Sample Meditations
For the year between published gigs, I wrote faithfully in this space. However, now all worthy ideas -- and a few not-so-worthy -- go into published (for money!) venues. I'm also a bit taken up with the fulltime care of our grands. To that end see my new page -- GranDiary -- where I write about the dailyness of caring for Littles and, when time and laundry allow, explore the apparent trend of grandparents raising grandchildren. Or you may enjoy perusing the pieces below. Thanks for stopping by.
June 1, 2008 – Spring!
In the middle of a Missouri Spring, it is not hard to believe in life after death: food from seed; beauty from bulbs; trees from nuggets that look like nothing more significant than stones. One needn't look farther for a miracle than in my husband's garden - raspberries, tomatoes, new potatoes, lettuce, asparagus!I carry my grandchild through the garden. From elements invisible to the eye a life is formed, grows and becomes a human baby. From a baby comes a child, then a youth, then a man or woman, and we are privileged to witness this miracle of life unfold right before our eyes.The potential for the tomato or the tree or the human being is in the simplest element - the seed. It is potent, filled with life, ripe with possibilities.The child in the womb spends all its energy developing that which will never be needed in the womb. What need has a womb-bound child of eyes? hands? lips? But upon birth into this world, the child beholds the face of the beloved, reaches toward the beloved with outstretched hands, takes nourishment with the lips, and speaks: "I love you.”Just so, we who are growing in the womb of this world, what need have we of giving hands, visionary eyes, hunger for heavenly food, and hearts full of love, overflowing into words of gratitude? Loving hearts get broken in a harsh world. Loving words are ignored. Visionary eyes are blinded by the practical. And giving hands seem foolish in a world of grab and clutch and hold-on-tight.We are being readied for a birth into a land where love is the common language and gift is the commerce; where eyes will behold the face of God and each other as we really are, and songs of gratitude and praise are always on our lips. We are being formed for the kingdom; fed for the kingdom.Yes, in the middle of a Missouri Spring, where all that once appeared as dead, has come to life again, it is easy to believe in resurrection.pbsJune 8, 2008 – Killing Time
Recently I found myself in a coffee shop waiting for my husband, chatting up the server. I said to her that I had an “hour to kill.” For some reason the phrase stuck in my throat so I took it back. “I have an hour to . . . live? enjoy? celebrate?”Time is so precious and it is apportioned equally to each of us: twenty-four hours in a day; sixty minutes in an hour; sixty seconds in a minute. How many days we are allotted is not our choice, but how we live those minutes and hours and days can be.I try to teach my children to measure the value of things in terms of their time. Money is, after all, nothing more than a measure of one’s time. One hour on the phone at ten cents a long-distance-minute costs my son one hour of hard labor in the kitchen at a fast food restaurant. Name brand shoes cost ten hours of labor. Off-brand shoes, only five hours. A new car costs twelve months. An old, used car, perhaps only one month.Every item purchased can be valued in terms of the time it takes to earn its price. Likewise, everything we own can be valued in terms of the time it takes to care for it: to dust or repair or paint or store or walk around. Always we should ask: “Is the pleasure or the utility worth the price I pay with my precious time?”A kitchen cabinet crammed with fast food drink cups might cost us more time than they are worth. How many dishes does a family really need? Is the cabinet full of collectibles worth the time it takes to dust them? Even if we got it on sale, how inexpensive is it when measured in terms of the time it takes to store it? How many square feet do we really need to shelter and nurture our family? Why do we assume more or bigger is better when more or bigger costs us moments of our lives? Are we worried about how to fill the time we might have left over? With so many good books to read, movies to see, people to talk with, songs to sing, children to enjoy, walks to take, places to discover, fish to catch, pictures to paint, gardens to cultivate, prayers to pray, wisdom to bathe in, how can we imagine there will be nothing to do! When we spend our time, we spend our very selves. Anything we give ourselves to must be worthy. If we choose anything less, we have fallen into idolatry.pbsMay 26, 2008 – Memorial Day
Today we remember the fallen. This last Monday of May has been set aside since the Civil War to remember those who lost their lives in war. Years later, President Eisenhower warned the nation about the developing “military-industrial complex,” as he coined the phrase. This was something new after World War II. Among his final words as President of our nation are worth reading again: Together we must learn how to compose differences, not with arms,but with intellect and decent purpose. Because this need is so sharpand apparent I confess that I lay down my official responsibilitiesin this field with a definitie sense of disappointment. As one who has witnessed the horror and the lingering sadness of war - as onewho knows that another war could utterly destroy this civilizationwhich has been so slowly and painfully built over thousands of years -I wish I could say tonight that a lasting peace is in sight. Fifty years later, is lasting peace in sight? Will our children or grandchildren know peace? I wonder if we have even forgotten how to pray for peace; if “peace” has become a dirty word, an inflammatory word, signifying a lack of patriotism or love of country. Surely longing for peace on earth is a worthy prayer, including peace for our enemies because we disciples are commanded to pray for our enemies. From the Civil War song, Tenting Tonight:Many are the hearts that are weary tonight, wishing for the war to cease.Many are the hearts that are looking for the right to see the dawn of peace.War has been always with us. So has the longing for peace. May peace prevail.pbsMay 18, 2008 – Singing to My Grands
I sing to my grandchildren. For diaper changing, I launch into the Psalms because there is one for every occasion. Psalm 139 is good for the easy wet ones: “It was you who created my being, knit me together in my mother’s womb.” For the really poopy ones, there’s Psalm 8: “What are we that you should keep us in mind; we are mortal, yet you care for us.” Ernst Becker’s Denial of Death made an impression. He frankly (if not vulgarly) called human beings “angels with assholes” and he isn’t far from the mark. They are the loveliest little children, but Oh My!I sang to my sons until I was replaced by Mr. Sony Walkman. When my grandchildren’s daddy was five he made it clear that some songs were not bedtime material: cradles falling, ladybug houses burning, Puff dying. I couldn’t blame him – a veritable Brothers Grimm musical. This same son also had ideas of appropriate songs around the house and they didn’t include “church songs.” If I sang a hymn that had gotten stuck in my head, he’d shout, “This isn’t a church, you know!” Once I tried to reason with him: “You know, Philip, there are people who pay Mommy to sing these songs.”“Well, no one is paying you now!”Touché kiddo.My friend, Jane, who has 20-plus grandkids, told me that a grandparent’s love is the most like God’s. When our first was born, Jane called and asked if now I understood. I do. When my husband and I sang together to her, she was in heaven. As we harmonized on Abide With Me or Dona Nobis Pacem, she would place a tiny hand on each of us and gets this milky look of bliss on her face.But her favorite, the song that still works magic when she’s fractious, is Tell Me Why. She can be howling and this song works like a rune: “Tell me why the stars do shine . . . the ivy twines . . . the sky’s so blue . . . . And then I’ll tell you why I love you.” And the answer to this tuneful baby catechism question is, “Because God made you; that’s why I love you.” It’s not complicated. It’s the most like God’s love.pbsMay 11, 2008 – For Grieving Mothers
I have three sons. I’ve received the phone call three times. The one that begins, “Is this the mother of . . . ? There’s been an accident . . . .”I can still feel that hollowness – somewhere between the heart and the stomach – that place where mothers keep their children after they’re grown.One had been drinking. One was late for school and missed a curve. One fell asleep at the wheel. Each one involved no other driver. Each one involved no passengers. Just a young boy/man alone in a car and, until that moment, imagining he was invincible. Something every mother knows is not true - knowledge she stores in that same place between her heart and her stomach.
