What would it take for me to have a miracle-filled Monday? Good news from my father's doctor, as our hearts are preparing for something very bad indeed? A positive word from a friend whose parents, too, are waiting on answers? A complete recovery of the child of a friend who lives, suddenly, at the Children's Medical Center after the discovery of a rare and virulent form of brain cancer? Or would it simply be looking at all the day does bring to me with an eye for those miracles?
As I type, I hear my children's feet prancing like reindeer above me as they try to determine if it is morning-enough to rise. Their sound alone is life....the present....the miraculous. How do I cultivate those eyes? And must it rest on an experience of tragic proportions? Why must every hymn that truly moves me come out of the author's encounter with loss so deep as to threaten to shake the ground on which I stand?
I'm struck at the moment that primary teachers of this "the present is all" philosophy are the parents of Elizabeth mentioned above, suffering through the very largest of questions about the purpose of life, the intention for their daughter's time on earth....because as they see very dire numbers put on that time, they are cherishing her more and more and more. Loss is a continual threat and reality. Those of us not experiencing it simply lose sight of this current that runs beneath us.
How can I focus today on cherishing rather than fearing? What can I already see with grateful eyes?
*Saturday's performance of the Black Nativity, my sister's annual Christmas tradition--shared this year with the kids and me. There's a quotation about music reminding us of a truth we cannot yet know that struck me so fully as the swaying singers sashayed past us singing "Go Tell It On the Mountain," the opening piece. Their voices resonated at a place far beyond my mind, and I was living a truth I cannot seem to grasp with my head.
*The rising of the sun, new every morning. Though I'm in full Monday mode, wishing desperately for another day with my family, this day is new--there are discoveries to be made, contributions to offer.
*The warmth of our home--and the kids' valuing of this through our nightly prayers of gratitude. I'm proud to have a child who speaks about the importance of shelter for people, and what we must do to support people who don't have it.
*Lighting the Advent candles yesterday in church. Though in the moment I was too focused on keeping Lucas from kissing the candle and remembering who was reading what, I loved that as a family we were taking part in this honor.
*Baking my mom's candy cane rolls, a tradition that never fails to bring her to life for me each Christmas.
Wishing you a miracle-filled Monday....
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
To what to pay attention, and how?
I've continued rising early, but with insufficient time to blog! Yesterday the kids joined me in sacred pursuits (or I attempted to still find the time sacred in the midst of their early, early morning company!), and today I hit the snooze button for 50 minutes before a shortened quiet time to be followed momentarily by getting ready to depart an hour early for work. It's condensed paying attention--the only kind in which I seem to excel!
This morning I am struck by the continual choices I make in how I see what is before me. My ability yesterday to greet the kids early with true appreciation--seeing their presence as the sacred gift of that day--is not necessarily the way I always greet such an "opportunity." On any given day, I might describe to you a marriage so distinctly different from my descriptions on other days, you might wonder if I'm speaking of the same people. So, too, my work--I choose my words and my outlook for different audiences sometimes....and sometimes I am the only audience, and still my perceptions shift and change.
There's a wonderful quotation about either seeing miracles nowhere or everywhere. I know what it is to swing wildly from seeing God at every turn to feeling God is absent from me....and in each state, it is easy to feel I will never shift and be in the other state. Today, when the absence is more palpable--when the frustrations and sadness and longing are overshadowing joy and possibility and hope, I'm going to try to quietly wait for the space to choose miracles once again.
This morning I am struck by the continual choices I make in how I see what is before me. My ability yesterday to greet the kids early with true appreciation--seeing their presence as the sacred gift of that day--is not necessarily the way I always greet such an "opportunity." On any given day, I might describe to you a marriage so distinctly different from my descriptions on other days, you might wonder if I'm speaking of the same people. So, too, my work--I choose my words and my outlook for different audiences sometimes....and sometimes I am the only audience, and still my perceptions shift and change.
There's a wonderful quotation about either seeing miracles nowhere or everywhere. I know what it is to swing wildly from seeing God at every turn to feeling God is absent from me....and in each state, it is easy to feel I will never shift and be in the other state. Today, when the absence is more palpable--when the frustrations and sadness and longing are overshadowing joy and possibility and hope, I'm going to try to quietly wait for the space to choose miracles once again.
