Reflection on St. Meinrad Seminary

Sometimes Hidden on the Hill

The alarm startles us to a new day, eyes ache to open, the warmth of the bed begs that we continue to lay; yet sometimes hidden from our comfort and cozy rest are hands in the kitchen preparing eggs, frying toast, and roasting the brew, which both makes the morning possible, and fills the stomach of those who choose.

We scurry over them as we make our way, our steps bringing us to our next class, meeting, or place where we pray. We drop crumbs and coffee on them, go as we may; yet sometimes hidden from our movement are scrubbers, mops and brooms that prepare our way, to the hallways we walk as we pass by each day.

We sometimes rush it and we sometimes drag it. We sometimes cannot even begin to utter it. Some start it before others and some say it too loud; but sometimes in the midst of our daily recitation the hidden Spirit descends on our pleading, uniting us as one, where our longing to ‘go in peace’ lets us rest with the sun.

Our head rests in our hand as our eyelids close unable to bear so much fun. The words on the seemingly endless pages all disappear into one. Inside ourselves we surely fight, wondering why we must scroll left to right, over and over, late into the night; but sometimes hidden is the gift that we, of all people, actually have been chosen to study about His love, and it is then that the truth of the words descends upon us like a dove.

They are the men who say the wrong thing when it is still too early in the morning. They are the men who sometimes don’t smell just right, shave just right, and even act just right. They are the men who sometimes we even wish would find “her”; but sometimes hidden is that they are the men who said yes to uncertainty, who hold us when we cannot stand, pray for us when we cannot pray, and provide the strength when we simply want to walk away.

They are the faculty who love to fill our time. They are the faculty who love to assign. They are the faculty of the black cloth and the ring, and they are the faculty with the dress code, no desserts, and the monk Mass that we try hard to sing; but sometimes hidden is that when we are graying, tired, aged and soon ready to die, they are the faculty that will have prepared us to still be holding the precious host high.

It can often smell like a farm forcing us to grasp for a breath. It often feels like our time here might hasten our death. We often desire to descend the hill and watch its lights fade far away into the distance; but sometimes hidden is that beneath the sandstone, through the haze of incense and echoing of notes and melodies filling our soul, we have found our home and we really long for no place else to go.