89. Goodbye

The news that Agnes planned to walk out on us stunned me. How could anyone spend a year here, do nothing toward the goal of helping us to transition to new lives, and then just get up and leave?

“You’re leaving?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” said Agnes. “It’s a bit premature, of course, but my brother is failing quite rapidly and the Committee will allow me to come home to be with him. He lives near Fermoy, so I will be able to live at the Fermoy Chapter House. I’m afraid my brother William will not be long with us.”

“I am very sorry for you and your brother, of course,” I said, “but can’t the Committee send someone here in your place?”

“There is no one to send,” he replied. “Besides, I’ve spoken on your behalf to the Committee and they would like you to be the next Abbot.”

That was almost laughable. In fact, it was indeed laughable. I laughed out loud.

“Agnes, that would be the second time this year our tradition of electing an abbot was broken.”

“Then I will announce to the Brothers that you are the candidate preferred by their Order and I will ask your Brothers to elect you forthwith,” he said.

He did. They did. Agnes left the next morning. I took him to the Rhinecliff Station, where he began his trip back to Ireland. Driving over roads that had been snow covered the last time I was on them and probably right past the spot where I had spun off the road,

I took my ex-abbot to his train.  Strangely I was now his abbot.

“Will you wait for the train with me?” Agnes asked when we had removed his two suitcases from Lance’s van. I was angry  and had said not a word on our trip over. He had not tried to get me to talk.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Please,” said Agnes.

We walked into the old station and I found a seat among the ancient stripwood benches. Agnes purchased his ticket and then came to join me.

“I know you’re disappointed in me,” he began. “I did nothing to help. I hope someday you’ll understand.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Just that … well, I’ve been going through a great depression and I have hardly been able to even pray. And I wasn’t able to accomplish much.”

The train was announced over the loudspeaker and the few travelers in the small station stood.

He looked me in the eye and said, “I ask your forgiveness, Jesse.”

“Agnes,” I said, “you are a Brother and you are forgiven.” And just for a dramatic flourish, I added, “Now and forever.”

He looked away and said, “Not forever, I fear.” Picking up his bags he left me and headed down the stairs to the train.