Seeking Grace at the Chapel of Bethlehem
As our life story unfolds, a dawning moment may come that awakens a need to find sanctuary in silence. We yearn for a quiet place to hear all that our heart wants to say and surrender its contents to the Divine.
My own search emerged with the painful loss of my beloved parents. The mother I so preciously love died just months after the passing of my dear father.
Words fail to describe the way my heart grieves in the void of their absence. They were like a beautiful waterfall, a cascade of faith, hope and love anchoring my life.
Grief of this kind is no stranger. My sweet brother James did not get to live past 26 years. He was killed in the 9-11 attacks two weeks on a new job as an apprentice for the Local IBEW. As smoke and fire billowed from the World Trade Center, I managed to get through to him three times, though only for a moment. My parents lost their son on that terrible day, and we lost our brother.
The human heart was made for love, not to endure this kind of pain.
God tells us: “I will allure you; I will lead you into the desert and speak to your heart…” (Hosea 2:16). If God says He speaks in a desert, then I take Him at his Word. Feeling the enormity of the loss of my family members, I began to look for a haven to mourn them in silence.
I wanted to pray the way Jesus prays.
“And rising up long before daybreak, He went out and departed into a desert place, and there He prayed.” – Mark 1:35
The Monastery of Bethlehem of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary and St. Bruno in Livingston, New York was the answer to my prayer. After reading about their silent retreat experience, I reserved a stay for just under a week. The sisters shared the essentials to bring, and I took a vow to observe the strict rule of silence.
It was here, inside this cloistered haven hidden in the Catskills Mountains, where healing began to take on a sensible form that I could recognize. My journey began on a breezy June morning. I packed a week’s supply of protein bars, plenty of water bottles, a flashlight, battery powered candles and a picture of my parents and brother James. An icon of the Blessed Virgin Mary and another of St. Charbel (a gift from my father) stayed at my side.
After driving a little more than 2.5 hours, a tall gate made of stacked stones holding a figure of the Virgin Mary welcomed my arrival.
I followed the trail leading into the heart of the Monastery grounds and parked my car just beyond the chapel. A young deer made a delightful appearance and stayed with me just a little while.
The chapel was dark brown with a heavy gothic-style door serving as its entrance. Its circular arch and medi-evil iron hardware were memorable features. Its interior was constructed from large Byzantine stones. Each creamy colored block was meticulously cut and precisely arranged along the curving architecture.
I was entering a holy place where God has existed since antiquity.
Keeping to the instructions, I used a push button phone to excitedly call the sisters and confirm next steps.
“Thank you sister – I am here and look forward to meeting you,” I said. Within minutes, a Bethlehem sister came down to greet me. Originally from Ireland, she was tall, with a beautiful face and eyes colored ocean blue. Her clothing consisted of a long white robe revealing only her feet, and a blue wrap covered her head. She walked with strength and grace. It was astounding to later learn that this devoted sister was cloistered for over thirty-five years. Warmly, she led me further inside to view the heart of the main chapel.
It was breathtaking.
The small altar stood directly centered under a high arched dome made of marbleized stone. Rublev’s image of the Blessed Trinity was intricately carved into the curved stone wall up high overlooking the holy sanctuary. Rays of light beamed through several arched windows that drew my eyes upward toward the divine. Each pointing to a golden dove with outstretched wings moving as if it was descending upon the Holy Table. I knelt filled with awe at the Transcendent glory.
Moving into a Hermitage
The hermitage assigned for my stay was devoted to St. Anthony. It was nestled in a corner of the forest with a happy porch ready to share the beautiful view of the Hudson River with its guest. Sister showed me the inner workings of this gentle place made of wood. A simple bed lay under a large Crucifix. It rested alongside a window perfectly placed to catch the sun’s movements over the earth.
Oratory for Prayer
A small kitchenette with a mini refrigerator made it easy to keep snacks, water bottles and Bethlehem cooked meals a little frosty. The space upstairs was the oratory for prayer. The walls held ancient icons of Christ and the Mother of God. I placed the pictures of my mother, father and James on the table standing below the sacred images. Looking at their faces, I thought of all the people before me who rested pictures of their loved ones in the same place. God has them all.
After I was settled, Sister shared the schedule of the liturgy celebrated each day in the main chapel. It includes Matins (6:45am), Mass (7:40am), and Vespers in the evening (5:45pm). She was excited to know that I would be joining the sisters’ march in celebration of the Feast of Corpus Christi later that week. Little did I know how God was taking hold of my invisible wounds.
The Horarium – Prayerful Listening
I rose early the next morning excited to participate in the day’s liturgy. Taking a 20-minute walk along the trail back to the chapel felt wonderful. I took only my icon of St. Charbel and rosary. There were no sounds amid the forest but chirping birds delightfully greeting the day. The trees looked cheerful and damp with morning dew. A narrow brook cantered downhill, allowing the partially exposed stones to glisten in the sunshine.
