The sacred task (a short story)
I wrote this as an entry for the Writer’s Digest Your Story Contest #128 that gave, as a prompt, a picture of a hedge with clipping shears rising from behind. (You can see the picture on the content link—I don’t have a license to reproduce it here; I used a different picture below for which Substack provides a license.)
Entries were limited to 650 words, which was a good exercise in selective editing—my original was more like 1250 words. I had to do some trimming and snipping of my own!
I’m curious, then, to know what you as a reader might want to know if were I to write a re-expanded version. Do you want to know more about the characters? Are there points in the story where you’d like to see more detail or to linger for more time? Really, anything goes—comments are open!
Also note: I’ve not added a voiceover to this piece because of the frequent insertions of “(snip)”, which makes for an awkward read-aloud. Read those as if you’re hearing a sound effect rather than seeing a word, and tell me what you think of this stylistic element.
The sacred task
(snip)
"I didn't come here to trim hedges," grumbled (snip) Brother Elias to himself. He'd (snip) come to the monastery (snip) to pray, meditate, and seek (snip) God. Renounced his hyper-competitive corporate (snip) job and the endless one-upman-homeowner-(snip) of suburban weekends dominated (snip) by gardens, lawns, and…(snip) hedges. The irony. Endless (snip) bloody irony.
The blame was (snip) his alone. A novice eager (audacious?) to demonstrate willing cooperation (snip), accepting Abbot Onyaomale’s proposed fellowship with (snip) the verge. "It's not which monk best suits the job," the Abbot (snip) had said, "it's what job best suits the monk.” (snip) “And so it remains until I grant otherwise."
Right. (snip)
Thus began his (snip) Sisyphean drudgery. The great boxwood labyrinth, a centuried favorite (snip) of pilgrims, suffered no enervation in branch or (snip) Brother. Every circum(snip)ulation flowed into the next.
Brother Elias hoped for respite with every bell-summons to prayer. Yet day by day, week by week, his devotional yearnings, desiccated by burning resentment, scattered as dust. He strove, during every hour in the chapel, to visualize Christ, the via crucis, and even scenes from the Biblical comic books of his youth. Anything but the endless labyrinth that gripped his consciousness, a verdant monster growing, clawing, biting, consuming his soul. But the hedge yielded not.
His desperation intensified. “Why, Lord?” cried his anguished heart, his throat choked in a sob, tears trickling from his eyes. “Why, dear God, why must it be so?”
Within his inner sight, a pair of shears rose gently to an outgrowth.
(snip)
Time froze. The hedge ceased it’s roil. The detached cutting hovered as if waiting, waiting.
Waiting for him to choose, to let it drop, to surrender the invisible thread of repulsion that yet bound the hedge to his spirit.
As if he’d been holding a feather, he loosed his mental grip.
The clipping drifted earthward.
And a piece of his heart, like a tuft of thistledown caught on a breeze, floated heavenward.
“Do that again,” he prayed.
(snip)
Float.
Understanding.
“Just once more…”
(snip)
Liberation.
Joy.
Brother Elias chuckled through his teeth, suppressing a boisterous laugh. Abbot Onyaomale was right about him. For all his saintly ambitions, he just wasn’t…he heaved a sigh…just wasn’t ready, not yet ready, for such a singular focus. Someday, yes. But in the meantime, the Abbot spoke truth: the hedge didn’t need him, he needed the hedge.
Something in him smiled. He smiled, lifted his gaze to the altar, and nodded a redeeming acceptance.
“OK, God,” he whispered. “Tell you what. I’ll work the labyrinth, and you work the labyrinthine tangles of my soul.”
A knot in his gut unwound. The resistance, the anger, the bitterness…they leapt up and joined the lightness in his heart as a will, a determination, a passion—a calm passion—a devotion…a love.
His answer.
Brother Elias returned to the labyrinth, shears in hand, and (snip) set about with fresh (snip snip) enthusiasm, a purpose, a (snip) calling. This task was his. His, and (snip snip snip) God’s.
In chapel at Sext, his spirit soared in an ecstatic but simple contentment. (snip snip) Then again at Nones (snip). And Vespers (snip). Compline (snip). Matins (snip). Lauds (snip). All through the next day, the next week, the next month. (snip snip snip snip) Time flowed with grace.
(snip)
One morning, as the air breathed the first chills of autumn, the Abbot found him in the labyrinth.
"Ah, Brother Elias. (snip) I’ve decided to release you (snip snip) from your labor. You’re free to spend your days wholly (snip) in prayer and meditation."
“Thank you, (snip snip) Abbot. That was indeed my ambition.” Brother Elias shifted his ladder and resumed (snip) his work with a glowing countenance.
“But truth is, I didn’t (snip snip) come for that.”
“No?” (snip)
“No. (snip snip snip) I came to trim hedges.”
(snip)
What a good story. It was also a good reminder that the little things people do on the spiritual path, which may outwardly seem insignificant, may be important for the individuals inner growth. I liked how you spoke about the freedom in the heart and his affirmation/determined prayer to God undoing the knot in his gut and releasing the energies there to join that freedom in the heart.