Each call continued, “He’s all right. But . . . .”With one, the one that was late for school, I got the call just as I heard the sirens. We live near the fire station. As the stranger talked in soothing tones I realized those sirens would lead me to my son. I grabbed those things one grabs, ran to my car and followed the sirens. His car had rolled. There was blood everywhere. He was trapped and they were cutting him out of the driver’s seat. He cried when he saw me and apologized. “Mom, I'm so sorry. I was stupid. I was going too fast.”Each one took full responsibility. Each one was bruised and sore and humbled. Each one walked away with ambulance bills, emergency room bills, tickets for reckless driving, and no wheels. They walked until they could pay their bills and afford another car. It was hard to watch them struggle, but not as hard as watching them never walk again. Or worse. That place between my heart and my stomach – that place where mothers keep their children after they’re grown – that place goes out to all mothers and fathers who lose their children. pbsJune 29, 2008 – Perfect Balance
In the spring we plant sunflowers. In the summer they grow. In the fall we harvest the seed. In the winter we fill the birdfeeder. The birds eat the tender kernel and messily discard the hard shell. The chickens hang out below the birdfeeder and eat the shells. The chickens give us eggs. We eat the egg’s golden center and throw the shells into the compost pile. In the spring we plant the sunflowers and fertilize with compost. In the summer the sunflowers grow.What perfect balance. Each to its own season. No waste.There’s more. We have berry bushes. We pick from the bottom, leaving the ones on top for the birds. The birds eat mosquitoes. Last summer I did not get one mosquito bite and we are outside all the time. There’s more.Environmentalists like Barbara Kingsolver say that responsible consumption includes eating food grown as close as possible to our home. Importing food from other states or countries is an unnecessary use of fossil fuels. Agrarian economists like Wendell Berry say that unless we support local farmers, particular small scale growers who sell in farmers markets, we will see the continued decline in locally grown food. While these writers are arguing for balance on a large scale, their advice is treated by many as if it’s impossible to live or involves a lot of self-sacrifice. It’s not so hard.There’s more.Pat and I were miserable every hay fever season … until a few years ago. After drinking our goat milk, eating food from our garden and buying local honey, we noticed that we rarely took allergy meds and could once again, sleep with the windows open. Eating locally grown food provides allergens to help the body defend against the offending agent – like allergy shots, but without the nasty stick. We’re not purists. We still eat bananas and drink coffee laced with cinnamon and vanilla – none of which we can grow in Missouri. But we eat those bananas and drink that coffee while walking through our bountiful garden, feeding the chickens and chucking the goats under their chins. It’s all about balance.pbsJune 21, 2008 – Gray to Green
Every summer I paint a room or two in our house. It’s very satisfying. There is no cheaper means to improve a room than with a gallon of paint and a brush. And it makes such an obvious difference — black and white, if you will. Well, maybe not black and white, but there’s a clear improvement. It once was dirty, but now it’s clean.While I paint, I listen to talk radio — almost always NPR: Talk of the Nation, All Things Considered, Fresh Air, and my personal favorite, The Diane Rehm Show. I once e-mailed Diane Rehm and suggested that she run for president. The woman can talk to anyone about anything and get any two or three people to talk with each other. What more important qualification for president is there? (I didn’t get a reply.)After a while, usually about the time I hit the fourth wall, I have to turn off the radio (unless it’s time for A Prairie Home Companion), and listen to CDs with a good beat and uplifting lyrics. Otherwise, I'm too tempted to despair. There are all these experts — concerned people with vast knowledge and experience and — here’s the thing — they disagree. How are we supposed to know which is the right path if the guides disagree? It’s not obvious. It’s not Hitler vs. Mother Theresa — at least not from this side of the issue.We label each other — liberals are dumb / conservatives are mean — and the labels make conversation difficult. And besides, I know too many kindhearted conservatives and brilliant liberals. Other labels are even more confusing. Pro-Life and Pro-Choice? Traditional and Progressive? For that matter, isn’t the difference blurring a little bit between Democrats and Republicans?It’s confusing, even dispiriting. I'm working on it. Meanwhile, the room is painted and it looks great. It once was gray, and now it’s green.pbsJuly 4, 2008 - Independence Day
My choir sings a haunting arrangement of the poem by Emma Lazarus, inscribed on the base of the Statue of Liberty. She called it the The New Colossus, contrasting Lady Liberty with that symbol of the Greek and Roman era, the Colossus of Rhodes. Her poem begins: Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,With conquering limbs astride from land to land;Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall standA mighty woman with a torch, whose flameIs the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandThe air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame."Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries sheWith silent lips ....Then comes the part set to music by Irving Berlin. It's so beautiful that it's difficult not to cry even as I direct the choir. I think of the hopes and dreams of my ancestors who came to this country. And I think of the refugees today as we sing ...Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door! As I thought of the current climate of fear, I found myself singing to myself a sadder text that went something like this ...Go away, you tired, you poor.Huddle somewhere else, you masses yearning to breathe free.You wretched refuse, wash up on another shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost away:The light is out, the lamp cast down beside the bolted door. God bless America ... and all citizens ... and all refugees seeking a haven. May we be the haven again that we once were for our ancestors.pbsJune 15 – Fathers’ Day
I know a father who remembers the last time his youngest child would accept a kiss on her way to school. I know a father who raised another man’s child as his own and made sure she never felt the lack of a father.I know a father who is called a “step-father” and says it means to “step in” when and where he is needed. I know a father who is called a “father-in-law” and who loves his “children-in-law” as much as his own.
I know a father who says “I love you” by taking photographs and there they are – the bright shining faces of everyone except the father-photographer.I know a father whose son is in trouble and who brought uncomfortable attention to his family and yet this father continues to love and support his son, praying for him everyday.I know a father who prayed in the traditional way, but it didn’t seem enough so he decided to give up beer until his hurting son was doing better. A funny-kind-of-prayer not mentioned in any of the liturgical books, but as sincere a prayer as ever was prayed. I know a man who longed for children of his own and when they didn’t come, he fathered all the children who called him “coach” and “teacher” and “friend.”I know a father whose daughter is very sick and he cries secret tears while he remains strong for her and for the family.I know a father who lost his son and who built a garden to remember him and shared that garden with all the other fathers and mothers who grieve for their children who are gone too soon.I know one who is called “Father,” who is father to none, but whose job it is to sit with hurting fathers and mothers and hold them and pray with them and help them make sense of it all.I know a father who was gone too soon and who I wish I had gotten to know better. I miss him on this Father’s day . . . very much.pbsJuly 9, 2008 – Happy Birthday to Me
Today is my birthday which entitles me to cake, a song, privileged treatment from my loved ones, and very little else. Even so, I'm inclined to be self-indulgent.I thought the fifties would feel different. Without giving it too much thought, I suppose I imagined myself with an old lady haircut and wearing old lady shoes, maybe with nylon stockings rolled down to the ankle and an old lady housedress. An apron. Thin skin smelling of lavender. Pendulous boobs hanging to my … well, let’s not go there!Gravity hasn’t been my friend for a while. Or bright light. Even though I need a brighter bulb to read by, I’d just as soon be viewed by candle-light. There are spots and wrinkles and even hairs(!) where there was once just smooth skin.But everything pretty much works; some parts better than ever. I think more clearly now than I could in my younger years. I write with less hesitation. I sleep well, too – and not just sleep, but rest. For so long I could not just sit with a book in the afternoon or relax in our garden swing, gazing out on my husband’s (and God’s!) handiwork. There are many blessings to count. When my granddaughter, Sakura, spends the night, I sing to her … I see the moon and the moon sees medown through the branches of the old oak tree.God bless the moon and God bless me.Shine on the ones I love.Then I ask her, “Who do you love?” And she begins a long litany of people and animals, falling asleep, feeling rich and safe with so many to love.That’s how I feel as I fall asleep – so many to love. I can only hope my list will be longer each year.pbsJuly 13, 2008 - For Sr. Louise
A composer, known for his divine music, arrives at the great hall in the city where his latest composition is to be performed before a vast audience. The composer meets with the Master of the Hall and begins to describe the demands of the piece, but as he is warming to his subject, the Master of the Hall interrupts him."No violins are allowed here; no violas, no cellos. We have all the brass instruments, but no woodwinds, except for bassoons, piano and percussion, but no harp. The chorus includes tenors, baritones and basses, but no altos, and no sopranos except for the unchanged voices of young boys."The composer is stunned. "But my music must be played on the instruments for which it is written. How can it be that the sweet sound of the flute is not permitted? No oboes or cellos or violins? No rich alto voices or mature and soaring sopranos, but only the voices of men and little boys?"The Master of the Hall stands firm in his conviction that these instruments do not belong in his fine hall. He invokes tradition. It has always been this way. He thinks about the wealthy patrons who might be offended.And yet, it is against the nature of the composer to write music other than what he hears in his inner being, music that is complete and beautiful and true. And so this glorious music is played with the flute and string parts missing, the oboe line performed awkwardly on the trumpet, the alto parts simply omitted, the soprano aria sung by a chirpy little boy.The audience reaction is mixed. Most have never heard the missing instruments and voices and so they leave the hall with their minimal expectations met: uninspired, unchallenged, thinking about what they will fix for supper or the laundry or errands or this evening's television lineup.A few with gifted ears can hear the missing lines and supply them in their own minds, filling in that which is lost. These gifted ones long to hear the full piece played and weep for those around them who are missing it.And some (no one knows how many) leave empty, wondering at the tedious, repetitive sameness of the music. All those baritones! All that brass! These unsatisfied ones may not return, seeking to be filled elsewhere.Pray for the Masters of the Hall. Pray for the voices that are silenced. Pray for the people who are permitted to hear only part of the great music written for them. Pray for all of us, that Jesus may once again make the deaf hear and the mute speak. pbsJuly 19, 2008 – Make Mine Homegrown
The tomatoes are coming in; new ripe ones everyday now. I start waiting for them around the end of June, checking the plants, measuring their growth. I used to eat tomatoes year-round and I enjoyed them well enough, more as a colorful addition to a green salad or a moist texture in an otherwise dry sandwich. But I didn’t eat them for the taste. I didn’t know they had taste until we moved our here and my husband began growing our own. Those tomatoes in the store just don’t measure up - even the expensive ones that are reported to be “vine-ripened” and “home-grown.” Unless they’re sitting in a cardboard box on the counter at our local market, they’re home-grown somewhere, but not my home. And while I mourn the shortness of the tomato season, maybe it’s that very limitation that’s part of what makes a tomato special.Along with tomatoes, the sure sign of summer’s passing are the school supplies displayed in all the stores. I confess the summer always feels too short to me. I loved the long days with my children: the guilt-free reading and leisurely dabbling about. Now I love these long days with my grands. And I worry that sometimes schools are growing our children like supermarket tomatoes: forcing them to ripen on an arbitrary schedule. They might look like tomatoes and feel like tomatoes, but the taste is bland and mushy.If we want bland, mushy people, then we should measure each child by how well they fit in, how well they adapt and adjust, how beautiful they are on the outside. What if the things that are “wrong” with us, that make us “different,” are those very traits placed in us for a reason by a Creator who doesn’t make mistakes? If we want home-grown, perfectly ripened children, then upon meeting each child we should ask, “What blessing is God sending us today? What does this child bring to our world that no one else can bring?”If we let our children ripen in their own time, maybe they won’t spend their middle age wondering who they are and what they might have been. And we won't miss the wonder of their creation and the pleasure of their company right now - even better than the wonder and the pleasure of the first ripe tomato.pbsJuly 25, 2008 – Feed Your Good Wolf
A friend, whose Great (times six) Grandfather, lived with the Cherokees after his parents were killed, told me this story. An old Cherokee sage was teaching his grandson about life. "A fight is going on inside me," he said to the young boy. "It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One wolf is evil whose name is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, arrogance, self-pity, resentment, inferiority, false pride, superiority and ego. The other wolf is good. That wolf's name is joy, hope, serenity, humility, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. This same fight is going on inside of you and inside of every other person, too." The grandson then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?" The old man replied, "The one you feed.”At this banquet we call life, there is plenty of opportunity to feed either wolf. Their food becomes what we read, what we watch, who we choose as our companions, the thoughts we encourage, our actions – day after day after day. There is nothing which isn’t food for one wolf or the other. The question we might ask is, "Which wolf are we feeding today?"pbsAugust 1, 2008 – Forgive!
