What Tina asked the brothers of St Alcuins about vocation and glad service.

 In the comment section to the last blog post, Tina said: “My question is about vocation. As one ages, there is that space between vigorous service and death. It seems as though in St. Alcuins there is such a wonderful attention to where people would best fit, where their service and their joy come together, like Conradus in the kitchen. I am wondering how to take some of the wisdom of that and apply it to my current season. Of course, I'm not in the more insular world of a monastery, so how to find that appropriate place of service and joy in the broader world at my stage of living? What principles or insights are practiced there that are applicable here?”

She didn’t say who at St Alcuins she wanted to ask about this, so I started off with Abbot John. 

When I finally ran him to earth — he was crossing the abbey court from the guest house to the abbot’s lodging — I have to say he was looking somewhat harassed. I’d written down what Tina had said, and I showed it to him. He scanned it quickly, frowning, then ran his hand over his head as he handed it back to me, saying, “Oh, glory, I don’t know! We just  . . . er . . . just do what we think is best. I mean, basically we just send people where there aren’t enough hands for the work that needs doing.”

He looks at me. Then he says: “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s not good enough is it. I expect your friend was hoping for an intelligent answer. It’s just . . . well . . . I’m rather pushed today. I’m sorry. Tell you what — how about you ask Theo?”

This seemed sensible to me; after all, if anyone’s spending time mulling over questions of vocation, it’s likely to be the novice master. So, having been given permission by Father John, I went into the abbey buildings and up the day stairs to the novitiate. I should probably explain that they are used to me being around. There’s quite a big gap between the fourteenth century and the twenty-first, and they don’t exactly see me physically, but they do see me. They call me the little ghost, and it doesn’t surprise them any more when I turn up. When they come here to the twenty-first century, they travel by the Earth paths that join up one layer of time with another. For some of them it’s an effort and they fade out before we finish talking, but some of them can stay here for ages. But on this occasion I was there. Obviously there is no place for a woman roaming around their monastic enclosure, but it’s different with a ghost.

As I reached the top of the day stairs, one of their novices — Brother Ignatius — came out of the room where Brother James makes robes; he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. I don’t think he’s seen me before. He blinked. “Hello,” he said. “Can I help you?”

“Is Father Theodore teaching just now?” I asked him. He nodded. He seemed a bit nervous. I don’t know quite how I look to them, but they wouldn’t call me the little ghost if I didn’t look ghostly, would they? 

“Then can you take him this message?” I asked. 

Still rather uncertain, he reached out his hand. I wondered if my piece of paper would even cross into the fourteenth century, but it did. He looked down at my handwriting, and then felt the paper carefully between his first two fingers and his thumb, turned it over and stroked the surface of the paper. Then he said he’d give it to Father Theodore. And I said thank you, and that I didn’t want to disturb their lesson, and I’d come back another time to see what Father Theodore had to say.

Brother Ignatius looked at me as if — well, as if he’d seen a ghost. “He . . . Who shall I say gave me this?” he asked. “Does Father Theodore know you?”

“Yes, he does,” I assured him. “Tell him it was from the little ghost. He’ll know who you mean.”

So he nodded, and went on his way to the novitiate, just looking back once to see if I was still there.

After that I wasn’t sure what to do, especially as I didn’t have the question written down any more. I turned round and went back down the day stairs. But I wanted to go to the infirmary, because I love it there, so I headed in that direction. And sitting on the bench under the cherry tree in the infirmary garden, there was Father William. Now, he didn’t look a bit surprised to see me. “Oh, hello,” he said: “It’s you.” (And how right he was.) “Nice to see you. Did you want something. Were you looking for me?”

So I told him what I could remember about Tina’s question, which was how an older person who doesn’t live in a monastery could slot into place in her own circumstances, finding ways to make a real contribution that would be a glad service at the same time as fulfilling for herself. What would be, I asked him, her equivalent of finding the right obedience?

And he said, “Are you going to sit down?” So I sat beside him on the bench while he thought about it. 

Then he said, “It’s not entirely about jobs that need doing — though of course somebody has to, so it might as well be yourself, on any given day. In terms of the context she’s in, I’d say to look for what isn’t there — and keep that not too specific. So, not to ask yourself if someone’s needed to compose music or stitch a set of vestments or make some church incense; because the first thing that would happen is you’d simply say that’s too difficult or you don’t know how. But stay a bit more abstract. Ask yourself, is kindness missing here? Are these people competent but desperate for money? Do they lack someone to take time to listen to them? Is this place cluttered and disorganised because nobody’s taking care of it? And it's enjoyable finding a creative way to bring what's needed into reality. In my case, of course, the question is usually ‘How about the accounts? Are they up to date and properly ordered?’ Usually the answer to that one is, 'No, they’re not’. Other than that, anyway, what I have to offer, and indeed even my actual presence, is as often as not unwelcome. Though Brother Michael was kind in making a place for me here. So you just fill the gap according to whatever skills you have, you do your best. In reality, much of the time people simply need someone to help with the washing up or close the gate so the cows don’t wander off, not very difficult things.

“But if you just leave it at that, looking for gaps to fill, it can all get unbearably tedious quicker than you’d ever thought possible. Everyone else would be fine, but she’d be a drudge and seriously out of pocket. So then the question is, what are you good at? What kindles your heart? And if you look at your life as it’s unfolded, generally there are consistent themes. 

“Sometimes I’ve thought even if I was nearly dead, I’d be able to check the ledgers and leave the accounts in good order, one last time. It pleases, me.  Same, even if Theodore had forgotten his own name he’d be able to talk to you about transubstantiation and the theories of the Atonement. It’s in his blood, you know?

“And I would say this, too. If there’s something you don’t like doing — whether that’s cooking or tending the sick or whatever it might be — well, then, do it if the situation absolutely demands it, but otherwise let it go. Life is short, you know? Do what makes your heart sing.”

Then he stopped, and looked at me. “Any use?” he said.

“I can’t be sure,” I said, “but I’ll tell her.”

“This isn’t your friend Rachel who had a hard time imagining me blowing her a kiss?” he asked; and I said, “No, this is someone different. This is Tina. She speaks French and she loves music. She’s very warmhearted, the type of person who makes the house she lives in homely and friendly. She’s full of laughter, but very thoughtful too. An honest person. She sort of gathers people around her without even really meaning to. She’s kind.”

William nodded. “Should be more of those in he world,” he said. “Well, say hello to her from me.”

I told him I’d left the same question with Father Theodore. “Oh yes, that makes sense,” he said. “Good. Anything he has to say will be a lot more elevated than my mundane outlook on life.”

I wanted to tell him that his point of view is always shrewd, always worth hearing — but it’s hard staying in a different dimension. I realised I’d run out of staying power; I just faded out before I could say what I wanted. So that was the end of our conversation.

I’m not quite sure how or when Father Theodore will get back to me, but I’m confident he will. I’ll let you know what he says.