Monday, December 3, 2007
To those who have time to hear
While I'd like to claim that "paying attention," the theme of yesterday's sermon and blog, is quite possible at night--perhaps even that night is the superior time for soaking up truth, there is a continual Biblical theme that puts morning as the time to greet the day and God. I'd rather night because I'm more naturally a night person--I can easily stretch one hour into two into three with a good book or a movie we've been desperate to watch. Just as easily, I slap the snooze button a half dozen times each morning. On many a day we are chastising our kids for not moving more quickly toward the door for school, but we are equally to blame. We just do not want to get up in time to move through the morning with ease.
I remember a time when I woke early on a regular basis. It was pre-children, I was frustrated with my work situation, and I needed a space to set my soul to a new dimension each day. I would rise in the darkness of the morning, put on the tea kettle, grab my journal and a devotional book, and sometimes even squeeze in a run before all this began. (Yes, running is also something long since fallen off the "to do" list--I could blame the kids, but the choices made are mine!) Though it was a stressful time in my life, a time filled with questions of whether or not I had a purpose, whether I would find contentment in work, whether I was bound to a life of perpetual restlessness and dissatisfaction, my primary memories are of the mornings--the stillness, the peace, the quiet. This Advent, I'm going to find my way back to mornings and see if once again I can experience some of the peace of that time.
I set the alarm for 6am--just enough time to get in a short reading and prayer--enough to claim that I was UP! See me, I'm UP! But God had other ideas. Lucas cried out at 5am, unable to get himself fully nestled back into his cocoon of covers. I went back to bed, grateful for one more hour of sleep, but I could not settle. Finally, after 20 minutes, I got up. I'm not one to rush into prayer, you'll see. I went to the basement, emptied the ashes from the woodstove, folded a load of laundry, hopped on the Cardioglide for a few minutes, and only then did I come upstairs for my cup of tea. I opened a copy of Max Lucado's "God Came Near"--I have wonderful memories of sitting with my suitemates in my first year of college, surrounding a contraband candle as we read aloud from this book about the miraculous arrival of Jesus. Given that I've been in a mind (rather than heart and soul)-driven place of questions about the audacity of believing in such a person....such a story....such a possibility, this book seems right.
And indeed it is. Hear the words of yesterday's blog, and then hear the message waiting for me this morning. "Off to one side sit a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him. . . Those who missed His Majesty's arrival that night missed it not because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren't looking." (God Came Near, Max Lucado)
This Advent, I'm going to make time....I'm going to try to make time to hear God's arrival.....to see God's arrival. I'm already feeling rewarded.
I remember a time when I woke early on a regular basis. It was pre-children, I was frustrated with my work situation, and I needed a space to set my soul to a new dimension each day. I would rise in the darkness of the morning, put on the tea kettle, grab my journal and a devotional book, and sometimes even squeeze in a run before all this began. (Yes, running is also something long since fallen off the "to do" list--I could blame the kids, but the choices made are mine!) Though it was a stressful time in my life, a time filled with questions of whether or not I had a purpose, whether I would find contentment in work, whether I was bound to a life of perpetual restlessness and dissatisfaction, my primary memories are of the mornings--the stillness, the peace, the quiet. This Advent, I'm going to find my way back to mornings and see if once again I can experience some of the peace of that time.
I set the alarm for 6am--just enough time to get in a short reading and prayer--enough to claim that I was UP! See me, I'm UP! But God had other ideas. Lucas cried out at 5am, unable to get himself fully nestled back into his cocoon of covers. I went back to bed, grateful for one more hour of sleep, but I could not settle. Finally, after 20 minutes, I got up. I'm not one to rush into prayer, you'll see. I went to the basement, emptied the ashes from the woodstove, folded a load of laundry, hopped on the Cardioglide for a few minutes, and only then did I come upstairs for my cup of tea. I opened a copy of Max Lucado's "God Came Near"--I have wonderful memories of sitting with my suitemates in my first year of college, surrounding a contraband candle as we read aloud from this book about the miraculous arrival of Jesus. Given that I've been in a mind (rather than heart and soul)-driven place of questions about the audacity of believing in such a person....such a story....such a possibility, this book seems right.