I googled forgiveness and it yielded over 23 million sites. Just the first few included The Forgiveness Project, Worldwide Forgiveness Alliance, and Campaign for Forgiveness Research. Many of the sites point to the relationship between personal health and forgiveness. Folks who forgive have fewer heart attacks. Those old psalmists were right – we can literally “harden our hearts.”We know we’re supposed to forgive. It’s even mentioned in the prayer Jesus taught us: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Yet, most of us are looking for an exception. “Well, I'm just a person who holds a grudge. It’s like, you know, my personality or maybe in my genes or something. My father was the same way. And his father was, too.” Or some try to win an exception because of the grievousness of the offense. “But she cheated on me, even after she promised she’d never do it again.” Or, “How can anyone forgive him; he killed those people in cold blood.” I’ve looked and looked in the Gospels and I can’t find any passage where Jesus says, “Forgive, unless the offense is really awful or it’s just really too hard for you. Then you can skip it and substitute something easier like fasting or walking on hot coals.”It’s pretty sobering, isn’t it? One of the non-negotiable mandates for a disciple of Jesus is forgiving each other – even our enemies! - and it seems impossible. It’s not impossible. It’s a decision. You may have been horribly treated. You may feel hurt, cheated, angry, even murderous, but you can forgive. Forgiveness is not condoning the bad or denying that it happened or making excuses for the one who hurt you. Forgiveness is refusing to get even; refusing to return evil for evil; choosing instead to love when it is not deserved. Why is this so important? Perhaps it’s because forgiveness softens our hearts and opens them wider to receive love. pbsAugust 4, 2008 – Forgiving … and Forgetting?
A reader from India questioned me about the August 1 meditation on forgiveness (access in the archives box to the left). She wrote: “Today's meditation makes me ask: Is forgiving but not forgetting as good as not forgiving? I have been wronged by some, but do not feel any anger or revenge or hatred about them. However, just once in a while, the old incidents just spring up, and I .....wallow, should be the right word, in them. It's rather like scratching an insect bite, soothing for a while, but you've left it a red and open wound soon. I really do not want those old wounds to open up, for I do not want to hurt or say bitter things to those people around me who have wronged me, and as I grow older, I feel as though my self control will weaken. How do I forget?”Such self-aware, humble honesty is touching, isn’t it? That description of scratching the insect bite reminds me of a conversation with Linda, one of our Saturday morning walking group. She’s a nurse and she was talking about pain that feels good. When I seemed incredulous, she gave the examples of poking at a sore tooth with one’s tongue or scratching an itch.Maybe “wallowing” in the memory of wrongs done to us is also “pain that feels good.” There is something about being the victim that does feel kind of … righteous. Especially so if there are a few people who know how wronged we were and notice how bravely or kindly or forgivingly we are bearing up. The problem is, most of the time we are interested in playing out our tragedy long after our audience has moved on to another drama. Trying to forget is not so helpful. It’s a bit like trying not to think of an elephant in the room. For one thing, we can get pretty proud of our ability to “forgive and forget” and next thing you know, to feed that pride, we are reminding ourselves of just how grievous the offense was, how undeserving we were of such treatment – yadayadayada – and there we are, back in the wallow, eye-to-eye with the elephant. Besides, there are more effective efforts than attempting self-induced amnesia. First we might be as honest as my reader and admit that we’re getting something out of a good wallow – something we prefer, at least for the moment, than the clear, clean, cool bath of forgiveness. We might think about what that benefit is. Second, we might remind ourselves, just to be fair, of the several thousand times we have hurt others, intentionally and unintentionally and even unknowingly.Finally, we might employ that guaranteed weapon against the darkness – humor. Just as we catch ourselves entering the wallow, a good laugh at ourselves for prefering the mud is certain to snap us back into our normal good humor.All that, of course, if forgiveness is the goal. Why should it be? Peace of mind. A healthy heart. And maybe something more. Maybe St. Francis of Assisi was right when he said, “peace begins with me.” How can we pray for peace in the world while harboring within ourselves that which is the seed of war? And do we really want to die and take with us to the next life such ugliness? Nah. A good laugh and giving up our self-important victim-ness is a far better choice.pbsAugust 11, 2008 – More on Forgiveness – and Guilt
My husband and I rented the movie "The Spanish Prisoner" (thanks to www.netflix.com). It's a complex screenplay by David Mamet, full of his signature dialogue – stark and pithy. One brief conversation was so striking that we stopped the movie to make a note. The scene involves two men, one advising the other who thinks his company is cheating him. The adviser says,"I think you'll find if what you've done is as valuable as you say it is - if they are indebted to you morally, but not legally - my experience is they will give you nothing.” [Pause] “And they will begin to act cruelly toward you.""Why?" asks the other."To suppress their guilt."Willard Gaylin, in his remarkable little book Feelings, suggests that difficult feelings (guilt, anger, envy and so on) are signals: encoded messages that say, "Something is wrong! Figure it out! Fast!" We want – we need – to resolve these feelings. The resolution of guilt is forgiveness. When we do something we believe to be wrong and we don't seek forgiveness, the guilt festers. Left unresolved, guilt may morph into shame, a much more debilitating state. When we feel guilty, it's about something we've done, but when we feel shame, we are ashamed of ourselves. Shame is a kind of death.If we want to avoid shame, but lack the insight or humility or courage to seek forgiveness, what do we do with our guilt? Gaylin explains that unresolved guilt is so uncomfortable that it leads to resentment of the very person we've wronged, which leads to rage. When people treat you cruelly and you can't figure out what you did to them, it might be enlightening to take a look at what they did to you.As I began this meditation, I was thinking about close-to-home hurts, but I wonder if this cycle of guilt-resentment-rage influences international affairs. Do soldiers treat prisoners cruelly (or nations declare war) because they feel guilty about what they themselves have become?Maybe it's related – the difficulty we have forgiving those who have hurt us personally and the forging of international peace. Maybe we shouldn't pray for peace elsewhere if we can't forgive each other in our families and communities.How do we break the cycle and make peace? I’m thinking, I’m thinking. More later.pbsAugust 16, 2008 – They’re All Yours, God
One of my favorite prayers is a little one, tucked into the Catholic Mass: Protect us from all anxiety. There is a point where, for our own peace of mind, not to mention the mental well-being of those who love us, we simply have to let go. As parents and grandparents, as spouses and relatives, as friends and neighbors, as citizens of one nation and of one world, we must let go of the fears which threaten to cripple us. We cannot live out our calling, be the person we are meant to be, if we are overcome by anxiety.I'm reminded of another prayer. The story goes that every night before he went to bed, Pope John XXIII prayed, It’s your church, God; I'm going to bed. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could make that our night prayer for those we love? For surely God loves my husband, children, grandchildren, friends, church – this whole world – more than I do even when I'm at my best. That will be my prayer for those I love and those I find difficult to love and even you readers I’ve never met: They’re all yours, God; I'm going to bed.pbsAugust 22, 2008 - Lesson in a Cup of Coffee
A daughter complained to her father about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.
Her father, a chef, took her to the kitchen. He filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to a boil. He put carrots in one pot, eggs in the second, and in the third, coffee beans. He let them sit and boil without saying a word.
