
Crossed paths in the monastery
Spiritual sojourns, unexpected encounters
The day here starts at 3.15 before the break of dawn when nuns clad in white cloaks file into the dimly-lit chapel to chant the Psalm. They are singing one of the five liturgical recitations throughout the day in this Benedictine monastery on the foothills of Mt. Merbabu. This place was my home for eight days, my third time as a retreatant.
On my first day inside the chapel, I was pleasantly surprised to see an elderly couple whom I had met almost two years ago walk by. As they settled in the front pew, I noticed them subtly gesture to the rows of nuns occupying the opposite chamber. They were unmistakably Sr. Ar’s parents; their daughter is a novice nun at the monastery.
Sr. Ar was already an aspirant nun in 2015, the year I first visited this hidden spiritual gem. In the line-up of nuns in white habits, Ar, wearing plain clothes, was evidently a new addition to the community. She stood out with her contrasting outfit and youthful looks but it was her serene demeanor that captivated me later.

During the chant, I stole some quick glances at her from afar. She was always solemnly absorbed in the text in front of her with her head slightly tilted. When she stood up to gaze at the Mary statue in the last part of the recitation, I caught a glimpse of intense expressions that hinted at her own personal lamentation. I started to wonder what was the story of this bespectacled nun with introspective looks.
Little did I know at that time that I would cross paths with Ar’s parents and other family member twice at the monastery. Her mom would kindly greet other retreatants and make time to chat over communal meal and during prayer breaks. On our second encounter, she didn’t recognize me anymore and asked me to remind her again where we met. We talked briefly several times, mostly on the account of Ar’s life.
Ar’s mom first took her daughter to this monastery in 1999 before she finished high school. As the top of her class student in a all-women Catholic school in Jakarta, Ar had won a scholarship to a university in Singapore but was agonizing over accepting it. The pressure of preparing for her approaching finals and the looming demand to perform well under the competitive grant finally took a mental toll on her. Ar’s mom found her break down in tears.

“So I took her here and told her not to worry too much. Just give it your best efforts,” Ar’s mom recounted her daughter’s personal crisis as we walked down the steps after a prayer in the uphill chapel.
“The scholarship offer was unconditional. She really had nothing to worry about.”
Ar eventually finished her studies in Singapore.
“She was a (high school) valedictorian…but I only found out later from her friend. She was very low profile,” said Ar’s mom, offering me another glimpse into her personality.
Upon graduation, Ar proceeded to work in a technology company in Singapore before getting transferred to France. She worked in Europe for some time before deciding to come back home to join the monastery.
“She told me back then (in 1999) that this is a really nice place. She said in passing that she wanted to be a nun here,” Ar’s mom, who could not hide her feelings when she talked about her daughter, said in a wary tone.
When Ar indeed quit her job to become a nun many years later, she said she immediately gave her blessing but I gleaned from her poignant expressions that letting her go, this time forever, was not an easy decision. As Ar applied to be a cloistered nun, she was well aware that it would practically mean giving up her daughter. The next time they meet, there will be physical barriers that mark the boundary between the laity and the religious.

Ar’s family stayed in the monastery for three days, during when they met briefly several times between the scheduled prayers in an assigned room. I was hovering in the adjacent hallway, and as the door and windows of the room were left open, I was exposed to some candid moments in their interactions, an insight into her pre-monastery life. Her mom once told me that she loved to travel by herself. “Just like you,” she pointed at me. As a novice nun, her physical mobility is now strictly confined within the monastic enclosure.
In the morning of the last day of their stay, I saw Ar’s mom dashing out of the chapel with tears streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t hold it back any more. She was overwhelmed by the farewell with her daughter, who could only wave her goodbye from the distant pew before disappearing into the cloistered hall.
Ar’s dad, who always maintains a cool exterior, followed her from behind as she carefully walked down the chapel’s steps with the help of a crutch. She survived a stroke several years ago.

Later, when I ran into her in the retreatant’s residence shortly before their departure, she played down the earlier lack of composure. She convinced me that she had always been a tearful mom, including back then when Ar was leaving to study overseas. We then exchanged kisses on the cheek and wished each other well. This time I was trying to hold back my tears. I was gripped by some sort of emotions when I saw Ar’s mom trying to act tough.
I waved them goodbye when the rental car that would take them to the airport in the nearby city arrived. The car was just about to leave the compound when it pulled up and Ar’s dad swiftly got off, scurrying towards us to tell a nun that they would be visiting again this coming Christmas. “Well, we will see. We are always fully booked during Christmas,” she replied apologetically. Until then, Ar’s mom could only long for her from afar.
*Names are withheld for reasons of privacy.
