I worshipped at the Abbey again today. We sang a Charles Wesley hymn; both sides of the aisle would be shocked at the similarities in worship: the Lord's Prayer, Prayer of Confession, the Nicene Creed, Prayer of the People, the hymns. We dicker in periphery not core issues.
I love my spiritual director; perhaps, I'm too comfortable with him. I admit to things that I shouldn't think let alone say. But, this makes talking with him helpful. Somehow the uncensored nature about my thought process allows me to talk about my spiritual life in a way that fills natural. It's easy to discuss with him my prayer life or lack there of. Am I doing devotions? I've answered all these questions bluntly.
We chatted about the sermon and service. He also told me that Sunday lunch was actually breakfast food. He explained to me the concept of brunch as if I would have difficulty grasping it; I am blonde. I felt my internal anthropologist turn on. It was fascinating to watch what the monks ate and their decision process. I teased one monk about his intricate "pancake ceremony". He chuckled and told me that it was important how one applied the condiments. It felt similar to visiting somebody at their house. As we ate, we chatted about his family, whom I feel as if I know. I told him about yesterday but left out the bucketloads of angst it filled me with.
I left the angst out because we were sitting at a table with the Abbott and his guest. I think my monk and the abbott had plotted to set the other guest and me up. Monks are such little old ladies sometimes. The guy was very polite and solemn. Apparently, he didn't approve of laughing on Rejoice Sunday. I'll talk to my Brother the next session about this shennanigan of his.
I gave him his Christmas present, which I think he'll enjoy thoroughly. We shall see.
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