The daughter sucked her teeth and impatiently waited, wondering what he was doing. In about twenty minutes he turned off the burners. He strained the carrots and put them in a bowl, carefully placed the eggs in a second bowl, and ladled out the coffee into a cup.
Turning to her he asked, “What do you see, Dear Heart?”
“Carrots, eggs and coffee,” she replied.
He brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. He then asked her to take an egg and break it. Pulling of the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg. Finally, he asked her to sip the coffee. She smiled as she tasted it, smelling its rich aroma.
A bit calmed, she looked at her father and asked, “What does it mean?”
He explained: The carrots, the eggs and the coffee beans each faced the same adversity - boiling water - but each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong and hard and unrelenting, but after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg was fragile, its thin outer shell protecting its liquid interior, but after boiling, its inside became hardened. The coffee beans were different. After they were in boiling water, they changed the water.
“Which are you?” he asked his daughter. “When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?”
+ + +
My gratitude to the Anonymous Preacher who long ago left this story at my door, along with a cup of ground coffee. It’s too good to keep to myself and I hope it inspires you as it did me.
How about you? Are you the carrot that seems hard, but with pain and adversity do you wilt and become soft and lose your strength? Are you the egg, beginning life with a malleable heart and fluid spirit, but after a death, a divorce, a layoff, have you become hardened and stiff? Your shell looks the same, but are you bitter and tough with a stubborn spirit and hard heart? Or are you like the coffee bean? The bean changes the hot water, the very thing that is causing the pain. When the water gets the hottest, it just tastes better. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and make thing better around you.pbsSeptember 4, 2008 - Holy Confrontation
One source I go to for guidance is the teachings of Jesus. Nowhere in the New Testament is there a suggestion that we will get along without disagreements. In the Gospel passage we will hear in church this Sunday (Matthew, Chapter 18), Jesus describes a method for dealing with serious conflict with another. The first time I really paid attention to this passage, I noticed that the process remarkably resembles what the folks in Alcoholics Anonymous call an “intervention.”“If one of the community sins against you, go and reprove that person in private.” Scary, huh? Who wants to confront someone in person, directly and alone? Jesus says it’s the first necessary step, all the while remembering that you love the other person which will help you confront them without malice or vindictiveness or self-righteousness. You allow yourself to feel their pain and try simply stating how you feel; how the person’s actions affect you. It’s called an “I-Statement.” Example: “When you drink too much, I feel afraid and angry.” Or, “When you come home late without calling, I worry that something has happened to you or I feel disregarded or forgotten.”“If you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses.” This is the classic intervention. The encounter must be loving and the concern for the other person must be obvious at all times. Each confronter makes a series of “I statements” and each makes it clear that the behavior can no longer be supported or tolerated. A plan should also be in place for how the person can be helped. “If the offender refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church.” This might mean the church community or the school principal or the boss or the law. But notice, this is the third step, not the first! We go public or bring in the authorities only when the first two steps have failed. “And if they refuse to listen even to the Church, treat them as you would a Gentile or tax collector.”The Gentile and tax collector are references to people who do not belong, those who, by their actions, have stepped outside the community. To treat them as an outsider is Jesus’ version of tough love. We are not to hate or harm the person, but in order to render them unable to do any further harm to the community or family or ourselves, we must ignore them. Letting our loved one bear the consequences of their behavior is hard – very hard, but sometimes the student needs to fail; the drinker needs to spend a few nights in jail; the mean person needs to be excluded. Confronting someone we love IS the hardest thing in the world. It is also a loving act and, often, one that causes us pain because we can’t “fix” the person we so long to help. Even Jesus could work no miracle in his home town. Sometimes we have to trust that there will be someone else who will serve as the agent of change and remember that God loves our loved ones even more than we do. That’s when we pray (again!) the prayer of good Pope John: “They’re all yours, God; I'm going to bed!” pbsSeptember 14 – Rules for Living with Depression
Twenty years ago this month I joined the ranks of the “one in four Americans” as I was overpowered by a clinical depression that was so bad at times I could not dress myself, fix a meal or leave my home. After two hospitalizations and both therapy and treatment with antidepressants, the bottom lifted enough for me to function and begin the journey from despair to joy. Sometimes, when it was particularly bad, I would be so lacking in confidence that I could not make decisions about the simplest matters. Grocery shopping was agony as I stood in mindless indecision between bananas and oranges. Once I went to the video store to pick up some movies for the kids and came out thirty minutes later empty-handed.It was then that I began to tentatively develop my Rules for Living with Depression. I could not always follow them, but as I gradually ascended from the darkness, these rules became indispensable to me. Though depression is far from me now, I still follow them when life gets stressful. 1. During the good time of the day - there’s usually an hour or more when one is more energetic than other times - make a list of tasks to accomplish the next day. Even the most mundane things should be written down: take a shower, eat breakfast, take a walk, write a letter. And then the next day, just do it. If you can’t decide which one to do first, do them in the order you wrote them down.2. If indecisiveness is a problem for you, go with your first decision. You know that if you were healthy, your first decision would be fine. Nothing has changed in your ability to make good decisions, only the confidence that they are good.3. When people express a desire to be with you, believe them. Your company is still enjoyable. It is only you that doesn’t enjoy you now. 4. Never finish a job at the end of the day. Save some part of it until the next day to finish because it is easier to continue a task than to begin something new. (I strongly recommend this rule for writers.)5. Make beauty a part of your life everyday. There is objective goodness in beauty and the depressed person should be exposed to it to counter the darkness.6. Exercise every day. Period. It’s proven that it makes you feel better. It has to do with endorphins: little guys that are released into your brain when you exercise.7. Sing every day, for the same reason. Apparently endorphins like music and singing doesn’t make you sweaty.8. Be humble. Believe what others tell you about the good, the true, and the beautiful. The pitfall for the depressed person is that, knowing they are ill, they somehow still believe their view of the world is accurate. 9. Worship with others. Read the scriptures. You will feel the psalmist’s lament as you never did before and you will be one with those who cried out to God for healing. You are now among those poor in spirit whom Jesus called “blest.” 10. Find someone to trust and tell them your darkest thoughts. Bad things grow in the dark. Talking about them brings them into the light and shows them for what they are. This rule is the most important of them all.
Today in my church we celebrate the Feast of the Triumph of the Cross. If you are depressed, you live in the shadow of the cross. Say to yourself every day, "There are no shadows without the sun." The sun is just on the other side and you will find your way there and when you do these darks days will be a distant memory, and … if you can believe it … a memory for which you will be grateful. pbsSeptember 22, 2008 – On (Not!) Rushing
Any mother will tell you that children change your life. My middle son, Phil, changed mine one day when he was only five years old.We were in the car together, driving south on Grand Avenue. I don’t recall where we were headed, but I remember that it wasn’t urgent.Phil asked, “Why are we rushing?”I told him that we weren’t. And he said, “Oh, yes you are.”I tried to see what he was seeing and I noticed I was pressing on the steering wheel, coming up behind the car in front of me just a little too close, sighing at the light that had just changed.I was rushing, but I wasn’t in a hurry. It was just a habit.Lent was just around the corner and we had been talking in the family about what to do for Lent. I suddenly knew what I was “giving up.” That Lent I gave up rushing.It’s quite astounding – you only know how often you do something when you try to stop – whether it’s smoking or eating between meals or watching TV or interrupting another in conversation or . . . rushing.That Lent I began to do everything more deliberately, more slowly. Brushing my teeth, making my first cup of coffee, reading the paper, kissing the boys goodbye as they left for school, driving to work. After a week or so I realized that I had been living my whole life on fast forward. And so often, I was merely running in place, going no where in particular. When I gave up rushing, I also gave up the sense that I was always doing the wrong thing. That unnerving, guilty feeling that when I was writing, I should be reading. When I was checking homework, I should be doing dishes. When I was at work, I should be at home. And so on. To stop rushing I had to Be Here Now – to do what I was doing when I was doing it. Usually my Lenten resolutions don’t last through the third week of Lent. But this one – with just a little backsliding – has lasted me ever since that Lent when Phil was five years old. He just turned 26. And I’m still not rushing.pbsPaige Byrne Shortal
September 30, 2008 – More on (Not!) Rushing
