Mepkin

There would be five of us going to Mepkin that November day.

Carolyn would pick me up at the halfway civilized hour of 8 in the AM. She had borrowed her daughter Marty’s SUV since it was both gracious and spacious. I literally climbed up and into this behemoth of a vehicle. Stanley, who is a she, not a he, despite the masculine name, and Jo, without an E, definitely feminine, met us at the First Presbyterian Church parking lot on Simmonsville Road in Bluffton. Patricia was the last to come aboard. Her house was on the outskirts of Beaufort, and we drove right up to her front door.

The annual Nativity Scene Displays at Mepkin Abbey awaited. By the time we were all buckled up, settled down, and headed out, it was nine-ish.
Our timed tickets were for 11:30.

There is no easy way to get to Mepkin.

It is West of Charleston, North of Monk’s Corner, and East of Summerville.

I think.

I have been going to Mepkin on retreat for more years than I can remember.
So long ago that we had stayed in a broken-down, leaky single-wide trailer sharing temperamental bathroom facilities.

We loved it

These days, retreatants stay in a sprawling motel-like building with a central meeting space, modernistic rooms, ensuite, hard, impersonal surfaces, marble, and glass. Gray, white, off-white.

Nothing leaks.

No matter where you stay, there is a peace at Mepkin.

Today, we were not on retreat; we would be at Mepkin for only a few hours, view the nativity scenes, and be back home in time for Jeopardy.

After turning off of Highway 17 at Ravenel, we had wiggle-waggled our way north on two-lane roads, ridiculous with traffic, impossible to pass.

At last, Carolyn drove over the Cooper River, hung a right at the traffic light, and we were on the skinny road that backtracks along the river. No traffic here.

Not stopping to read the historical marker, we passed by the birthplace of Francis Marion, aka the Swamp Fox.

Not long now, a mile or so farther, and we were there.

Mepkin, former plantation home of Henry Laurens, he was the largest slave owner in the Americas, who accompanied Benjamin Franklin to France negotiating for monies to finance our Revolutionary War, was captured by the British and imprisoned in the Tower of London before being exchanged for Lord Cornwallis. Laurens, so terrified of being buried alive, demanded cremation in his will. His remains are in the family plot at Mepkin overlooking the Cooper River.

Clare Boothe Luce, United States Ambassador to Italy, author, devout Catholic, and her husband, Henry Robinson Luce, Yale grad, Phi Beta Kappa, publisher of Life, Sports Illustrated, co-founder of Time magazine, mainstay of the Republican Party, bought Mepkin in 1936 when buying hunting plantations in the South was the “in” thing to do. They are buried in Mepkin’s gardens across the field from Laurens.

In 1949, Clare and Henry gave Mepkin along with 3,200 acres along the upper reaches of the Cooper River to the monks of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance. Trappist Monks whose order can be traced back to the 11th Century in La Trappe, France, whose abbey in Gethsemani, Kentucky was desperately overcrowded with young men who had sought haven there after service in World War II.

Twenty-nine of them came south to found Mepkin Abbey.

Mepkin, is said to be an Indian word meaning serene and lovely.

We turned into Mepkin’s oak tree-lined drive and crunched our way over the gravel following the arrow signs.

Wearing orange school guard crossing vests, identification lanyards, and waving wands, a contingent of men flagged us to a stop.

Checking our reservation against a list, they counted heads, 5 of us, a golf cart with seating for 5 was summoned, and we were instructed to follow it to our designated parking space.

Then, the golf cart would drive us to the beginning of the Nativity Scenes.

My word. Such efficiency.

Obviously, we were latecomers. The parking lot, actually a grassy field, was lined with hundreds of cars. So much for exclusivity.

Michael, our golf cart driver, took us to Central Operations in front of Mepkin’s Gift Shop.

We were duly entered into the books by a pair of volunteers, wearing the requisite vests, lanyards, and sporting hours of service award pins on their name tags, issued a brochure listing the Nativity Scenes with descriptions of each, and pointed in the direction of the “Path.”

Follow the arrows, we were told.

And we did.

Through the gardens, these faithful volunteers have manicured and nurtured, past nativity scenes dutifully numbered and, for one in particular, a docent’s explanation of the scene’s quirks.

Not a monk in sight.

The indoor nativity scenes were in the Library, an imposing multistory building of some 12,000 square feet with an entrance to the second story via a narrow causeway.

We took our place in line.

Bells rang. Time for lunch. Not for us.

We shuffled forward and an eternity later made it to the library’s entrance, where we continued into and along the library’s side, squeezed between shelves of books on the left and on the right, windows each with a member of a nativity scene, the wise men, an angel, Mary, Joseph, the Baby Jesus.

Beautiful.

Sigh.

Move a bit. Wait.

Then we oozed into the main room, cedar trees, at least ten feet high, dividing displays, formed a path of sorts, one nativity scene after another. Lovely, Exquisite, I need more adjectives. On the right, on the left. Too much. Nativity scenes made of glass, ceramic, and wood, some painted, some not, traditional shapes, twisted shapes, all sizes from really big to minuscule. Lost my religion trying to take pictures. If that person would only move back a bit, I could get a good shot. I must have thought that a zillion times.

Patience is a virtue, I thought.

Didn’t feel virtuous. I moved on.

What a joy to see these nativity scenes made by clever, talented artisans in countries near and far.

At the exit door, a volunteer sat at a table.

Which one did you like the best? she queried.

Number 81, I said. She marked it on one of those interminable lists.

Actually, I liked Number 1 as well, I said, but you weren’t allowed to say two.

Was I exhausted?

Yes.

Would I go again?

You betcha.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Her story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and a thirst for adventure.