Bethlehem’s natural surrounding is so beautiful. I whispered words of joyful praise to God for the beauty of his created world. The hymn “Canticle of the Sun” written by St. Francis of Assisi entered my morning offering. “Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor and all blessings …” We must give to the Lord what is due. As the Psalmist proclaims, “He spoke, and it came to be. He commanded; and it sprang into being.”
A View of the Chapel
Arriving at the chapel, I followed winding steps leading up to the congregation pew area. Only the cloistered sisters and priest celebrant entered the heart of the inner chapel. As I marveled at the sublime beauty of the Virgin Mary, I slowly took notice of an ancient image resting on a tall table placed at our Lady’s side. Looking closer, I was amazed to see that it was an icon of St. Charbel and identical to the one given to me by my father.
Looking at the sacred image of the Virgin Mary together with St. Charbel, remembrance of my parents’ unwavering devotion to La Virgen Dolorosa took on new spiritual meaning.
Tears filled my eyes as I felt a spiritual union with my parents through St. Charbel in that moment. Deep in thought, I slowly looked up to find a Bethlehem sister at my side. I do not know how long she had been standing there. Speaking only French, she quickly placed a missal into my hands while pointing to the morning readings. I whispered, “Sister would you like me to do the reading?” With a wide smile, she vigorously cupped her hands around mine. As she did, her attention was drawn down to the icon of St. Charbel now placed at my side. Her eyebrows arched into an eloquent question, and she gave me the most quizzical look. Though no words were spoken, her face illumined great intrigue. “My father loved St. Charbel sister,” I whispered softly, hoping she understood.
Matins – Angelic Voices Sing
Matins began with the sisters singing the opening prayers. The raw beauty of their angelic voices needed no instruments to fill the chapel with a heavenly sound. Wearing a white robe and a thick rosary rope wrapped around their waist, I watched the sisters adoringly pray for the needs of the whole world at the foot of the Cross. Singing psalms, they took turns swinging incense burners (thurible) suspended by long chains to spread the fragrant smoke over the sanctuary.
Without question, the monastic sisters keep alive a living vision of the way early Christians worshipped. Every gaze held total devotion to God with offerings of prayer and thanksgiving.
I stayed awhile in the chapel after the mass ended. It was serene and comforting to remain within its stillness, praying for wisdom of heart amid flickering candles. It was Christ’s call that led me to this sanctuary of beauty. My heart yearned to prayerfully listen for Him alone. “Here I am Lord, I am here…”
Slowly, my thoughts turned to focus on the next part of the day. Taking an exploratory hike within the monastery grounds felt perfect. Upon leaving, I ran into the chapel priest Fr. Michael. He was tall, with kind eyes and spoke with a heavy Irish accent. After introductions, we briefly chatted about the monastery’s long history and the liturgy schedule ahead.
Father Michael suddenly noticed the icon of St. Charbel I carried to the mass. He also spiritedly asked how I came to know the blessed saint. Smiling, I shared that it was my father who introduced me to the blessed hermit. Pondering this a few moments, the gentle priest asked if I could stay a little longer. “Sure, I will wait right here for you,” I said.
To my astonishment, he returned carrying a sacred bone fragment belonging to St. Charbel. The holy relic was used for special blessings. Quite emotional, I closed my eyes as Father Michael rested the holy relic against my forehead. He prayed an ancient blessing for me and the souls of all my loved ones. I was filled with indescribable serenity as I listened to the beautiful words.
In truth, I believe that my parents and James helped to bring about the grace of this miraculous blessing. It was as if my chance encounter with Fr. Michael was moved by Divine will. Our paths crossed at precisely the same time. One soul seeking grace and the other ready to serve as its vessel.
Inside the Hermitage at Night
The moon at night looked like a little jewel. It shimmered its silvery light over the darkest sky I have ever seen. My routine within the hermitage at night included turning on all the (battery powered) candles, reading Scripture and capturing the day’s memories in my journal. One night, a terrific thunderstorm roused the forest a few hours after I returned from Vespers. Getting into bed, I drew the soft blue blanket tight, placing the candles closer to my family pictures and quietly listened to the booming rain.
My eyes and heart slowly began to rest on my mother’s sweet face. I thought about her courageous strength and what it took to give her body over to three years of dialysis treatments. Her small frame had already carried seven children into the world. And her heart took in the devastating blow of losing a son (James) on September 11, 2001. When a mother loses a child, the pain never stops pounding. It was the strength of my mother’s embrace that I longed for the most that night.
I woke the next morning just as the sun was rising. The horizon was hemmed in by a fiery orange color bursting with brilliant speckles of yellowish gold swirling upwards for miles in every direction. I could not help but keep still and let this once in a lifetime view of the sky leave a permanent imprint on my memory. Starting to feel hungry, I threw on my boots and headed for the monastery “Welcome” house.