Last week’s meditation on (not) rushing struck a nerve with some readers. (Access in Archived Meditations in the box to the right.) One friend wrote about how she was always rushed as a child. She still feels the effects. Our granddaughter, Sakura, stays with us on many school nights and in the morning she likes to lie abed and take her time over dressing and breakfast. The more I become aware of the imminent tardy bell, the slower and slower she seems to move. Being told to hurry, Hurry, HURRY! is an awful way to start the morning, but, frankly, so is being the hurrier. Last week I remembered a lesson I learned when our sons were teenagers and still at home. Somehow the need to be on time for school or work became their concern and not mine. Could this work with a five-year-old in her fourth week of kindergarten? On Wednesday night I told her she could be late the next day if she wanted to. She said, “Oh no, Nana! I want to be on time.” I woke her at the usual time and bit my tongue about nine times, but didn’t tell her to hurry. She was late. On Thursday night we had the same conversation. On Friday she was late again. On Sunday night something clicked. She told me that she needed to be on time for school. (I think it might have had something to do with her Sunday school lesson that morning.)On Monday morning she managed her own time. That afternoon when I picked her up from school she asked if she could have her own alarm clock. That was yesterday. This morning, she awoke to her own alarm and was downstairs and ready to go so early that she was the first of her class to arrive. Hurrying Sakura was an expression of love. I didn’t want her to experience the tardy bell. Maybe those grown-up hurried children could re-interpret their experience and know that they were loved. But it is a mis-guided love. Empowering children to be responsible for their own time is a gift to them that lasts a lifetime. Then no one needs to be the rush-er or the rush-ee.pbsOctober 10, 2008 – One More on (Not!) Rushing
I’ve been thinking about this issue of rushing. (See Archived Meditations, September 22 and 30.) It’s one thing to wean myself from rushing. And it’s good when we can teach children to be responsible for their own time and avoid the thankless task of rushing others. But there’s another situation I find myself in too often - when others are … well, to put it rather crudely ... in my way. You know: on endless hold with technical support or trapped behind a school bus in the morning or in line behind someone who cannot make up their mind about what kind of coffee they want or getting the rookie checker at the market.(Many folks have their pet peeves when it comes to being made to wait. Mine is the store clerk who puts people on the phone ahead of those who are standing right in front of her. Once I even went so far as to take out my cell, call the store, ask for this clerk’s department and talk to her on the phone - pleasantly! - as I looked her in the eye. Okay, that’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?)I spent last January in India and there I found my attitude adjusting. I was there without business, essentially on vacation. Waiting in line at the airport or the post office was as much of the experience as getting to where I was going. It was in one of those lines that it occurred to me that this is true all the time. Waiting isn’t life on hold until we can get to what we think of as our real life. Waiting is … life. I can stand in line and get frustrated – and let everyone around me know I’m frustrated – or I can make conversation; people watch; think my own thoughts. That’s the first lesson – waiting is as much a part of life as whatever we’re waiting for. A second lesson is more humbling. When I get frustrated because others are in my way, I’m really saying that my life, my business, my interests are more important. I don’t say that, of course. I mean how would it sound? “Excuse me, I’m going to step ahead of you or at least hurry you along because I’m, well, important and you’re not.” Ewww.There is another situation when rushing another was once a temptation for me. I am a fast thinker and a fast responder. (Note that fast does not equal deep or true.) My husband is the opposite. He carefully considers what he says and might take several minutes to form a reply to a question. From Pat I learned that waiting for those who think before they speak leads to a more fruitful, satisfying discussion.Finally – as this is the last meditation on rushing, at least for a while – there are always those who cannot keep up the pace we set for ourselves. And thank God for them. Whether it be a slower walker or a slower thinker, there is a gift to being forced to slow down and observe the world from a less hectic pace.There is opportunity for grace in every moment. All we have to do is not will away the moment in order to get to the next one. Waiting IS the journey.pbsNovember 3, 2008 – Thoughts before Election Day
I haven’t written about the election. It’s not like I'm not paying attention. I don’t remember an election that has captured so much attention – including mine. Pat and I have watched every debate – once we figured out how to tune-in online. I read the columns. I ask people what they think. We don’t watch TV so we’re missing the ads and probably a good portion of vitriol – which is fine by me. I remember something columnist Charles Krauthammer wrote (I'm paraphrasing): “The myth is that liberals are stupid and conservatives are mean.” I see that myth in play all the time. In the first part of my life I was embedded with liberals. Even Dad who worked as an editor for the Stars and Stripes European edition – NOT a hotbed of liberalism, as you can well imagine! – was a relative liberal, I suppose. I was in my early teens when Dad got in trouble after he printed a 3-graf story on the My Lai incident in Vietnam. The story didn’t take a position, but just noted that it had happened. He was called on the carpet by a general who ordered that no more stories about that incident were to appear in the Stripes. But I digress.I went to college and got involved with a group who published a journal titled – I kid you not – The Insurgent Sociologist. The University of Oregon’s sociology department WAS a hotbed of liberals – in fact, they called themselves Marxists. I didn’t, as I eschewed labels from an early age, but the Marxists had a world view that I admired. And it was this world view – in fact the very saying some folks are grumping about just now – “From each according to his (her) ability; to each according to his (her) means.” – that moved me to become a Christian. From Acts 2:44-45: "All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as they had need." When I read that, I thought I’d met the perfect utopian community – Christians. I accepted baptism from a rogue Jesuit and learned to be a Catholic on the campus of Saint Louis University – a place where, in the seventies and eighties, some of the best American Catholic thinkers wandered through. I took classes from professors of every political stripe and learned then that liberals were NOT stupid and conservatives were NOT mean.
I also learned that, in addition to eschewing labels, I couldn’t know enough to call myself either. I just couldn’t hold in my head the nuanced positions of these great thinkers. When such intelligent and genuinely good people disagree, what’s a girl to do?And there was something else. Something in my confused background influenced me to be always more concerned with the common ground. I had a concrete experience of this when Pat and I conducted a tour of Washington, DC for 60 members of the Combined Christian Choir. It was October of 2004 – just before another election. On the bus were Bush folks, Kerry folks and even a few green Nader folks and old Buchanan folks. But on that tour the labels fell off for a while. As we did a Prayer Walk at the War Memorials, remembering the fallen and praying for peace, we walked on common ground.That desire to walk on common ground is why I don’t write about the election tomorrow. Because at the end of the day, we will all be here living together and it’s that living together that best occupies my humble gifts and waning energy. I admire folks who take strong stands. I listen to all the arguments. I will vote. But today I pray – God, bless our communities on the day after the election; God, bless America; God, bless this whole wonderful world.pbsOctober 25, 2008 - Forgiveness is Not …
Forgiveness is not condoning the offense. (“For them the behavior was right because of their circumstances, culture, upbringing, etc.”)Forgiveness is not mitigating or making light of the behavior. (“It was bad, but other people do it and some do worse and, in fact, I’ve done worse myself.”)Forgiveness is not making light of the harm. (“I’ll get over it.”)Forgiveness is not taking the blame on oneself. )“I shouldn’t have been walking at night.” or “I provoked him.” or “I'm too sensitive.”)Forgiveness is not dependent on the culpability of the offender.Forgiveness is not dependent on the remorse of the offender.Forgiveness is not dependent on the response of the offender.Forgiveness is not reserved only for minor offenses.Forgiveness is not only for people who find it easy to forgive.Forgiveness is not forgetting.Forgiveness is not putting oneself in harm’s way.Forgiveness is not necessarily with the goal of reconciliation.Forgiveness is not weakness.Forgiveness is not (usually) finished once and for all. Forgiveness is the conscious decision to love the offender and wish that person well. pbsNovember 27, 2008 – Constancy
It’s a lovely word – constancy. One can imagine naming a girl child Constancy. It is a virtue – steadfastness. And it’s something I'm not. I begin things, sometimes with great enthusiasm, and then … well … you know. I'm not proud of this.This Thanksgiving morning I awoke with two desires: a strong desire to resume my morning exercises and an equally strong desire to once again write this “weekly” meditation. The five morning exercises are really small rituals I learned from friend Bethany. They are not time-consuming and they’re even fun – like playing on a playground. And the benefit is so obvious – clearing the mind, loosening up the muscles, the joints, even the bowels! (And who doesn’t want easy bowels?) Yet, I allow myself to forget or avoid this simple practice. Why?! I’ve also let go of my daily walk. Again, why?!?! In her new book, Acedia and Me, Kathleen writes that taking a walk is an act of self-respect. Hmmm.So this morning I made my coffee, but didn’t allow myself a sip until I had finished my little rituals. Then I came to my computer to find a message from friend Usha in India: “Hey Paige, missing your page! Whatever happened?” (Thanks for the nudge, Usha.) And, friend readers, forgive my lack of constancy. On this Thanksgiving Day (in the USA), I am grateful for so much. I don’t want to miss it – not a minute of it. Writing and exercising daily is part of not missing it. I hope this day finds you grateful … and not missing it. pbsNovember 29, 2008 – Last Things
