Post by DavidMc on Dec 5, 2007 3:21:48 GMT -6
The Scent of Roses (Memoirs of a friend)
My best friend Stephen Taylor was twenty seven when he entered the Monastery of St Benidict. It came as a huge shock to everyone. If I were to draw a profile of the least likely person to become a monk. Stephen would have fitted that profile exactly. An inveterate drinker and womaniser, Stephen lived life to the full and sometimes teetered on the edge. Tomorrow could ‘go hang’ as far as he was concerned Today was what mattered and he would cram every sensual experience known to Man into those twenty four hours.
But now here he was, my best friend, the boy I had known since schooldays. Here he was, standing in front of me, dressed in a brown cassock; a large crucifix hanging around his neck. An enigmatic smile on his lips as if he, and he alone, was party to some huge joke.
As a joke. Well that’s certainly how his family had taken it.
“It’s just a phase, you know what our Stevies like, he’ll try anything once.” That had been his mother’s reaction on hearing the news. “He’ll be out of there in a fortnight, just mark my words.”
Over a Month later ‘Stevie’ was still in, which was why I was seconded to pay him a visit. “If anyone can talk some sense into him you can Edwin.”
Now standing in front of him I wasn’t so sure.
“It’s the big kick off next Saturday” I offered cheerily, Stephen and I were big United fans and we rarely missed a home match “Home to Chelsea, should be a cracker.”
Stephen looked at me, or was it through me I couldn’t tell.
“You know, that’s where it started… at a game… We were trailing 2-1 to Liverpool and I remember looking around at the faces. The frustration and anger on the faces, and I remember thinking. None of this is real. The game the players the spectators it’s all an illusion…”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Here was my best friend rebel rouser turned mystic. The boy I used to go shoplifting in Woolworth’s with.
“Lighten up Steve” I offered lamely. The truth was I felt way out of my depth here. Religion had never registered on my radar. I wouldn’t go so far to say I was an atheist. I’d just never thought about any of it since my first communion when I was seven.
“You see Edwin, the good Lord has taken the scales from my eyes, and for the first time in my life I can truly see. I now know what my life purpose is to be. It is to remain here in a state of prayer and contemplation. Here I can do God’s will.”
I left Stephen standing in the rose garden. On the bus back into the City I rode with a troubled heart. I had lost my friend to a force that I could not understand and now I felt he was a stranger to me.
All this happened sixteen years ago but as I write these recollections in my memoirs the memory of that day is still fresh in my mind and I Imagine I can still smell the scent of the roses.
After five years had passed I received a letter from Stephen. He was still in the Monastery and happier than ever. By that time I had married, and Mary was pregnant with our first child. My Political career had also begun to take off, and I had recently been elected as the Honourable member for Stoke Newington West. Stephen and I had inevitably drifted apart but it was still wonderful to receive his letter nonetheless.
Sadly Stephen’s Mother had passed away the previous year, and I believe she died a troubled and perplexed Woman. Never understanding why her only child had been taken from her.
Stephens’s letter was full of biblical references, and talked of such things as ‘living in a power station of prayer’ concepts which I frankly dismissed as nonsense. I was too much a man of the world to be seduced by such language. I wrote back a missive full of details of the ‘joys of domestic life’ and secretly I had often wondered how a man so steeped in the pleasures of the flesh, could suddenly embrace a life of celibacy. It was a mystery among many. In retrospect my own reply reads as a hollow and inconsequential document of a troubled soul.
For the next eleven years Stephen and I had no contact whatsoever, and sadly I regret to say, I seldom thought of my friend at all.
Then in August of last year I received a phone call from the Abbot of St benedict’s monastery. The Abbot informed me that Stephen was in the advanced stages of bone cancer and was very near to death Stephen had been asking for me. Could I come immediately?
How could I refuse? By then I was a Minister of State and was expected to attend a very important Parliamentary debate in the House. But there are some summonses in life that you cannot refuse, and so as I had done sixteen years earlier I made the trip to St benedicts Abbey, only this time it was in a chauffeur driven car.
The years had not been kind to my friend and I found his appearance deeply upsetting. He looked extremely frail, but there was a fire still burning in his eyes and his voice resonated with power and conviction. He was then in a wheelchair with a shawl wrapped around his legs. It was a beautiful summer day and we sat together in the rose garden as we had done all those years before.
“My dear friend!” he grasped my wrist powerfully “it is so good to see you.”
“I hear you’ve taken up your old habits again!” I tried to make a joke of what was clearly a terrible situation. I was dying inside seeing him like this.
Stephen laughed dryly. “I wanted you to be a witness to my happiness! I am about to meet my creator, and I wanted you to know he loves you!”
He talked in this vein for the next five minutes, articulating his faith with moving conviction but then suddenly a deep weariness came over him. He looked into my eyes and gasped. “thank you for coming”
I was stunned. Whatever I thought I expected it wasn’t this. Stephen had remained an enigma to me until the end. I held his hand tightly and closed my eyes. I felt the dam of my heart burst and the scent of the roses filled my nostrils as Stephen finally passed away.
On the drive back into the City I was enveloped in a deep feeling of peace. Strangely I felt no grief or sense of loss. It were as though something sacred had passed between us in the Rose garden.
I am a rational and logical man not easily given over to flights of fancy, but as the days passed I knew I was no longer the same person, and I also knew that my days in politics were numbered. To do what? I did not know.
Now as I conclude this memoir of my dear friend Steven Taylor I have finally given myself up in to the arms of destiny. Where it will lead I do not know, I know only I must follow and conclude a journey that unknown to me began in a Monastery Rose Garden sixteen years before.
