm Raphael". His genuine good humor and affability set me at ease at once and he asked me: "Do you know how long we've been passing by each other on these evening walks?" "It's been over two years hasn't it?" I ventured. "Close to three actually!" I heard him say. There was something endearing about his gentle acceptance of my behavior, and I felt a twinge of regret for insisting on it as I had. Later, reflecting on the incident, I thought: "You know — in my mind, the mystery of a monk's solitude is something ageless, impassible, imperturbable, almost divine in its permanence. And yet . . . in reality it's as thin as a soap bubble. A man smiles, extends his hand in friendship, and — poof! . . . it's gone." History will end like this. We monks keeping vigil, concentrating our minds and hearts on Jesus' return, waiting, disciplining ourselves, reading, fasting, praying, laboring with our hands, watching, waiting, watching a while longer, waiting, waiting, waiting, as we have for sixteen hundred years . . . and then, one day, He will arrive. He will be there, and that will be the end of our vigil. It'll all be over. Just like that.

Father Raphael