Chosen.

Maine, May 2024. And here I sit with an annoying cold, trying to tell an old story with a brighter, new ending.

Vermont, 1956, at the end of that page on all the calendars that say September.

So there I was: the startling handsome juvenile and cast grump, plodding through a summer of comedy plays in Vermont, designed to get laughs from vacationers and retirees.

That summer, I had a reputation for being a jovial, devil-may-care bon vivant. In other words, an unhappy, sarcastic playboy.

It was that summer that something strange happened to me on a cloudy Sunday morning. On that morning, as readers with good memory must recall, a group of the actors dragged me out of bed, hangover and all, to join them up the road to the Weston Priory, run by The Benedictine Monks.

I agreed, only because Louise Winterhalter, the cute lighting apprentice for the summer (and devout Catholic), sat next to me at breakfast and read me the pamphlet as I chewed on a bagel and pretended to pay attention.

“Weston Priory,” she read, “is a Vermont Benedictine Monastery offering sanctuary, retreats, music, common prayer.”

So there we sat into the required communion, when the pieces of freshly baked bread were offered and she sent me to “go get it.”

As I kneeled there, and took the piece of bread in my mouth, a burst of sun dramatically broke through the clouds, through the stained glass window and illuminated this playboy in a pool of holy light.

My fellow actors, all Catholics (except for Sam Glassman) burst into applause. What could I do?

On the way back, I asked her, “Did you have the brothers arrange that?”

She smiled, “No, you were chosen.”

“But do they know I’m a nonbeliever?”

“No, you’re not. You’re just unhappy.”

That winter, I fell in love on the escalator in Bloomingdales in New York with She.

I told her about the moment and the light, and She rolled her eyes.

“Yes,” she smiled, “I guess you really were chosen.”

Oh no! I thought, “another Catholic.”

No. She was not just another Catholic, but THE chosen one. After pulling me into her “light” and rearranging my shattered life, She worked for a parade of years to sculpt me like a mound of marble, into something presentable.

Now, on this cloudy day only a month after She became (as She said she would say) a dancing presence in my empty rooms, She still whispers in my ear as I go out the door, “Don’t forget your keys, wallet and phone.”

Now I have a few questions.

I’ve been considering writing the good brothers at Weston Priory, who inhabit that magic place, and getting a form to fill out to become a member of that domain. Relax, it’s only a thought.

Also, I’ve asked my editors if it would be possible to write my column from a monastery. This is would be without the movie reviews, as I don’t imagine the brothers would have Hulu or Netflix available to them.

In order to save some time, I included pertinent information: I was an altar boy and know a little Latin.

I would need a cashmere robe, as your regular wool itches. And does it have to be gray? I am a 35 waist, so I would need a large robe belt. And is Polo underwear in color permitted? Something like that.

I can rake leaves and help in the kitchen. I cut and chop and stir well. And … I can rake leaves.

Yes, I was chosen. I hope I can stay that way.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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