I’ve always been drawn to aspects of the monastic life.
Not the haircut, although mine is thinning and I’ve been getting it cut shorter in preparation for maybe shaving my whole head.
And maybe not the robes, although that would make wardrobe decisions a whole lot easier.
Still, there’s a lot to like about monastic life. Like, devotion to God.
Several years ago I spent a weekend at the Abbey of Gethsemani, a monastery in Trappist, Kentucky, near Bardstown, a town located between Louisville and Cincinnati.
Thomas Merton, one of my faith heroes, lived and is buried there. He famously lived in the Hermitage, an house that stood apart from the community of Trappist monks, who live and work together to sustain their community.
The community is sustained through the sale of fruitcakes, fudge and other gift items, most of which are made by the monks themselves.
Everything they do – making fruitcake and fudge, observing the prayers of the hours, cooking meals for each other, etc. – they do for the glory of God.
That was my biggest takeaway from my weekend. I rarely saw the monks as they had work to do, but I understood from reading about them that every activity they undertake throughout the course of their day is given to the glory of God.
They contemplate God while making fruitcake. They pray while making fudge. Meditate while cooking meals.
As a writer, it’s difficult to contemplate God while writing. Unless, of course, I’m writing about God.
My other big takeaway from the weekend was the power and the glory of silence. This order of Trappists are Benedictine monks of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance. They live and work in silence.
Except when they’re praying.
Or chanting.
There are few more pure and holy sounds than the voices of monks reciting prayers during the Liturgy of the Hours, which are prayer times set about three hours apart. Every day. Around the clock.
I loved the silence I experienced that weekend.
All these years later, I crave moments of silence.
The world is so noisy and we’re bombarded with messages constantly through all forms of media all day long.
Silence is a gift and, speaking for myself, I need more of it.
Silence makes people nervous, though. Especially when we’re with other people.
We feel compelled to fill the silence.
The journalist in me loves that fact, because an interviewee may give up more than they intended because silence makes them feel awkward.
The public relations guy in my cautions people who are being interviewed by the media to sit with the silence and not awkwardly fill the space.
Sometimes it’s completely okay to sit in silence with someone we love, especially when we’re sitting with them during tough times, like following a disease diagnosis or loss of a loved one.
Silence really is okay. When words fall short, our presence rises to the occasion.
And, truly, silence is okay if it’s any ordinary day. Being in the presence of someone I love brings peace to my soul.
As for times when I’m alone, I love the silence.
I spent much of this past weekend in silence. Baking cookies.
Salted caramel middle fingerprint cookies, through which I raised money for Man Up to Cancer.
Forty-six dozen cookies.
They’re fiddly af because there a SO many steps.
Make the dough. Roll into balls. Make a well with a middle finger (you’re supposed to use a thumb but a middle finger makes a deeper well). Bake. Cool. Unwrap 500,000 Kraft caramels. Combine caramels with heavy cream. Melt and combine to make caramel sauce. Fill wells of cookies with sauce. Sprinkle with sea salt.
My first batch of dough didn’t work and was too runny and wet to form into balls, so I ditched it and found another recipe.
The cookies are not the same size.
Some of them are ugly.
The caramel ran on some of the cookies, so they’re more like caramel-dipped shortbreads.
Despite everything, the cookies are freakin’ delicious, if I do say so myself.
Phil, my barber, says so too.
I appreciated the silence in which I worked.
I focused on what I was doing.
I contemplated why I was doing it.
I thought about all the people who supported my fundraiser, who are helping make the lives of men facing cancer better.
I thought about all the men I know in the Man Up to Cancer movement – my why for baking in the first place.
It’s easy for me to get maudlin about the heart connections I have with some of the guys in Man Up to Cancer. I wear my heart on my sleeves as it is.
There’s a whole blog post I could write about male friendships and the rareness of establishing new friendships in middle age. Am I really middle aged? Sweet Jesus.
What brought us together is what sucks, and I doubt any of those guys would disagree.
I hate cancer brought us together, but I can’t imagine my life today any other way, and I can’t imagine life without them.
I love these men.
I would do anything for them.
This weekend, I baked cookies.
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