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ABIGAIL MANGIN 17
silence. If Brother George needed a knife, he would slice or rub one finger over the other as if carving. If he wanted a napkin, he’d set two hands over his lap and spread them. To ask for apples at dessert, he’d bend his right thumb to the middle of his palm, seize it with his fingers, and raise up his fist.
It felt like theater, with each player actively reacting to anoth- er’s needs.
When the silence ended, the plates were cleared, and a projec- tor screen rolled down from the ceiling. It was the only occasion monks used the internet.
Prayer requests.
It was a time for monks to interact with the outside world, to personally meet and help the people for whom they prayed over online video. It was Brother George’s idea. Some of his modern tech was helpful.
A church volunteer managed Skype, answering people’s calls and putting them on screen before the monks.
The first person to ask for prayers was a skinny young woman sitting in a rundown trailer, cradling a crying two-year-old tot in her arms.
“My boy... I have a two-year-old, and he has brain cancer. Two tumors.” The woman shuddered, hiding her face in her elbow. “I’m...I’m not askin’ for God to keep him alive. I know he’ll do what’s best for my son. I just...I pray I can get the money to get him some treatment.”
The woman put her baby down in a homemade cradle and wrapped him in a bundle of old T-shirts. “I work two jobs. Cashier. And I can’t pay for chemo. It’s either chemo or food at this point.”
The monks soothed her worries and conspired to set up a fundraiser for the woman. She’d have the money in two months. Ceramic pipes and beer made by monks sold well on the internet. The Lord’s Work, Fulfilled by Amazon.
The image of the crying woman and her messy trailer was replaced by the intimidating limestone structure of Lincoln Center in Manhattan. Red-and-blue lights flashed ominously onto the columns of the building. Sirens blared. Hundreds of New Yorkers crowded around the yellow police tape.