“The church is near, but the road is icy.
– Russian Proverb
The bar is far away, but I will walk carefully.”
I raise this frosty pint in your direction for this fifth installment of the Life of the Day series here on Contemplify.
So for those just jumping in, there is this contemplative rhythm in some monasteries of the Christian tradition called the Liturgy of the Hours. Today’s episode is the fifth of a series I’ve been doing on the reimagining of the Divine Hours into my own personal reflective interpretations as a contemplative in the world. The intention is to mark each of the Hours but in a form very different from their regular practice behind monastery walls. In other words, this is what a contemplative rhythm looks like in my particular life.
In my fifth reinterpretation I’ll be exploring the divine hour called ‘Compline’, so for the sake of us all, here is how it is traditionally defined:
com·pline
/ˈkämplin/
a service of evening prayers forming part of the Divine Office of the Western Christian Church, traditionally said (or chanted) before retiring for the night. Has the character of preparing the soul for its passage to eternal life:
Every couple weeks I meet for beers with the men who may someday carry my casket into the ground. I am either late or early (a luxury I won’t have on my burial day), for my social life follows the sleeping patterns of a toddler and a newborn. Moments before I leave the house, I have the urge to stay home with a book or on the couch with my head resting on my beloved’s shoulder. But I go. For in the marrow of my bones I know I will not regret it. The drive to the pub is a sleepy one, an off-night and odd-hour to gather around a bar table. The lights that shine through the darkness keep me honest about which lane is mine. It’s all downhill to the pub from my ledge of the city. My mind is hustling from the tasks of the day left undone: that email I refuse to write, returning a phone to call my brother, the pile of dishes still awaiting instructions. I hink back to how this group once held five souls until Matt and Corey shifted their location to opposite coasts. We now meet as three. The group has ebbed and flowed in frequency and intensity over the years, but the alchemy of relationships have been honorably solidified over the years.
I park on the street just a block before the bar. Walking towards the door I see Bryce’s truck up another block. I pull the heavy glass door open and walk the threshold from night sky to bar light. I am saved from introspective self. My eyes float across the room looking for Dave and Bryce. Nope. I order a stout, the barkeep kinda recognizes me but I’m not regular enough for a name. As he pours my pint, I see Dave roll up on his bike just outside the window. The beer is sidled over to me, paid for, I walk to the back patio and find Bryce writing in his journal with Hank (the dog) at his heels. Hank jumps up to nose me in the crotch before I hug Bryce.
It’s been awhile.
It sure has.
Heard from Dave?
He just rolled up.
Bryce and I catch up on the space in between our last times together. When I was single, without kids and pleasantly underemployed the times togethers were more frequent. Now Life requires longer intervals. I know this because Bryce’s beard is a full two inches longer since the last pint together. Dave finds us on the patio, with a beer in hand, hugs are exchanged, we all sit.
Sorry I’m late.
No worries, Bryce says, how are things?
The first question is as innocuous as always. Nothing profound, but the door is now open and full attention is given at this table. How are things? is the starter gun to a race that is not run, but walked together through the swamps, valleys and goddamn hills. This is the gift we offer each other. I wonder, where will this conversation take us? The blind alleys or labriynth of our ponderings over love, purpose, vocation…hard to tell. The prescriptive method hasn’t held with this group, we follow the muse of the moment.
And the muse of the moment will show up in her Sunday best, typically in the form of an uncomfortable question. One of us will risk asking it after we’ve ran the bases of catching up. The risky question is particular to the moment and arises out of experience. These are the best of questions, unique and too uncomfortable for polite company. I’m grateful we’ve traded in easy comfort for authentic rigor.
The magic of these evenings is the facing the fear of the void together. The manifestations vary depending on each man. his current state of affairs, and how empty his pint glass may be. In facing voids, laughter comes in handy,, silence too. Both are at the ready around this table and usually one will chase the other. As a teenager, I never would have guessed that mundanity of routine is the container for extravagant depth and vulnerability.
More than once with these fellas I’ve started a sentence with, “If I can’t ask this question here, I don’t know where I can…” I’m lucky. The trenches I dig can get to a depth I can’t crawl out of. Blinded by repetitive thought patterns and habits, I’ll find myself in a 6 foot hole. More than once, these men have lent a hand to pull me and my shovel out of a grave of my own making. I’ll dust my off, the perspective shifts, the light softens and clears, and I begin again. These moments go by without much notice or fanfare. The accumulation of being present like this to one another compounds over time, resulting in what one might call friendship.
From across the beer garden an onlooker would notice nothing remarkable about 3 bearded and bespeckled men and a dog sitting together. When our conversation catches a silence, I look towards other tables hoping that those huddled around empty glasses are carrying the same light for one another as this band of merrymakers.
And when my time comes to cross through the veil from this life to the next, any readiness I may have…will come from evenings like this. For in good company, I’ve been practicing facing the void, seeing little brother fear, hoisting vulnerability and shedding layers of what I think I am. With any luck, shortly after I am laid in the earth, I’ll pull open the heavy glass door open of heaven and walk the threshold. My eyes will float across the the new terrain looking for my friends. I’ll order a stout, the barkeep will recognizes me as new regular and greet me as such, and I’ll look for spot to hole up until my friends get here.
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