Monastic Laundry

Today I'm sharing parts of two letters I wrote to my friend Brendan in late winter and early spring of 1994. I've edited out some private info, but otherwise sharing the second one in full, and just a short exchange from the first, a story which hopefully shows how fun the monastery was at times. In between the two is a single line from a letter my friend wrote to me in April of 1994, one which is just as poignant now as it was then. I saved everything , so while I'm not sharing each letter I received or sent in that time, it's been really nice rereading old correspondence as I prepare these reflections. The name's Brennan. Brother Brennan. (Brother Sean more often though back then.) Quick refresher: I attended Chaminade High School as a freshman, failed out at the end of the school year, and then enrolled in Kellenberg Memorial High School the summer before my sophomore year. Both high schools are run by the Marianists (Society of Mary/S.M.), a religious order

If I could sneak back into the monastery for just one more hour, there is no other hour in time I'd rather choose than the Easter Vigil service at Chaminade High School. Forty-four men processing single file through the monastery lit only by candles? It gave me chills every time! I was only a monk for four years of my life, but the environment and the people I lived with changed me forever (and for the better) . Even so, my time there was cut short in a most unnatural, very unkind and thoroughly unhappy way. I was robbed of all sense of normal closure by being defrocked without warning one day, so now I'm-- Well, I'm like a ghost: part of me is still there, and always will be. Of all the weeks on the liturgical calendar, Holy Week sits high atop my list of personal favorites. Today I reminisce on some of the traditions I recall and loved most. While some have changed since I left, others surely remain. Standing at the entrance to the chapel at the Easter Vigil service. From

I was only "Brother Sean" for a red hair over four years, so while priests and religious who give their whole lives to similar missions may be smug to my perspective, it really comes down to this: you can kick the boy out of the monastery, but you can't kick the monastery out of the boy. Who I am is forever changed because of those four years, and more succinctly, because of who I chose to become in all the years since. March 31, 1994 Dear Brother George Edward,      Throughout the past nine months, I have had the opportunity of forming many friendships; friendships with my Brothers, friendship with God, and friendship with myself.   I am very grateful for the blessings that I have received and for the opportunity to grow more fully in the life of Jesus Christ.   Though I have had some stumbling blocks along the way, I have learned to see them as stepping stones on the sometimes bumpy path of religious life.      I have a strong dedication to our Bl

Sharing some delicious quotes and personal reflections today about the book Care of the Soul , but first, here's a letter I wrote to my sister Esther in California. Note who the speakers were at the communion breakfasts we hosted in the high school that year. March 5, 1994 Dear Esther,      I know this is not the same as a birthday card, but I wanted to write to you anyway. How are things with you? Do you enjoy living in the new apartment? How is your car running? (You may prefer to answer these questions to yourself... answering out loud will probably make others think that you are crazy)      Well, all is well with me. I am doing well with my studies at Manhattan College and am looking forward to a successful semester. I am currently listed as undecided for my major, although I intend to major in English Literature. I have not begun any of my studies for my major, so I will begin to do so in the fall of 1995. This is because beginning in June of this year, until rough

My sincere apologies for the extra long delay in posting a new update here. I'm back on this project again now, so keep an eye out! At this point in my story, it's March of 1994. I'd been living in the monastery since June of 1993. On March 16, 1994, 27 years to the day as I post this online , I passed my road test on my first try, I got a temporary license, and then received my official driver's license soon after. As I'd been depending on my friends Lex, Mark, and Brendan for rides throughout high school, and needed my fellow Marianist Brothers, old and young alike, to drive me anywhere once I entered the community, it was a huge relief to put this behind me at last. Brother Michael Gillen (my Assistant Novice Master) taught me how to drive--on a stick shift, no less--and I was able to take a night class at a Mineola driving school just a few blocks from the Brothers' house. This was Lent of 1994, and I would soon experience my first retreat as a monk. Twice a

I wasn't supposed to be there when it happened. My Assistant Novice Master probably scheduled me to be somewhere in the high school nowhere near the brothers' house that day at that exact time. As things happen though, there I was. I ran up the main stairs of the monastery toward my bedroom on the second floor, perhaps to grab something quick from my room, and as soon as I reached the top of the landing and turned right, Joe came toward me from my left. He was carrying a large box filled to the brim with things, so I instinctively asked him, "Hey, need some help?" Some words slip from our lips and disappear forever, while others are etched into history. These words I spoke in that moment without thinking were something closer to the second kind, and they were destined to haunt me in the days and weeks ahead. (And hell, years too, I guess. Hence this entry.) "No, I've got it," he said, smiling curtly before continuing along his way. I didn't wonder wh