And indeed it is. Hear the words of yesterday's blog, and then hear the message waiting for me this morning. "Off to one side sit a group of shepherds. They sit silently on the floor, perhaps perplexed, perhaps in awe, no doubt in amazement. Their night watch had been interrupted by an explosion of light from heaven and a symphony of angels. God goes to those who have time to hear him. . . Those who missed His Majesty's arrival that night missed it not because of evil acts or malice; no, they missed it because they simply weren't looking." (God Came Near, Max Lucado)
This Advent, I'm going to make time....I'm going to try to make time to hear God's arrival.....to see God's arrival. I'm already feeling rewarded.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Pay attention
Our senior pastor has been on sabbatical for two months. He's returned for Advent and Christmas, and then will depart again for another two months. It's a model created of necessity, but one that has some real advantages. We get to peer into his thinking, and we have him for this very fresh, alive month--none of that, "I can't believe I'm back here already," energy. Instead we have, "I can't believe I get to head off once again in a month!" I suppose it's as though I went to work on Monday, and by Monday evening was back off for the rest of the week.
His sermon today was entitled, "Pay attention," and was about the seemingly-apocalyptic Matthew passage, the chapter and verse alluding me at the moment. The sermon was an urging to keep our eyes tuned to what is immediately before us--to be living so fully in this moment that we do not miss God's whisper of an arrival. It was a far cry from the "You've Been Left Behind" video series we used to watch as comedy amongst liberal-leaning friends at my Christian college. The message was in essence this--it is not so much that we will literally be left in the field as another is whisked away beside us, but rather than we will simply miss the opportunity to see what is truly there to see. We stand side by side with someone looking through a different lens, and they see, live and experience--and we miss the forest for the trees....or more appropriately given his message, we miss the trees for the forest.
This message was on my mind as we raked sodden piles of leaves in anticipation of tonight's snow. The sky was gray, spitting sleet periodically, and the still air felt anticipatory--there's something about to happen. I set the rake down for a moment, settled onto the edge of our back porch, and looked to the spindly, black branches of the trees reaching toward the sky. I was waiting--trying to pay attention. But while my eyes were pinned on the sky, it was beneath me that I could feel the hum of the universe. The energy of our collective existence was suddenly so palpable, I envisioned those giant trees crashing to the ground as the hum continued steadily on. As almost always happens when I am still, I was not only aware of the vibrations of energy below me and all around me, I was aware that I was in a dance with these vibrations--I was a part of the vibration myself.
With Tom's suggestion before me, I aim to pay attention this Advent. I am to wake early, brew a pot of tea, read wise words from people who stir me, and know that God is forever entering...forever arriving...forever wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. I will celebrate not only being witness to the energy of God's presence and arrival; I will celebrate being part of it. Amen.
His sermon today was entitled, "Pay attention," and was about the seemingly-apocalyptic Matthew passage, the chapter and verse alluding me at the moment. The sermon was an urging to keep our eyes tuned to what is immediately before us--to be living so fully in this moment that we do not miss God's whisper of an arrival. It was a far cry from the "You've Been Left Behind" video series we used to watch as comedy amongst liberal-leaning friends at my Christian college. The message was in essence this--it is not so much that we will literally be left in the field as another is whisked away beside us, but rather than we will simply miss the opportunity to see what is truly there to see. We stand side by side with someone looking through a different lens, and they see, live and experience--and we miss the forest for the trees....or more appropriately given his message, we miss the trees for the forest.
This message was on my mind as we raked sodden piles of leaves in anticipation of tonight's snow. The sky was gray, spitting sleet periodically, and the still air felt anticipatory--there's something about to happen. I set the rake down for a moment, settled onto the edge of our back porch, and looked to the spindly, black branches of the trees reaching toward the sky. I was waiting--trying to pay attention. But while my eyes were pinned on the sky, it was beneath me that I could feel the hum of the universe. The energy of our collective existence was suddenly so palpable, I envisioned those giant trees crashing to the ground as the hum continued steadily on. As almost always happens when I am still, I was not only aware of the vibrations of energy below me and all around me, I was aware that I was in a dance with these vibrations--I was a part of the vibration myself.
