The great stone church was filled with chanting, the monks like bees lovingly droning out the psalms. And sometimes when the windows were open the chanting got mixed up with the chirping of birds and squirrels; together monks and tiny beasts beating out their praise.
And in the garages and repair shops, in the sacristies and workrooms and offices, in the gardens and kitchens and sewing rooms, the sacred hum of computers and lawn mowers and conveyors, the gentle flurry of paintbrushes and scissors and potato peelers, all combined with the whoosh of tree branches and breezes rustling the leaves. A great music of praise, sacred business, sacred work done at the Lord's own bidding.