David McConville
My best friend Stephen Taylor was twenty seven when he entered the Monastery of St Benidict. It came as a huge shock to everyone. If I were to draw a profile of the least likely person to become a monk. Stephen would have fitted that profile exactly. An inveterate drinker and womaniser, Stephen lived life to the full and sometimes teetered on the edge. Tomorrow could ‘go hang’ as far as he was concerned Today was what mattered and he would cram every sensual experience known to Man into those twenty four hours.
But now here he was, my best friend, the boy I had known since schooldays. Here he was, standing in front of me, dressed in a brown cassock; a large crucifix hanging around his neck. An enigmatic smile on his lips as if he, and he alone, was party to some huge joke.
As a joke. Well that’s certainly how his family had taken it.
“It’s just a phase, you know what our Stevies like, he’ll try anything once.” That had been his mother’s reaction on hearing the news. “He’ll be out of there in a fortnight, just mark my words.”
Over a Month later ‘Stevie’ was still in, which was why I was seconded to pay him a visit. “If anyone can talk some sense into him you can Edwin.”
Now standing in front of him I wasn’t so sure.
“It’s the big kick off next Saturday” I offered cheerily, Stephen and I were big United fans and we rarely missed a home match “Home to Chelsea, should be a cracker.”
Stephen looked at me, or was it through me I couldn’t tell.
“You know, that’s where it started… at a game… We were trailing 2-1 to Liverpool and I remember looking around at the faces. The frustration and anger on the faces, and I remember thinking. None of this is real. The game the players the spectators it’s all an illusion…”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Here was my best friend rebel rouser turned mystic. The boy I used to go shoplifting in Woolworth’s with.
“Lighten up Steve” I offered lamely. The truth was I felt way out of my depth here. Religion had never registered on my radar. I wouldn’t go so far to say I was an atheist. I’d just never thought about any of it since my first communion when I was seven.
“You see Edwin, the good Lord has taken the scales from my eyes, and for the first time in my life I can truly see. I now know what my life purpose is to be. It is to remain here in a state of prayer and contemplation. Here I can do God’s will.”
I left Stephen standing in the rose garden. On the bus back into the City I rode with a troubled heart. I had lost my friend to a force that I could not understand and now I felt he was a stranger to me.
All this happened sixteen years ago but as I write these recollections in my memoirs the memory of that day is still fresh in my mind and I Imagine I can still smell the scent of the roses.
After five years had passed I received a letter from Stephen. He was still in the Monastery and happier than ever. By that time I had married, and Mary was pregnant with our first child. My Political career had also begun to take off, and I had recently been elected as the Honourable member for Stoke Newington West. Stephen and I had inevitably drifted apart but it was still wonderful to receive his letter nonetheless.
Sadly Stephen’s Mother had passed away the previous year, and I believe she died a troubled and perplexed Woman. Never understanding why her only child had been taken from her.
Stephens’s letter was full of biblical references, and talked of such things as ‘living in a power station of prayer’ concepts which I frankly dismissed as nonsense. I was too much a man of the world to be seduced by such language. I wrote back a missive full of details of the ‘joys of domestic life’ and secretly I had often wondered how a man so steeped in the pleasures of the flesh, could suddenly embrace a life of celibacy. It was a mystery among many. In retrospect my own reply reads as a hollow and inconsequential document of a troubled soul.
For the next eleven years Stephen and I had no contact whatsoever, and sadly I regret to say, I seldom thought of my friend at all.
Then in August of last year I received a phone call from the Abbot of St benedict’s monastery. The Abbot informed me that Stephen was in the advanced stages of bone cancer and was very near to death Stephen had been asking for me. Could I come immediately?
How could I refuse? By then I was a Minister of State and was expected to attend a very important Parliamentary debate in the House. But there are some summonses in life that you cannot refuse, and so as I had done sixteen years earlier I made the trip to St benedicts Abbey, only this time it was in a chauffeur driven car.
The years had not been kind to my friend and I found his appearance deeply upsetting. He looked extremely frail, but there was a fire still burning in his eyes and his voice resonated with power and conviction. He was then in a wheelchair with a shawl wrapped around his legs. It was a beautiful summer day and we sat together in the rose garden as we had done all those years before.
“My dear friend!” he grasped my wrist powerfully “it is so good to see you.”
“I hear you’ve taken up your old habits again!” I tried to make a joke of what was clearly a terrible situation. I was dying inside seeing him like this.
Stephen laughed dryly. “I wanted you to be a witness to my happiness! I am about to meet my creator, and I wanted you to know he loves you!”
He talked in this vein for the next five minutes, articulating his faith with moving conviction but then suddenly a deep weariness came over him. He looked into my eyes and gasped. “thank you for coming”
I was stunned. Whatever I thought I expected it wasn’t this. Stephen had remained an enigma to me until the end. I held his hand tightly and closed my eyes. I felt the dam of my heart burst and the scent of the roses filled my nostrils as Stephen finally passed away.
On the drive back into the City I was enveloped in a deep feeling of peace. Strangely I felt no grief or sense of loss. It were as though something sacred had passed between us in the Rose garden.
I am a rational and logical man not easily given over to flights of fancy, but as the days passed I knew I was no longer the same person, and I also knew that my days in politics were numbered. To do what? I did not know.
Now as I conclude this memoir of my dear friend Steven Taylor I have finally given myself up in to the arms of destiny. Where it will lead I do not know, I know only I must follow and conclude a journey that unknown to me began in a Monastery Rose Garden sixteen years before.
David McConville
