A Modern Pilgrimage to Assumption Abbey

In 1962, WSHS teacher Lowell McMurtrey took his World History class to Assumption Abbey, the Trappist monastery located southeast of Ava, Missouri. The trip created a good deal of excitement for my sophomore class. Field trips for a class were rare, and this seemed exotic, almost as if we were going back in time to the days of Charlemagne. Classmate Joy Herman reminded me, most of us were 15 years old at the time. 

 

With home-packed lunches, we boarded a school bus and headed for deepest Douglas County. The signature feature recalled by several classmates is the rope and plank swinging bridge that spanned a creek in front of the abbey. With a little trepidation, we marched single file across the bridge and were greeted by the abbot, who guided us and detailed facts about the monastery and a monk’s life. 

 

As a perpetually hungry teenager, I specifically recall wondering what the monks ate. I did not see any plump monks that resembled Friar Tuck from the Robin Hood films. I asked one monk about meals at the abbey. After describing a less-than-Spartan diet, he suggested if a monk was feeling sickly, he might eat an egg. One egg? I was astounded.

 

Last month, for some unknown reason, I remembered the trip to the monastery, and with some online research, I discovered it was still in existence. Since I would be in Arkansas at the Ozark Creative Writers Conference in early October, I decided to make a modern pilgrimage to the monastery on the way down. I telephoned and spoke to the abbey’s secretary and made an appointment to meet with a 94-year-old Trappist monk.

 

The abbey’s website indicated an Ava location (actually, 21 miles southeast of Ava), but my recollection from the earlier trip was it was near Gainesville. Not a problem. I would turn off Highway 60 and switch on my car’s GPS when I got to Ava. Afterall, it was a modern-day pilgrimage. What could go wrong?  

 

The metropolis of Ava confused the GPS, and, for sure, me. After following the directions for over twenty minutes—a series of left and right turns on back streets and alleys—I was still in the center of Ava. I decided to go old-school. I parked on a side street and pulled a roadmap from the glovebox but could not find the rural road to the abbey. I then went old-old school, and dead reckoned my way back to the highway and reset the GPS, which seemed to be functioning okay. However, now, I was late.

 

With one eye on the road and the other on the dashboard display screen, I made a hands-free telephone call to the abbey to advise I would be late. I got a voice-mail recording. Adding to my concern, the GPS was showing nothing but a long stretch of highway with no turns. Was it acting up again? What else would go wrong? The red lights of a Missouri State Highway Patrol car flashed in my review mirror, that’s what.

 

I pulled over and the State Trooper strolled toward my car, with a suspicious look in his eyes. “Didn’t you see me behind you? I thought I was going to have to chase you.” I struggled for something unfoolish to say (apologies to the late Kris Kristofferson). I explained that I was trying get to Assumption Abbey for an appointment with an elderly monk and had been looking at the GPS screen. Now, that was dumb—I had just admitted to inattentive driving.

 

The trooper, a man, perhaps, in his early thirties, with perfect professional bearing, scanned the inside of my car before saying, “I clocked you doing seventy.” The speed limit was sixty. “Give me your driver’s license and insurance card, please.” I complied and he returned to his vehicle.

 

As he sat in his patrol car, my mind raced down a path of imaginary horribles: I don’t know the local prosecuting attorney. My insurance rates are going up. My wife will never believe it—she thinks I drive like a farmer—too slow. Maybe I can mention I know Mark James. Man, he’s been in his cruiser for ten minutes. What could be taking so long?  

 

Finally, he came back and handed me my license and insurance card. “Well, you have a good driving record, so I’m just going to give you a warning.” He gave me directions to the monastery and told me to stay within the speed limits. I said a silent prayer of thanksgiving and wondered if I had been given a special dispensation because I was going to see a holy man.

 

After another stretch of hilly, winding blacktop, I arrived at the entrance to Assumption Abbey. The 200-yard asphalt lane to the monastery had just been oiled and was blocked off with orange traffic cones. Oh, brother! I continued on the highway to see if there was another entrance, but after a couple miles the road turned from pavement to gravel. I returned to the entrance and parked in the roadside ditch and trudged in the weeds alongside the lane to the monastery.

 

When I got to the monastery campus, my pantlegs were covered with beggar’s lice. For non-Ozarkers and others unfamiliar with the pesty plant, beggar’s lice are technically multiple species of demodium, which grows two- to four-feet tall as a scraggly bush, with sage-colored, triangular-shaped seedpods, roughly the size of a wooden matchhead, that stick with a Velcro-like nature to any animal that brushes it. They are a menace to poodle owners. I had at least fifty on me.

 

As the saying goes, you only have one chance to make a first impression, and mine was looking dubious: tardy, untidy, and all the buildings seemed empty. I didn’t even pause to ask what else can happen? After going to several buildings, and seeing nobody, I assumed I had missed my appointment. 

 

Then, I saw a middle-aged man walking on a gravel path below one of the service buildings. I waved and got his attention. He approached and identified himself as a visiting priest and asked what I wanted. I told him I was there to interview a monk. “Which one?” he asked. I said, “The 94-year-old-one.” “That’s Father Cyprian. He’s waiting for you,” the priest said, and walked me to the Guest House, where Father Cyprian was seated in a chair calmly reading a book. He rose and extended his hand.

 

I apologized for being late. “A highway patrolman stopped me . . ..” With a soft voice he said, “Good.” I suddenly felt calmer for some reason. He ushered me into the adjoining library, and we sat down at a table and began to chat. I was there to interview him, but somehow, turning on a recorder seemed inappropriate in the stillness of the room. It occurred to me what I really wanted was to have a conversation. For certain, I had questions, but it seemed more important to listen than to scribble notes and mentally anticipate my next question. 

 

Father Cyprian Harrison hardly seemed ninety-four.  Articulate, insightful, and joyful are adjectives that describe him better than his age. The trip that had plagued me with setbacks faded, and we talked. 

To be continued. Part 2 will cover more about Father Cyprian, the history and future of Assumption Abbey, and, of course, the fruitcakes.