Sunday, November 21. The Best Afterglow. The day began with scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, and grits. We're in the home stretch of the series of eleven talks given by the retreat master. They made little impact on me this year. I finished reading Boundaries In Marriage, wrote a check to Manresa, and went for a final walk to the edge of the Mississippi River. I found a comfortable rock to sit on, and watched the busy barge traffic go by for a half-hour. It always makes me feel good to do this, as full of symbolism as it is. (It also fires off memories of times in my early teens, when I lived three doors from the levee and spent a lot of time on the river's bank.)
Just before Mass and lunch, a car hit a gas pipe on the road in front of Manresa, and it was blowing with a loud hiss. "There is no immediate danger," said the priest from the altar. "However, there is remote danger." This is as good a bit of valedictory advice as I can imagine.
It is my duty as the guy who leads grace before meals to officially end the silent period of the retreat, and thereby trigger an outburst of congratulations among our 117 men. Spicy roast chicken, dirty rice, peas, ice cream. Pack the bags, bring them to the car. Snip a few satsumas and oranges from the small grove near the parking area. Drive away with a heart bursting with optimism and wistfulness.
After every one of my twenty-five past retreats, those feelings made me drive far upriver--sometimes to Baton Rouge--before turning for home. Today I took the shortest route back. I wanted to see and hug my wife as soon as possible, and get to work on the new program with her. I guess I got something out of reading that book.