I observe several New Year Beginnings. There’s the new year of life that begins on my birthday every July 9. There’s the beginning of the school year, moved to late August by those who do not understand that God meant school to begin on the Tuesday after Labor Day! There is January 1, the beginning of the civil new year. And there is the beginning of the church year on the first Sunday of Advent – tomorrow. So today is another New Year’s Eve – a day to reflect on the last things.In November in my part of the world the leaves are off the trees, the weather is turning colder and meditating on the Last Things – the final moments of our lives – comes naturally - at least for one of a reflective nature like myself.Time does cease for each one of us. Life is short. Even those who live to eighty or ninety or more will tell you that life flies by. We don’t get to choose the day or the hour when this life ends. It could be years. It could be tomorrow afternoon while we are washing dishes or making a shopping list or debating about one more cup of coffee. When we grasp the fact of the shortness of this life, we are driven to live each day to the fullest.Knowing this, still I find myself tempted to vacillate between two attitudes: I can do it anytime! and It’s too late for me. We work late hours as if our children will always be small. We drink too much, eat too much, smoke too much, exercise too little as if I can do it (stop, change, slow down, smell the roses, write that book I'm meant to write) anytime or It’s too late for me (to change, to start over, to learn something new). We fail to forgive, fail to call a dying friend, fail to write that thank-you note, fail to say we’re sorry, fail to find true love as if I can do it anytime! or It’s too late for me! Whether we’re seven or seventy years old – we don’t have limitless time, but as long as we’re on this earth, it’s not too late. God’s time – and therefore OUR time – is now! The only thing it’s too late for is waiting for anytime. Anytime never comes. pbs December 5, 2008 – To Love a Child
Yesterday I spent the morning in the doctor’s office with my granddaughter, Sakura. She’s been sick – first strep throat and then pneumonia. Then yesterday she awoke with spots all over her face and body. “Purple spots,” she said. She had a high fever and she’s sick the way only a child can be sick – whimpering in her sleep, so drawn looking, so … quiet … unnaturally quiet. The doctor isn’t sure what it is, even after a chest x-ray and blood work. We're waiting and watching.In the afternoon, after leaving Sakura with Mommy, I drove around town delivering profiles of children to three new sponsors. Let me explain: I am an advocate for CFCA – the Christian Foundation for Children and Aging. We first heard of them when we heard one of their speakers at our church. Pat and I began sponsoring two Guatemalan children, a sister and brother the same ages Sakura and Nicky. Then last January I went to India where I met the CFCA project in Hyderabad. From a fairly hands-off sponsor whose monthly donation was withdrawn automatically from our credit card, I became a true believer.I’ve never seen such good work done with so little. Sponsorship is $30 a month and with that a child is educated, clothed, provided school supplies and necessary medical care. What really impressed me was the dedication to the family. Sponsored children's mothers are also offered education and empowered to begin their own businesses. From India I emailed the CFCA offices in Kansas City and asked them to have 25 profiles of children waiting for me when I returned. All of those children now have sponsors from our area and we added little Vignon to our refrigerator gallery of sponsored children. We are presented with the world’s misery so regularly that I think we shield ourselves from the suffering by unconsciously imagining that somehow other people don’t love their children as much as we love ours; that other people don’t weep when their children suffer. Holding Sakura while she slept and whimpered, I thought of the Indian mothers I met a year ago and the Guatemalan mothers I met when I was there adopting Sakura’s father and uncles. I wondered what it would be like to hold a little suffering child that you would give your life for and have no recourse, no medicine, no doctor, no nourishing food or clean water. It would be agony.A CFCA staff member called me last month. There are children who have been too long on a waiting list for a sponsor and with the global economic issues, it’s harder to find people who will commit. Would I try to find 25 more sponsors? I was hesitant. It’s a busy time, etc., etc. But the real reason I hesitated is that if I fail to find the sponsors I have to return the profiles of these children after I’ve already looked at their faces. However, I agreed to try.Calls have come in from folks who read my article in our parish bulletin or heard me speak about CFCA on the radio. So far there are ten newly sponsored children. I really don’t want to return the other 15: Luis from Guatemala, John Russel from the Philippines, Keerthana from India, and the other beautiful children. So … friends and readers, if you can find a way to free up $30 a month, please contact me and I’ll match you up with a real sweetheart. I know these are hard times and money doesn’t stretch as far. The thing is, in India and Guatemala and other places where these children live, $30 stretches farther than you would believe.We’re still not sure what is ailing Sakura. We’re very worried, but at the same time we know we’re fortunate because she’s got good medicine and good care … and a good, plucky spirit, bless her heart. Bless the hearts of all little children and those who love them. pbsDecember 10, 2008 - Shhhhh
A month ago I was stricken with laryngitis – total voice loss. Even whispering was painful and I did so only when necessary. It becomes a very quiet world when one cannot speak. I’ll pause here for all the jokes, including the inevitable “what a blessing for Pat.” Okay, finished?Try spending a day out and about in the world, but in total silence. The reaction of a few people is to talk louder. These are the same people who talk louder to the deaf. There is some vague logic to that, but talking louder to a mute? Most people, however, begin to talk quietly, even whispering to match my whispers. And you know, it makes for a nicer, gentler world.I'm reminded of a retreat Pat and I made. One exercise was partners were told to face each other and, on the count of three, begin telling each other what we really wanted. As soon as the director counted three, the room was cacophonous – folks yelling to each other, “I want. I want! I WANT!!!” Pat looked at me and simply whispered and, amazingly, I could hear him beneath all the yelling. When he was finished, I whispered back to him. Yesterday I heard an interview with the conductor and pianist, Daniel Barenboim. He said that in English we can distinguish between hearing and listening. In German the words are simply hören and zuhören. The distinction is important because, he said, it is possible to hear without listening and to listen without hearing. Listening implies a certain consciousness or attention. We can hear music in the store or a child talking or a sermon or a warning, but not listen to it, not attend to it. This is an experience we can all identify with, I think. We live in such a noisy world.When Mr. Barenboim said we could “listen without hearing,” I thought at first that he was mistaken. He didn’t explain and I found myself trying to imagine listening without hearing. It dawned on me that we could be listening so hard for one particular sound, that we could miss hearing everything else. We might be longing so much for someone, listening so hard for the voice of that someone, that we miss hearing the voices of those around us. We might be listening for someone to say, “I love you” and miss hearing that very message in the words, “Would you like some soup?” This time of preparation for Christmas is a good chance to practice our listening skills - to listen for the messages of grace in unexpected places. You know, like from a God-child in a manger.pbsDecember 20, 2008 - The Christmas Pageant
This week we went to the school Christmas Pageant to watch Sakura's stage debut as an angel. It brought back memories of another pageant 16 years ago. Philip, who would become Sakura's daddy, but was then only ten, wore a black robe from Halloween, explaining that he was a "Desert Dude." His younger brother, Nate, was to play a “townsperson” and was supposed to wear his father’s bathrobe. I asked if he was certain he wasn’t a shepherd, thinking that only shepherds wore bathrobes in school Christmas pageants. He sighed and, in that patient tone reserved for parents and idiots, explained that “in olden times everyone wore bathrobes all the time.” Costumes on, teeth brushed, a dozen cookies hastily gathered onto a paper plate for the reception afterwards, we piled out the door, leaving our teenager, Daniel, home to do dishes and study for his last exam. His regret sounded sincere to the little boys and I noted how much he had matured.It was a crisp, clear night with half-a-moon out and I suggested we walk the few blocks to the school. Philip looked worried. I hastily assured him that we would be there in plenty of time for me to help tie head-pieces for all the Desert Dudes. He still looked troubled, glancing up and down the street, and asked, “But are you sure you can defend yourself?” He was concerned for my safety on a short walk in our neighborhood.I thought of the Holy Innocents: children who are victims of violence because someone has failed to find the Christ Child. And the victims aren’t just those who are assaulted or killed, although they hold a special place in our prayers. All children are victims of a violent society. Their open, trusting natures have to be bent in order to protect them: “Don’t talk to strangers.” “Don’t walk home from school by yourself.” “Never answer the door when you’re home alone.” “Never tell a caller that your parents aren’t home. Say instead, ‘They can’t come to the phone right now.’”The Christmas Pageant was exactly as it should be, as it always has been: the gym filled with hard, metal folding-chairs; sleepy parents filing in after a day of work and a hasty meal; a nervous music teacher giving orders - “Parents, we really canNOT begin until the aisles are CLEAR!” Children in their fathers’ bathrobes were transformed into “townspersons” and “Desert Dudes.” And, of course, there were the nervous shepherds, giggling angels, and the usual principals: the Wise Men, Mary, and Joseph.The audience of proud parents and relatives never seem to get bored with this ritual. We laughed on cue at corny lines and watch breathlessly as our precious child makes it to the stage. “The Light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.” The Light shines from school gyms and church basements and sanctuaries where the story is told and retold. It glows on the faces of the Innocents. Thank you, Desert Dude, for sharing with us the Littlest Angel in the Pageant.pbsJanuary 16, 2009 - One Kind of Folks
