This week I made a silent retreat at the Jesuit Spirituality Center at St. Charles College, in Grand Coteau, Louisiana. The inner working of my mind and spirit during those days is a subject reserved for me, my amazing director and God. However, it is, for me, impossible to not write about the place. I have visited before, on several occasions; once to make a longer retreat, and once to visit my friend and mentor Fr. Tom. It is difficult to spend time on the grounds there and not be deeply affected in some almost indescribable way—so affected that I am moved to express it.
There is something quite evocative about the College setting and the small town. It’s as if one is actually transported back in time 100 or 150 years. The surrounding stillness and silence are pierced only occasionally by the deep lowing of a big black cow from the neighboring farm, or by the unified song of the multitudes of cicadas joining with the crickets in the evenings. I smile, recalling the warnings of my northern friends that the sound of cicadas signals the arrival of the first frost in six weeks. Sitting here in front of the college at the end of July, I somehow think not…at least not here.
As I wander around the property, I see old buildings with peeling paint and random farm equipment whose purpose escapes me. The grounds are guarded by countless magnificent old giants: enormous oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Who knows how many years they have stood as sentinels? And, towards the back stand two gigantic oaks, keeping watch over the cemetery, where graves reach back to the early 19th and possibly even 18th century. Strolling through, I note that some markers are so old as to be illegible; however, many are inscribed, in French, and carry old, noble names such as Boudreaux, Gautier and Broussard.
The building of the college is a relic of time gone by, with a somewhat institutional feel; yet, absent the sterility, and, somehow, much more welcoming. There is a certain, indefinable scent to the place—musty, but not in a bad way. Passing through the building, I imagine I can sense the presence of non-threatening ghosts haunting the corridors. One cannot help but think and reflect upon all of the people who walked these halls, in meditation and prayer and study. My own cousin, a Jesuit priest, was most certainly here, and so I feel an even deeper connection to the place.
Out back, behind the college in the simple Jesuit cemetery with unadorned headstones, I discovered, sadly, the names of men I had known from my days at Loyola: Fagot, Rivet, Clancy and Montecino. After discovering the fourth name I recognized, I ceased looking. They paved the way for a new, younger generation of novices who will pass through here, searching their hearts and souls in an attempt to determine if God is calling them to follow down this path, which goes through Grand Coteau. I know such a young man, who will be entering in the fall. May God bless him.
On my final evening here, I sit out on the front porch of the College in a rocking chair. As my decaying hips throb in pain, I wonder to myself, somewhat jokingly, if this is what it’s like to be in an old folk’s home, rocking away, out in the quiet country, and wishing I had a younger body. The humidity is unbelievably thick and heavy in the air, as is typical for a midsummer’s eve in Louisiana. I never, ever minded Louisiana summers. There is something wistful about the near oppressive heat and humidity and dampness of the place that causes one to be strangely content and at peace. The climate is indelibly tied up with the slow and unique culture of the Deep South. Great southern authors have been able to describe it in ways that allow the imagination to see and feel it. I, however, cannot. But the heat and dampness, and the faint scent of decay remind me of magical days gone by, spent with my family and friends long ago here in this state.
But, oh, the insects. I had forgotten that they are as ubiquitous and omnipresent as the God that created them. I am afraid I never quite learned to appreciate them and they are everywhere: spiders falling in your hair (or out of your hair), and cockroaches the size of jumbo jets roaming the hallways and the sidewalks. The other day, I was stung by a bee on my arm while swimming in the huge pool. And, this evening, thoroughly doused in deet, I still feel the dastardly mosquito critters alighting on my arms, legs, ears, fingers and face—on any spot that I may have missed spraying. Their bites leave large, itchy welts to remind me of my time here. All part of God’s creation. When Fr. Tom suggested I see God in nature, I wonder, was he talking about this?
As I leave, I will carry with me prayers: prayers for those who will pass through on silent retreat in the Ignatian style, in search of a deeper understanding of the great Mystery of life. I pray for the novices who begin their journey here as Jesuits. I pray for those wonderful Jesuit priests and brothers who have gone on to a greater reward for service well done. And, most of all, I carry prayers for the great and gentle priests who remain at St. Charles college, serving their God by serving us all. Ad majorem dei gloriam.
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