With Tom's suggestion before me, I aim to pay attention this Advent. I am to wake early, brew a pot of tea, read wise words from people who stir me, and know that God is forever entering...forever arriving...forever wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. I will celebrate not only being witness to the energy of God's presence and arrival; I will celebrate being part of it. Amen.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
My wedding ring must come off. And, then I eventually put it back on. This is not a mind trip, or an indication of a failing marriage. In fact, it’s oddly about my exercise routine, which includes getting in the pool to swim laps a couple times per week.
What I have come to realize, however, is that the act of removing the ring (and then putting it back on my finger) has become a ritual of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I am – unfortunately - not the type of person who exercises with the regularity I ought. Thus, the act is only as ritualistic as my actual time spent in the pool. Still, over the course of the last two years of swimming, I have gone through this act enough times to think about what the ring means to me.
Coming out of the pool, I am usually invigorated. Whether it’s the middle of a hot summer, or the third Thursday of shitty snowfall in March when I can barely stand the sight of snow, a swim will completely alter my psyche… and only in the best of ways. I am almost always invigorated after a swim. Even if it’s nearly impossible to get to the pool, I feel better once I’m done with my swim. That is simply the effect water has on me. So when I emerge from the pool, with more energy than when I arrived, I am in an altered state. This place, or state of mind, is what contributes to the energy I feel when putting my wedding ring back on to my ring finger.
I am, in that moment, a better version of me. My heart beats strong. My lungs feel expanded. Since I have taken a warm shower, followed by an application of Lavender lotion (applied in the sauna during the winter months), I also feel that “ready to start my day” feeling that typically accompanies such a routine. I also feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for having gotten myself into the pool in the first place; I suppose there is some sense of pride in the completion of my swimming routine.
At some point, I began to associate all of these feelings with not only the completion of a swim, but with the placement of that ring on my finger. And of course, it wasn’t long before the ritual of putting on my ring reminded me of how good it is to be alive – not only after a swim, but in general.
And so, it is in all of the acts which are part of a seemingly mundane swimming routine, that I have adopted a ritual – one that renews my physical self, and that also renews my spiritual self. I never realized that stripping away such a beautiful symbol would actually come to reify its symbology in my life, and to ultimately make me the (better) person I am becoming.
What I have come to realize, however, is that the act of removing the ring (and then putting it back on my finger) has become a ritual of sorts. I say, “of sorts” because I am – unfortunately - not the type of person who exercises with the regularity I ought. Thus, the act is only as ritualistic as my actual time spent in the pool. Still, over the course of the last two years of swimming, I have gone through this act enough times to think about what the ring means to me.
Coming out of the pool, I am usually invigorated. Whether it’s the middle of a hot summer, or the third Thursday of shitty snowfall in March when I can barely stand the sight of snow, a swim will completely alter my psyche… and only in the best of ways. I am almost always invigorated after a swim. Even if it’s nearly impossible to get to the pool, I feel better once I’m done with my swim. That is simply the effect water has on me. So when I emerge from the pool, with more energy than when I arrived, I am in an altered state. This place, or state of mind, is what contributes to the energy I feel when putting my wedding ring back on to my ring finger.
I am, in that moment, a better version of me. My heart beats strong. My lungs feel expanded. Since I have taken a warm shower, followed by an application of Lavender lotion (applied in the sauna during the winter months), I also feel that “ready to start my day” feeling that typically accompanies such a routine. I also feel like giving myself a little pat on the back for having gotten myself into the pool in the first place; I suppose there is some sense of pride in the completion of my swimming routine.
At some point, I began to associate all of these feelings with not only the completion of a swim, but with the placement of that ring on my finger. And of course, it wasn’t long before the ritual of putting on my ring reminded me of how good it is to be alive – not only after a swim, but in general.
And so, it is in all of the acts which are part of a seemingly mundane swimming routine, that I have adopted a ritual – one that renews my physical self, and that also renews my spiritual self. I never realized that stripping away such a beautiful symbol would actually come to reify its symbology in my life, and to ultimately make me the (better) person I am becoming.
Being
There's no doubt about it. When presented with the choice of "being" or "doing," I know deep down I want to choose "being." I want to be (there's that word again!) the sort of person who "be"s naturally. (How's that for a twist of grammar?) Truth-telling now, though. I'm a doer, through and through. I'm the sort of person who hears the story of Mary and Martha--of Mary celebrated for sitting attentively at Jesus' side while Martha hustled her way through dinner preparations--and gets angry that Jesus reinforces Mary for "doing nothing." While I know how good it is to sit with a Mary at my side, I am still consumed with the question of how all the tasks at hand were completed to allow her to be there. As I said recently to my counselor/spiritual director, "How can I relax and still get the vacuuming done?" It seems I only imagine myself effective when there's a cloud of activity and stress surrounding me. Oh Martha, Martha, Martha--I hear you, sister.
This morning I woke early when Matt left for his morning basketball league. I've been working long days Monday-Thursday in hopes of having a bonus day with the kids on Friday. My hat is off to the many women and men who work hard labor jobs with long shifts or, more difficult still, work more than one job. A few ten hour days in a row and I'm ready to crash. By this morning, my body was craving an extra few minutes of sleep--but my spirit was craving something more. I crawled out of bed, raised the blinds, and climbed back into bed to sit and meditate. Silence. Birds calling and singing. No children's footsteps. No spouse's grunts and groans at too much early-morning sunlight. I kept resetting the alarm, imagining I might still squeeze in those few minutes on the snooze bar. But my spirit continued to ask for time.
I dressed, made a cup of coffee (to counteract the lack of added sleep!), filled my cereal bowl and headed for our back deck. With travels to Boston for our anniversary (last week) and to New York for the funeral of my oldest friend's father (this week), I feel distant at best from my yard. With long days at work, I'm contributing little to the woodchuck/weed hunting consuming Matt's days as he struggles to feed us, rather than the animals, with the garden. Sitting in the midst of the stunningly tall trees, following the flight patterns of the birds from branch to branch, I felt truly home. I was rewarded instantly for showing up, staying silent, and being attentive. I glanced at our clothesline, and there was our hummingbird flying in for a visit. She looked like a Martha, of course--all business, buzzing up to that feeder as though there was no time to waste with a visit or attention to me. But I, for once, felt like Mary--laundry still in the washer, kids still sound asleep in their beds, fully present for the moment before me.
This morning I woke early when Matt left for his morning basketball league. I've been working long days Monday-Thursday in hopes of having a bonus day with the kids on Friday. My hat is off to the many women and men who work hard labor jobs with long shifts or, more difficult still, work more than one job. A few ten hour days in a row and I'm ready to crash. By this morning, my body was craving an extra few minutes of sleep--but my spirit was craving something more. I crawled out of bed, raised the blinds, and climbed back into bed to sit and meditate. Silence. Birds calling and singing. No children's footsteps. No spouse's grunts and groans at too much early-morning sunlight. I kept resetting the alarm, imagining I might still squeeze in those few minutes on the snooze bar. But my spirit continued to ask for time.
I dressed, made a cup of coffee (to counteract the lack of added sleep!), filled my cereal bowl and headed for our back deck. With travels to Boston for our anniversary (last week) and to New York for the funeral of my oldest friend's father (this week), I feel distant at best from my yard. With long days at work, I'm contributing little to the woodchuck/weed hunting consuming Matt's days as he struggles to feed us, rather than the animals, with the garden. Sitting in the midst of the stunningly tall trees, following the flight patterns of the birds from branch to branch, I felt truly home. I was rewarded instantly for showing up, staying silent, and being attentive. I glanced at our clothesline, and there was our hummingbird flying in for a visit. She looked like a Martha, of course--all business, buzzing up to that feeder as though there was no time to waste with a visit or attention to me. But I, for once, felt like Mary--laundry still in the washer, kids still sound asleep in their beds, fully present for the moment before me.
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