Each day, the sisters put out a large bowl filled with delicious fruit. On arrival, I noticed that a key to another hermitage lay waiting on the table for a new visitor. As done for my stay, only the visitor’s first name was written on the key tag. The key was also securely linked to a wooden block “key chain” too big to lose. By coincidence, I noticed that the hermitage nearest mine had been assigned to the new visitor. “I am so happy to have a neighbor after that rainstorm,” I thought to myself.
With a green apple in hand, I started to head back to the chapel so as not to be late for morning Matins. For some unknown reason, my attention was drawn back to look more closely at the name of the arriving guest. Curious, I gave the wooden chain a pinky poke to uncover what was written on the tag. There in scripted letters was the beautiful name of my mother.
Among the countless number of names possible, it was my own mother’s name that I whispered softly to myself. Immersing my heart into this moment of grace, I gratefully received the physical presence of her name as a sign of God’s promise that she was always with me.
The Feast of Corpus Christi
The Life Giving Bread and Wine
A special celebration of the mass and processional march was planned on the Feast of Corpus Christi. It is a Catholic holy day that celebrates the Eucharist and the belief in the Real Presence of Jesus Christ in the consecrated bread and wine.
The use of unleavened (and leavened) bread in the holy Eucharist is one of Christianity’s oldest rites. The word Eucharist is derived from the Greek word Eucharistia, which means thanksgiving. It is the way we as believers in Christ the “Lamb of God” personally receive his Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity in the celebration of the mass. In the Latin Tradition, unleavened bread (containing only wheat grain and water) is used because that is what Jesus used in the Last Supper. Leavened bread is used in the Eastern Orthodox Tradition.
“I am the bread of life. Your ancestors ate the manna in the desert, but they have died; this is the bread that comes down from heaven so that one may eat it and not die. I am the living bread that came down from heaven; whoever eats this bread will live forever.”
During the Communion Rite of the mass, I gathered with a few other members just outside of the main chapel to receive the Blessed Sacrament. The hall was darkened by moving puffy clouds blocking the sun’s light. Hence, stepping forward to receive the blessed sacrament, I could barely see the figure of Father Michael. Only his raised hands holding the consecrated Host were clearly visible.
For the very first time, I received the Eucharist in the form of leavened bread also dipped in consecrated wine. As Pope Saint John Paul II teaches, I was united with the Eastern “lung” of the Catholic church in receiving Christ.
It was a profoundly beautiful experience. In celebration of the Feast of the Corpus Christi, a Eucharistic procession followed the mass and led by the Bethlehem sisters. Father Michael carried the consecrated Host in a majestic monstrance. The candle-lit march was a visible demonstration of faith in Christ’s real Presence in the Eucharist. Lay members were invited to toss rose petals while singing hymns of adoration and prayers. The day was glorious, and my soul was left spiritually filled as if partaking in a heavenly banquet.
Watch a shortcut of the procession here:
1.https://youtube.com/shorts/KPJ11RvXK38?si=8fzFWV81mGEpUmEa
Saying Good-Bye to Bethlehem Monastery
Time at the Monastery moved like grains of sand quickly slipping through my fingers. On the evening of my last day, I had the blessed chance to meet with the Bethlehem sister who guided my retreat. As life is not random, the gift of her time felt like a divine appointment. Her gentle and knowing spirit provided the tenderness I set out to find.
Sister and I sat together in a small room nearest the chapel entrance. She was fully present, and eager to hear my story. I began by sharing my family’s loss of James on September 11th and the long suffering my parents endured. Finding the stillness within the hermitage walls, I was able to freely exhale the profound sorrow my heart carried for so long – entrusting it all to God. All the cherished memories of my parents and James now felt like a beautiful dream that came to a sudden end. God hears my prayers of thanksgiving for the gift of these blessed souls.
Mourning the Un-lived Years with James
And weaved within my profound gratitude, I mourn equally for the “un-lived” seasons of our lives together. I sought God’s merciful remembrance of the unseen years to walk alongside my brother James and the chance to love all that he was to become. That path of life was brutally taken away. Tearfully, I lamented the years ahead without the light of my parents’ wisdom filling my cup and an unchanging love always within reach.
Remember them O’ Lord – in your loving kindness…remember them!
This was my prayer – that God would remember them.
And seeking the Lord’s grace – remember us who still mourn.
Sister’s eyes were filled with compassion. We sat several moments without uttering a word. With her soft voice, she lovingly said, “As Christ’s wounds are glorified in heaven, James’ wounds are also glorified. Your parents are in God’s eternal rest receiving everything promised to those who stay faithful in the face of suffering.”
I felt so blessed to know that she would bring my family’s story back to the Monastery so that all the sisters could pray for us.
As our visit soon came to a tearful end, I thanked sister with a heart of love for everything I had the chance to experience during my stay. I would leave the Monastery not as I had arrived, but bearing new marks of faith and trust in God’s timing. He is our Anchor of hope.
“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. I will not leave you or forsake you. I will be with you until the end of the age.”
Jesus, may our lives be perfectly aligned with your will.
Seeking your Grace – I trust in You.
Visit the Monastery of Bethlehem for more information.