The Whisper of the Salve

The whisper of the Salve Regina echoes in my heart, a distant memory of chant at the Benedictine Monastery.

…the January night sky glittered above with the sparkling of lighted stars. The long endless country road that dips and winds to the brothers’ abode. The moonlight shining on the silent fields creating snow crystals waiting to be gathered. And the silence, oh the silence beheld in those jasmine January nights.

Hastening my way up the steps, giving one final glance to the evening stars above, I attest to the quiet serene prayer the monks so willingly disperse. Wooden floors, bare walls, and one sanctuary candle burning incessantly, I take my place in the sanctuary, near the back hiding in the shadows.

Compline has begun. The chant of the monks echoes faithfully. I follow along in heart, not word, listening intently, souls united in harmony, united in truth.

The culmination, the height of it all for this poor soul strikes as one dispels the light and the darkness wraps her like an infant. A moment of silence. Or two moments go by, it does not matter. Waiting.

A flicker of light in the distance. Three distinct chimes ring out. The monks stand and turn to the image of Our Lady and begin their salutation of devotion.

…Salve Regina,
Mater misericordiae,
Vita, dulcedo
et spes nostra salve…

I quietly chant the age old hymn, gazing at the stained glass centered conspicuously in the brick walls of the sanctuary. My longing for this night of ritual, this evening filled with grace, this time of stillness, I venture forth within.

O clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria!