The road to Trappist takes a turn off the well-worn routes of everyday life — away from the thoroughfares that channel people to and from work, and even farther from the cities where people cook dinner, socialize, go to church, grow up and grow old.
Winter wheat grows along the road from either approach to the 163-year-old Abbey of Gethsemani. Along the drive south from New Haven Road, a grove of pines huddles against the nearby hills, so thick their trunks are tinted blue. The hour for daily Vespers, the monks’ evening prayer, is nearly here.
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