My friend, Kathy, called one evening with an emergency. Her son, Jack, a sophomore in high school, needed a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. Did I have one I could give her? Could she pick it up that night? I've given away a dozen copies of Harper Lee's marvelous book, but it had been a while since I'd read it. As I was waiting for Kathy I paged through the book, reading favorite bits here and there. Tears came to my eyes as I remembered when this book was introduced to me. Like Jack, I was also fifteen. It was the spring of my sophomore year – in 1968. Can Jack and his classmates possibly understand this book as we did in 1968? Can they imagine that people were really concerned about who drank at what water fountain or who sat where on a bus? In 1968 Atticus Finch and Tom Robinson were familiar characters in towns throughout this nation. Sadly, so were Bob Ewell and his daughter, Mayella. In the spring of 1968 we mourned the death of Martin and just two months later, Bobby. But not everyone mourned.When I was Jack's age we couldn't imagine that Americans would elect a black man to be President of the United States, at least not in our lifetime. Forty years doesn't seem so long ago, but there has been a sea-change, a revolution within the hearts and minds of our people. I know it's not finished, this revolution. There were folks quoted in our local paper to the effect that "the world" isn't ready for an African-American president. And certainly there are a disproportionate number of young black men in our prisons. Sadly, Atticus's words still ring true: "The one place where a man ought to get a square deal is in a courtroom, be he any color of the rainbow, but people have a way of carrying their resentments right into a jury box."Yet the human imagination is a powerful force for good. If we can imagine it, we can make it happen and we have now imagined a black man into the position where he will represent all of us. And the world is jubilant. People of color all over the world feel raised up and somehow vindicated … and envious. Jordanian Blogger, identified only as Mohanned, writes, "Where is our Obama?" Journalist Yossi Sarid of Israel writes, "There are those in Israel who are envious of the hope Americans have not yet lost." And he asks, too, "Where is our Obama?" And most recently, the shell-shocked citizens of Mumbai were heard on international television news asking again, "Where is our Obama?" I think the world is ready.And let's not forget that thanks to Governor Palin and Senator Clinton – I'm sorry, Madam Secretary Clinton – we can also imagine a woman in the highest office of our land. The economy may be in the tank and we are mired in an incomprehensible war and we still must struggle with the issue of the sanctity of life (at its beginning and its ending and all points in between) and there are too many people without access to decent health care and maybe it will get worse before it gets better, but at least we're a lot closer to realizing the words of little Scout Finch: "I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks."Amen, honey. Amen.pbsJanuary 2, 2009 - New Year's Greeting
For the first time in our married life we did not send out Christmas cards. Please don’t remove us from your list! Advent was just a little too full for us to manage some things we always do. It was a time of loss and it was rich – two words that don’t often go together. We said goodbye to Pat’s dad. We’ve discussed when the dying began and it’s hard to pin a date on it. Certainly during his last months he was diminishing. It was helpful to see it through the eyes of our granddaughter, Sakura. She wasn’t afraid or dismayed by her Greatpa’s lessening abilities. She was happy to listen to the same words and to show him each time how to find his way around our house. She knew that he loved her and he did love so well, right to the end.He died on the day after Christmas, peacefully, at home, attended by his daughters and Mom, whose day-to-day devotion was inspiring. At the visitation Sakura, again not afraid, looked at his body and then at a photo next to the coffin. Back and forth she looked and then said, “Nope, he’s not there. His soul is in heaven.” She walked away and busied herself with her crayons and then came up to the coffin and placed on her Greatpa’s hands a colored picture with the words, “from Sakura. I Love you.” Goodbyes are hard, but so much less hard than not saying Goodbye. Dad’s funeral Mass was beautiful – the words, the music, the community, the fellowship. All beautiful. So, we say Goodbye to Dad. To 2008. To the people we were in 2008. To the five-, three-, and one-year-old grandchildren who in 2009, will be six, four and two. And that’s the key. Just as five leads to six, so death leads to life. Goodbye always leads to Hello. Pretty cool, really.The only response to it all is, “Thank you.” And that’s why we are sending a note of gratitude as our New Year Greeting. More than ever we are grateful for our family, our friends, our church community, the opportunities in this life and even the hardships. We pray that you, too, will find gratitude as your response to whatever losses you experience this year and, certainly, to whatever joys. Then it will truly be a Happy New Year.pbsJanuary 29 – The Cell Door is Open!
Sometimes an image just sticks with me. Haunts me would be a better description. One such image is from an interview we watched a few years ago; part of a documentary about the death penalty. A prisoner – a “lifer” – talked about his dream of being out on the sea again. He said something like, “You know, when you wake up here (in prison), you are never fully awake. You drink three or four cups of coffee and still you stumble around half-awake until bed time. But on a boat ...” and here his eyes just glistened with enthusiasm. “On a boat when you wake up you’re fully awake and fully alive and you don’t need caffeine or anything but the fresh air and the sight of the sea and sky.” It’s so easy to never breathe fresh air, never enjoy the sight of sky and the feel of wind. There have been times in my life when I’ve gone for several days without going out of the house or, when I do go out to get the mail or run an errand, I don’t notice. I don’t appreciate. I certainly don’t relish the weather and my eyes don’t glisten with enthusiasm.When did weather become the enemy? My friend Judy said she makes it a practice to go outside with her first cup of coffee, no matter what the weather. If it’s cold she bundles. If it’s wet she might stay under her porch roof. If it’s hot … well, it’s never too hot in the early morning. We’ve been going through a bit of cold weather here. It’s been in the teens and two days ago we had snow of five to six inches. I was tempted to cocoon, but I kept thinking about that prisoner. Why should I live as if I’m in prison when my cell door is open and the outside is beckoning? So as the evening snow fell we made a plan for the next day. (It starts with clothes, but I think I’ll write about that another day. Suffice it to say, too many winter clothes sold today are made to look warm, not be warm. Acrylic doesn’t cut it!)Right after the morning chores, we headed out for a doctor’s appointment, then delivered groceries to a homebound friend, and then picked up our granddaughter and visited other friends with whom we hiked in the woods, played in the snow and had a breathtaking, fully awake, glisteningly good time. There are a lot of other uses to which one could apply the metaphor of living in a prison with the cell door open. Whether we’re prisoners of our possessions or our bad health habits or our grudges or our fear of failure or our lack of discipline or our negative thinking or … whatever … a prison is a prison. Sometimes it seems easier to bang our heads on the walls of the cell than to walk through the open door, but who wants to waste this one precious life in a prison of our own making?Gotta run. I need some fresh air. Peace.pbsFebruary 6, 2009 – Enough Already!
Is there any way to introduce the notion of “enough” into the model of a healthy economy? Does “getting back to normal” mean perpetuating the idea that more!bigger!newer! is better? Is there any way for the wider economy to encourage personal economy and personal economy to contribute to a healthy society? Our economic model is based on the idea of a bottomless landfill – a landfill located in our basements and attics and garages (and a growing self-storage industry). It goes something like this: Individuals should buy lots and lots of stuff, even if it means getting into debt and acquiring more things than they need or can manage. The more people are willing to buy without regard for their actual needs or the needs of others, the sooner we will be “back to normal.”Why is a growing economy the goal? Why not a stable economy? Again, the national imagination seems to be that growing (more!bigger!newer!) is better than enough. Even when our experience is that more!bigger!newer! is exhausting, leaving us with jangled nerves and not enough energy to do more than watch the lives of others on television, surf the net and shop online. One step toward developing a different model of a healthy economy may be to stop confusing our goals and the means toward realizing those goals. For example: The current stimulus package includes measures for preventive health care. Economists ask, “Is healthy really better for the economy?” And some are saying … wait for it … “No”! Is this weird or what? A goal of a civilized society is the best health possible for all citizens. Even if unhealthy people create more profit somewhere, wouldn’t it be better if most of us were walking around feeling good? Another example: folks are encouraged to buy their houses as an “investment.” Should our house really be an investment? Or should we invest ourselves in a house to make it a home, to create for our loved ones a hospitable haven, a place of memories and traditions? Again, the means have become the goal and the goals have become the means. “Normal” is not good enough. We need an economic model that supports the higher goods: a healthy, active childhood; idealistic, purposeful adolescence; generous, nurturing middle years; a satisfying old age. We could have the best of education, travel, music, art, literature. We could enjoy throughout our lives the beauty and bounty of the earth, stimulating human discourse, supportive community, adequately comfortable homes. Everyone - the poor; the immigrant; even the elderly who are now warehoused in the most disgusting fashion. We could even have leisure - time to just be and become our best, truest self. pbsFebruary 13, 2009 – Imagine This!
(Following is a little parable illustrating the point of last week's meditation, "Enough Already!" You may access all previously posted meditations by clicking on the links to the left.)Before there is any meaningful change, before we can give up looking backward for an unsatisfying idea of “normal,” we need to spark our imaginations. To that end, here’s an old story - a parable.A wealthy businessman took a vacation to a small tropical island in the South Pacific. He has worked hard all his life and finally he is ready to enjoy the fruits of his labors. He is alone because his marriage ended in divorce long ago and his children are grown now and strangers to him. But he is excited because the island has a reputation for good fishing. He loved fishing as a young boy, but hasn’t fished in years. His business had demanded all of his energy.So on the first day he has his breakfast and heads to the beach where he spots a fisherman coming in with a large bucket full of fish. “How long did you fish?” he asks. The fisherman looks at the businessman with a wide grin and explains that he fishes for about three hours every day. The businessman then asks him why he returned so quickly. “Don’t worry,” responds the fisherman, “there’s still plenty of fish out there.”Dumbfounded, the businessman asks the fisherman why he didn’t continue catching more fish. The fisherman patiently explains that what he caught is all he needs. “Now it’s time to be with my family, talk with my friends and maybe drink a little wine and relax on the beach.”
