Whenever I talk with writers, there are plenty of taboos. They don’t often speak about how much money they make. Not many writers will divulge the nature of any publishing contracts they’re negotiating. And some are even superstitious about not revealing either the title or the content of a new book they’re working on. But you can always tell a group of writers is really getting into a heavy discussion when one warns:
“No, no. Don’t use the ‘M’ word!”
It was a reverent moment. Our host entered. We had all enjoyed our first meal in the dining hall together, while on the wall over our shoulders a painting depicted Christ and the apostles at The Last Supper. Our host – a middle-aged monk – apologized that not all seven Franciscans normally resident there could be present; two of them – men in their late 80s – had recently been moved to hospital for elder care, he said. Nevertheless a younger 70-ish Brother Dominic bid us welcome.
“We are brothers of prayer,” he said. “But we welcome you here to St. Michael’s, your home away from home.”