My Night at the "Hilton"
I realize that most of you aren't all that interested in coming to my blog only to find me quoting from something else -- blogs are supposed to be personal. I agree, and usually don't do what I did in the last three entries (Fr. Paisius Altschul Conversion Story)...but his story resonated with me for very personal reasons. His wife's first night at the "Hilton" at the Monastery was very unlike the night I spent there with my son in December, 2001. As the saying goes...I spent a week there one night. But please, allow me to explain.
I was baptized into the Orthodox Church at Pascha (Easter) in 2001. I had gone through a painful separation and divorce, and both my children from that marriage were living with me. One of them, Matthew, was a little interested in Orthodoxy, but my daughter Emily was not. I didn't try to talk either one of them into following me...I was, and remain, convinced that the best thing I can do for my children is save my own soul and pray for them. At the time of the divorce they were older teenagers, had just experienced the ripping apart of their family, and were understandably angry, confused, and somewhat disillusioned with me and my "beliefs". I didn't blame them, but neither did I try and hide what I was experiencing in the Orthodox Church. I shared my new life with them in ways I felt were appropriate to the situation and child. The trip to St. Herman of Alaska Monastery with my son Matt is a case in point.
Matt and I had gone to Sacramento to spend Christmas with my brother Mark and his family in 2001. We drove down from Portland, and on the return trip we had planned to stop by the Monastery, which is near Platina, CA. Platina is right on the border of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest, a little less than halfway between Red Bluff and Eureka -- i.e. it is fairly remote for city folks. But Matt was into it, since like I said, he was semi-interested in Orthodoxy and very interested in camping. So off we went. I had only been to one other Monastery before this trip - the Monastery of St. Anthony in Florence, Arizona. I was soon to learn that each Monastery has its own "personality".
On that particular winter's day, the gravel/mud "road" that leads up to the Monastery from the main road was fog-shrouded and covered with a little snow. The entire mountain was stinging with a damp and near-freezing drizzle. Matt and I arrived during lunch. We were greeted by a friendly dog who lives on the premises and we eventually found our way into the Trapeza (dining hall) of the Monastery and seated ourselves. All the monks and a couple other pilgrims were already seated and one of the monks was reading from a spiritual book...the normal practice at meals. After the reading, Abbot Gerasim stood up and said a few things, directed mainly at the monks. Then Fr. Gerasim fixed his friendly eyes on us, and started asking us who we were and where we had come from, etc. For some reason, I felt the need to say more than I was asked, which is a common failure of mine. And for some other reason I felt it necessary to "explain" that my son wasn't Orthodox. "But", I quickly added, "I talk to Matt about Orthodoxy." Abbot Gerasim looked at me with a stare that to this day I cannot get out of my mind. It was somehow friendly and menacing all at the same time. He asked me, "Why aren't you talking to your son about skateboarding?" His question, like a well-aimed arrow, found its mark in my heart. I have never felt more foolish in all my life. I knew exactly what he was getting at -- I should be trying to get into Matt's world rather than spending so much of my energy trying to get Matt into mine. That's what love does. That's what the Feast of the Nativity of Jesus is all about. Needless to say, I sat down, shut up, and choked down a little food. Matt smiled.
Later that night, after Compline, Matt and I made our way down the mountain-side to the "Hilton". Matt slept fine, but I had trouble because I'm used to much more comfort than the "Hilton" affords. Two metal "beds" from the 1930s with saggy springs, a smoky woodstove, and thin uninsulated walls are the "Hilton." Additionally, I was a little worried about how I was going to have to stumble out of this shack at about 3am to find the outhouse...you know...middle-aged angst. I only lasted until about 2am. After returning, I had just gotten the fire stoked a little in the wood stove and crawled back into bed when a monk banged on our door to let us know that the day's services were beginning...about 4am. We got up, trudged back up the mountain-side to the cold, dark Church, and stood freezing in the back from about 4am to 9am. Man, those guys are stingy with the heat. It seemed like about every half-hour one of the monks would open up the wood stove near the back of the Church (their only heat) and put about 3 toothpicks in. I was standing right next to the stove and could barely feel any warmth at all. And I was a lot closer to it than any of the monks who were mostly crowded around the reader stands chanting/singing the services. When services were finally over, we had a little breakfast and Matt and I went our separate ways...just sort of walking around the Monastery grounds. I didn't want to talk with anyone since I was still smarting from my "encounter" with Abbot Gerasim. One of the monks talked with Matt a little bit and gave him a book called The Purple Mantle. We ate lunch and fled.
Fr. Seraphim Rose (+1982) walking on the grounds of the Monastery on a day very similar to the one when Matt and I visited.
Matt and I didn't talk about it much on the way home...and we haven't talked about it much since. It was a humbling trip for me, very unlike Fr. Paisus' first experience there. But I'm just as grateful for it because Abbot Gerasim put my "Orthodoxy" in its place that day. Being "Orthodox" isn't worth a damn without love. I "knew" that in my head before that trip, but Fr. Gerasim shoved that knowledge down into my heart. I will be forever grateful to him. Someday, I want to go again. I've only begun to repent. I've only begun to be Orthodox. It seems that all I've really discovered about myself thus far is just how little love I have for anyone besides my wretched self.
