Four o’clock p.m. Twelve below zero. I had just arrived at St. John’s Abbey, a Benedictine monastery, and was walking around Lake Sagatagan. My destination was Stella Maris (“Star of the Sea”), a tiny red brick chapel built by the monks more than a century ago. It was much farther than I remembered. Or maybe it was just cold. Or the wind. I last visited in August. Then people were swimming and kayaking.
A single trail of footprints led out to the middle of the lake, where a man kneeled on the ice in the brutal wind. He was very still. Waiting. Ice fishing. I assumed. Or maybe praying. Maybe both. That day they seemed like the same thing. Any fish that appeared would surely be a sign from God. As I walked along the bank I could soon make out the auger he’d used to drill the hole, and a little rod and a silver can. But no fish, or shelter from the wind.
A half hour later I arrived at the chapel. It was warmer inside—maybe 15 above. I said a prayer of gratitude. That’s why I had come. To thank the Creator for time to create. “Thank you for shmita, for a sabbath year to read and write and pray,” I said to the empty room, to the frozen stones and small wooden pew.