The businessman decides to teach this peasant fisherman a thing or two. So he explains to him that if he would stay out all day and catch more fish he could save up the extra money he makes and invest it in more boats and eventually hire other fishermen to work for him. If he works really hard, in 20 or 30 years he’ll be a very rich man indeed.The businessman feels pleased that he’s helped teach this simple fellow how to become rich. Then the fisherman looks at the businessman with a puzzled look on his face and asks what he will do after he becomes very rich.The businessman responds quickly, “You can spend time with your family, talk with your friends, maybe drink a little wine and relax on the beach.”pbs (with thanks to anonymous)May 10 - Mom Wisdom
On this Mother’s Day I thought I would note some Mom Wisdom – the kind of sensible advice that we give our children, but too often fail to give the child within each of us. If you're stretched and stressed, find a mirror, look yourself right in the eye - lovingly, but with that “don’t argue with me” face you show your children - and tell yourself what you would tell your much-loved, albeit cranky, child. Sleep. Americans are sleep-deprived. According to the National Sleep Foundation, 45 percent of us sleep less than eight hours a night – more like six-and-a-half – and we are sleepy on the job. Sleepy folks are crabby, less concentrated, less efficient, less able to care lovingly for our children, teach our students, attend to our customers, or pay attention to anything for very long.Walk. Parking is a problem on school parking lots where over half the school population lives within a mile of the school. We drive to the YMCA to exercise. We drive to the store – and park as close to the door as we can get! – to buy the best walking shoes in the world. Water. With the ubiquitous presence of carbonated beverages, which do not quench thirst, but actually make us thirstier, Americans are dehydrated. Studies are exploring the relationship of dehydration to a host of physical and emotional conditions, including depression, anxiety and obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD).Dine. Not grazing like pack animals or snatching food like refugees who have been given twenty-four hours to clear their homeland. Dine. Sit around a table with loved ones and eat a meal cooked with healthy ingredients in your own kitchen.Quiet. We need quiet, not only for the ears, but for the eyes. There are shelves of books all about de-cluttering our lives. It is simply this: we can have the thing or we can have the space it occupies. We can have the activity or we can have the time it takes to do it. We cannot have both. Quiet that penetrates the mind, heart and soul makes possible the higher human activities: learning, music, art, writing, thought, prayer, communication, loving. Sleep, water, walking, dining, quiet. Why do we prefer the complex and expensive solutions to our ailments over the simpler Mom Wisdom that is free and readily available? Why not start today with a nap and a good meal? And then, drink a glass of water, take a walk, and leave behind your phone and your iPod.July 4 - Praying With Everyone
I was in a used book store and found The Oxford Book of Prayers - a collection of intercessory prayers from all traditions, organized by topic. I took the book to the counter and asked, “How much?” “Why do you want it?” the clerk asked. “I write prayers for a living,” I explained.“Cool job,” he said, and charged me a dollar.It is a “cool job.” But sometimes it’s challenging. How can we pray together when we disagree? What do we say to God, out loud, in the presence of others, without inadvertently demanding from someone an unwilling “Amen.”I remember the prayer volleys of a community I worshipped with almost forty years ago. Whether the topic was the Vietnam war or the presidential election or the role of women in the church, the prayers would fairly ricochet of the walls as passionate statements in the form of prayers were lobbed into the room. A couple of very good pastors taught me to look for common ground. One of those pastors offered a Mass on the eve of Desert Storm, and began by saying something like this: “Some of us think going to war is what we need to do. Some of us think it’s a dreadful mistake. Some of us think all war is wrong. But we all want the same thing. We disagree on the means, but we all want the same thing. We want to feel safe. We want a future for our children. We want beauty, calm, and a place to grow. We want peace. We all want peace. And so, let us unite ourselves in our prayer for peace.”As we celebrate this Independence Day, let us unite ourselves across this land and pray for peace . . . for peace among the nations and in all the troubled areas of the world . . . for peace where ever there is violence and people live in fear . . . for peace among neighbors . . . within our families and communities . . . for peace within our hearts . . . we pray.June 21 - Fathers Love Your Children
In the Gospels Jesus reveals a tender God; one who knows every sparrow that falls to the ground and the number of hairs on each of our heads. God know us and God cares.We are so surrounded by images of harshness that we forget that the far more common way is gentleness. I remember a bus ride from Guatemala City to Chichicastenango where I visited the Church of Santo Thomás. It was a four-hour trip with three to a seat the whole way and I had plenty of time to watch the people and distract myself from my jostled spine and iffy stomach. Fathers with their children fascinated me. They were so tender with their little ones.We imagine that people foreign to us love less intensely. We can’t imagine that they mourn the loss of their children just as we do. When their children die, foreign fathers and mothers are devastated, just as we are when our babies are taken from us. They grieve if their children die of cancer after every possible medical intervention or from infection because there is no medicine or from malnutrition because there is no food. They grieve if their child dies by violence and it doesn’t matter if it is the bomb of a terrorist or a liberator; the bullet of a criminal or an officer of the law.People who are different from us aren’t different in this way. They aren’t “used to it.” They don’t “get over it” anymore than we do. It might be more comfortable to believe that what we feel when our children die is not what they feel. This is taking comfort in a lie. The truth, however, is almost unbearable. If we imagine our own grief upon the loss of one child we love and then accept for a moment that every child that dies is mourned with the same intensity, one wonders how the world contains such anguish.Fathers, hold your children close. Teach them by example what we hear from Jesus: “Do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” July 9, 2009 – Happy Birthday, Again!
My spiritual director, Sr. Marian, once told me that women’s bodies change radically every seven years and that it takes us three-and-a-half years to get used to each change. I feel like I'm about a year into adjusting to a new me.It’s hard to believe that just a couple years ago I trekked all over south India; that I walked – and even jogged (slowly, but actually jogged) – three half-marathons. I felt so brave and fit. Now I feel scared and sluggish.I fell down in our basement a couple weeks ago. It was a hard fall, knocking parts of me against a step and other parts up against a steel post while the remaining parts hit concrete. I really thought I had broken something. Two weeks later, I'm still sore, but I’ve met with a new chiropractor and I'm more confident that I can come back from this without pain and get even healthier.I watched a video called Ashtanga NY, about a yoga group. (If you subscribe to Netflix, you can find it in their Watch Instantly section.) These people can do things that one associates with … well, with freaks! But they are ordinary people who just got tired of how they felt and what they were told to do to feel better. One lovely person, the grandson of aging yoga guru Sri K. Pattabhi Jois, said this: “Old people can do yoga. Young people can do yoga. Strong people can do yoga. Sick people can do yoga. Men can do yoga. Women can do yoga. Lazy people ….” He smiled. “Lazy people cannot do yoga.”I’ve been a lazy person. I'm 57 today. Can I change? Yes. Will I change? Please God. Happy Birthday to me ... again!July 25, 2009 - Falling Down
Last winter I fell down. It was a Saturday morning and had snowed the night before. My husband, Pat, and I have been walking with a group every week for several years and we didn’t want to let a little snow keep us from our routine. We meet at 8:00 at the only coffee shop in our town, walk the river trail—three miles out, three miles back—and then sit and drink coffee and eat scones. Pat went out to feed our animals while I put together a little breakfast and when he came in he warned me: “Hon, the steps are icy. Be careful.” He said it again as he went to get the truck. I was only half-listening. I was thinking about music for my choir’s Advent concert and humming. As I came out the door Pat said again, “Be careful, the steps are …,” and down I went. Ouch.Lesson learned, right?A month ago I took another fall that was much worse. It was in our basement where I had just put in a load of laundry. I wasn’t carrying anything. I wasn’t hurrying. I wasn’t even humming. But what I was also not doing is thinking, “Now I’m walking up the steps.” I tripped on the first step, fell headlong with my arm outstretched and I was sure I’d broken something. I was lucky. Sore for a week, but we were preparing our annual summer concert and directing a choir is the perfect exercise for staying limber. I did become a little afraid of the basement stairs. And that’s not a bad thing. Now I’m conscious of what I’m doing: “I’m walking up the basement stairs.” It occurred to me – I should write about this. I mean how many accidents happen when people are actually thinking about what they are doing? “Now, I’m walking.” Or, “Now I’m using a sharp knife.” Or, “Now I’m driving. There’s another car. The driver is … hmmm … talking on the phone. Yikes.” But I’ve always been one for multi-tasking. Jesus tells us to “consider the lilies” and all traditions tell us to “be here now.” It’s good advice for life, not just for the clumsy or those approaching elder status. We miss less when we are in the present moment. We smell the fresh air, see the sky, notice the icy steps. And we don’t fall down as much. So now I’ve learned right? This morning I was baking bread. I’m not a great baker, but I follow a goof-proof recipe and once you’ve eaten homemade bread, even the result of my poor efforts, store loaves just don’t measure up. I use the Cusinart to knead the dough. (I know, kneading it by hand is supposed to be good for working out aggression, but if truth be told, I’m not that aggressive anymore.) As the bread dough formed into a ball, I was thinking about writing this column: about the joys of living in the moment; about how we find God in the present because God lives in eternity and we live in time and only in the present does God meet us—not yesterday, not tomorrow—now. Wow, this is good! Where’s my laptop?That’s when the gyrating Cuisinart fell off the counter. You see, friends: I don’t “preach to the choir.” I preach to the choir director. Hope she listens. Be Here Now.