"Each of us knows there are certain people we just don't get along with at all. So—we avoid them. This is life. Now, there are certain people (not too many) who just can't get along with anybody, and these are called—'hermits'!" Now, it's unlikely you would hear anyone give so "bald" an expression of prejudice against monks. And yet if you listen to the way people use the words "hermit" or "monk", you might suppose the person they are talking about simply doesn't get on very well with people. This is intriguing to me. Since I was a very small child, I have been drawn to solitude and solitary places. One day, when I was still quite new to the world, I must have wandered into some solitary place in the yard or in the basement of our house, and was met there by Someone. It was, no doubt, a gracious and thoroughly enchanting encounter. Afterward, I found that when ever my eyes fell on some serene solitary place, there was awakened in my heart a feeling of happy expectancy of the arrival of that mysterious Someone. After a while, any solitary place felt to me something like a touch, or a faint remembered act of kindness. This subjective impression of solitude is a lodestone in my heart that makes me "lean" a bit as I walk through life and relationships. I have always inclined toward solitude and people have noticed. Inevitably, comments were made. Some of these hurt my feelings. Once in a while, another's unfair judgment of me actually made me angry, and, at those moments, I may have acquired a new and different motivation for appreciating solitude. Solitude has never made me lonely, but sometimes people do. Now, to be sure, there are monks who simply can't seem to get along with anyone. I have met just one or two. At a monastery where I lived as a student for a time, we were celebrating the 25th anniversary of two monks, one of whom, Brother Cyril, was a notoriously difficult person. Sharing a table with Cyril at lunch, myself and a few others saw a kindly old monk come up behind him and wish him a happy anniversary. In response, Cyril replied: "Yeah—I've been a monk for twenty-five years and it's been twenty-five years of pure hell." Everyone at the table fell silent. Nathanial, sitting directly across from Cyril had patiently borne with his obnoxious behavior for years, always standing by him, always coming around after each "blow up", forgiving him and reassuring him with a few kind words. After a moment of silence, Nathanial sighed, looked at Cyril and said: "Yes—yes, of course brother. And what was it like for you?" Everyone at the table burst into laughter. Cyril too, got the joke immediately and began to laugh, and he was laughing hardest of all. He laughed and laughed and laughed—until he began to cry. I wasn't sure of it at first, but, after a moment, it was clear to me and to the others, that Cyril's eyes had filled with tears. Maybe Cyril was a person who, by human standards, had deserved to be alone. But, it seemed he had been judged by Someone else's standards. The solitude he had earned for himself was inhabited by One whose heart just kept expanding with the years and which had finally taken the shape of a community of brothers gathered round him on all sides. This was one of the only times in my life I have met a monk who couldn't seem to get along with anyone, and maybe that was a motivation for him to be alone. But Someone met him there. It was the same Someone his brothers and I had met who were celebrating with him that day. And the beautiful thing was, not one of the monks teased Cyril because he was sitting there crying in front of everyone.

Father Raphael