St. Benedict is pretty special to me for a few reasons.
July 11, the Feast of St. Benedict, is also my birthday. (And oops, I was having so much fun celebrating my 60th birthday that I forgot to share this post.) Although I could not be more delighted to have St. Benedict as my patron saint, I must admit that I was pretty disappointed when I first discovered it.
My parents had given me an illustrated book of the “Lives of the Saints” for my Confirmation. As any nine-year-old would do, I immediately looked to see who the saint was for July 11, my birthday. A lovely woman saint with a beautiful name, I had hoped. Perhaps Elizabeth or Mary, Theresa or Christine (my confirmation name) would be my special saint.
Instead, I saw an illustration of a man with a dark hood, a scary-looking bird, some sort of walking cane, and an unusual name that I had only associated with Benedict Arnold, a famous American traitor.
July 11, St. Benedict, Abbot, it said.
I had never heard of St. Benedict and surely did not know what an Abbot was. Through the years, I returned to these pages often, thinking that I should have some connection with this man, my patron saint.
Fast forward 26 years. Married, a mother of a seven-year-old daughter, a high school teacher, and a club sponsor, I had a full, busy, and satisfying life, yet also a longing for silence. An advertisement for a contemplative prayer retreat in our local newspaper caught my eye. It promised an “oasis of peace” at a retreat house in the cornfields of Nebraska called St. Benedict Center.
And then I remember St. Benedict. My saint.
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Being Benedictine 