I haven't been paying much attention to my hands these days. The other day my four-year old son looked at my hands and said, "Mommy, your hands are all wrinkly like a grandma." I laughingly said, "Oh, I have just been forgetting to put lotion on them lately." A moment later he returned with a little puddle of lotion cradled in his small, perfect palm, and started rubbing it into my hand. This thoughtful response really hit me. Honestly it reminded me of the woman in Luke 9 who rubbed oil all over Jesus' feet when everyone else in the room was concerned with religious precepts and political affiliations. Now, let me be clear, I'm certainly not comparing myself to Jesus. But I am suggesting that when Jesus answered his disciples inquiry about who is greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven with, "Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven." he was talking about moments like these. What Jesus saw in children is something so pure, attentive, and vulnerable that we often overlook it, preoccupied as we are by the business of the day, our own insecurities, and our tendency to put our deep concerns on the back burner. What first sounded like a criticism, "your hands look wrinkly" revealed itself to be deep caring and concern.
I admitted I had been forgetting to care for myself, and my sweet boy went and got lotion and cared for me.
I have always loved hands. I have what I can only hope is a real memory of a photograph I saw somewhere as a child. It was a black and white of an elderly Native American woman with a kind, dark, leathery face mapped with deep lines that seemed to surround her features with a powerful topography. In her arms she cradled a newborn baby softly with her long fingers wrapped most of the way around his tiny head. Where her fingers came across his cheek, the dark, leathery, lined story of her hand met the soft, smooth, creamy newness of his face's yet untold story. I remember thinking, right then and there, how beautiful her hands and face were. On some level I think I felt how powerful it was to behold the face that she had earned. And those hands. Those hands had held so many babies; washed so many clothes so that others had something to wear; ground so many bowls of corn into flour for meals; cleaned so many dishes so that her family may be fed; and shaped so many hard, gritty lumps of clay into beautiful sturdy bowls for the table, and into vases for the windowsills.
I have a wood carving that Dave and I bought in Southern Germany. It is a little boy leaning into the curved palm of a big hand. I love this image. It's my image of God. No matter what circumstances are swirling around me, no matter how tired I am, or how overwhelmed by worry I feel, when I imagine myself held like that in what I'm sure is God's very calloused, lined, leathery, strong hand, I know I am loved--just like the vulnerable baby held safely in his elderly grandmother's wonderfully old hands. From those old hands he will learn what love, gentleness, and nurture really look and feel like.
The other day a set of very young, very soft, very little hands reminded me what love, gentleness, and nuture look and feel like. My son's new, unlined, smooth hands began to tell their own story. They told a story about how the sweet boy to whom they belong is learning to think about others; learning to figure out what others need; developing a heart full of compassion that wants to help those in need.
I haven't been paying much attention to my hands these days, but my son has. On some level he seems to know that they hold him when he's scared, make the meals that nourish him, wipe his bottom, wash his hair, wash his clothes, and clap for him when he does fabulous things. Yesterday when we were walking into our local book and toy store (yes, we have only one in our little town) he slid his hand out of mine as we approached the door, as he always does to feel independent. This time, though, he looked down at my hand as he let go and said, "Mom, I love your hands." I was so caught off guard by this that I almost teared up. In the moment I just said, "thank you, buddy. I love your hands too." But what I would like to say to him now is more like "Thank you, my sweet little man. Thank you for giving them the stories they tell."
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
The Face of Grace
Time is a funny thing. When we're happy it seems to fly. When we're struggling, it's like molasses in January. When it's summer in Missouri with restless, creative children running all over the house, "creating" at 5 times the rate I can clean up, the happy times and the struggles trade places about every half hour. If you have ever spent an entire day with several kids at all different developmental stages, you know that it's remeniscent of videos in behavioral neuroscience class where neurologists would stimulate different parts of the brain and we would see the subject go from being carefree and delightful to a full-blown rage in the space of 30 seconds. When kids are happy, being around them feels like being wrapped in a plush blanket on a freezing day. When kids are out of sorts, at least to me, it can be a big recipe for crazy cake, the ingredients of which are: constant arguing over petty little things; blaring of loud music...and repeat; dumping baskets of small plastic things all over the floor; inability to stay full; and the inevitable shrill shouting of "MOOOOOOOOMMY" from somewhere across the house about every 5 minutes. Stir that together with a couple of big dogs running around barking at everything that moves, bake in a 110 degree oven with 95% humidity for about 5 hours, and VOILE, you've got a crazy cake with Mom written in shaky handwriting on top!
But that's only on some of the days. On days like yesterday, the last of our summer play days before Abby's school started, the universe reminds me of why I decided to do the Stay at Home Mom thing in the first place. It was cool enough outside to open the windows and turn on the ceiling fan. My childrens' best friend came over and they watched a short movie. After it ended they put on fun music while dancing wildly and giggling until their stomachs hurt (that's my personal favorite kind of laughter)! After that we got a big roll of paper out, rolled it the whole length of the kitchen floor, and used a big basket of crayons and colored pencils, and drew "the longest picture in the world", Ramona and Beezus style. We finished it off with a dinner of taco salads and leftover birthday cake ice cream. As Abby and Simon walked their best friend to the door they all hugged and made plans for her to come over after the first day of school and do homework together.
You see, that's the thing about time, and about life in general. If we tried to make an evaluation of our life based on any one moment in time, we would never be able to confindantly move forward. We could never be sure what to hang our hat on. We would just have constant emotional wiplash. The real joy of life is found in all the in-between spaces, the moments of grace, where we grow, learn, and find love despite our best laid plans. It's a lot like planting a garden. We put the seeds or plants in the ground, water them, get on our knees and get dirty pulling up the weeds to help them flourish, let the light bathe them. Then one day you walk out on your porch to relax and your senses are overcome with delicious aromas. The mint, basil, coneflowers, and marigolds are carried on the breeze and become part of the air you breathe. The beauty of their blooms is almost an afterthought. I think this is how moments of grace are in our lives. They're intangible, invisible. They capture us sometimes, and elude us sometimes. But they are always there if we have the eyes to see, ears to hear, and the quiet to let our senses behold them.
At the end of this Missouri summer I have a 3rd grader and a preschooler in his last year of preschool. I have had days where I felt like a crazy person,days when I felt like the most blessed person on earth, and days when the best thing to do was to do only what neeeded to be done and just keep moving. We have played in the ocean, visited grandparents, gone to movies, taken swimming lessons, played at the pool, taken little excursions to the "big city" (Kansas City). Dave and I even got out on one big date!! Most important of all, though, is that we all move into another year with the knowledge that we are known fully and loved deeply by one another. We have everything we need, even if there are still things that we want. We laugh together and share questions together before bedtime at night. We make provisional plans for our future, and have each other to love as we talk through the challenges of the present. These are the aromas of grace, the beauty that surrounds us even when particular moments may not be so lovely. This is, as Anne Lamotte puts it, "carbonated holiness".
But that's only on some of the days. On days like yesterday, the last of our summer play days before Abby's school started, the universe reminds me of why I decided to do the Stay at Home Mom thing in the first place. It was cool enough outside to open the windows and turn on the ceiling fan. My childrens' best friend came over and they watched a short movie. After it ended they put on fun music while dancing wildly and giggling until their stomachs hurt (that's my personal favorite kind of laughter)! After that we got a big roll of paper out, rolled it the whole length of the kitchen floor, and used a big basket of crayons and colored pencils, and drew "the longest picture in the world", Ramona and Beezus style. We finished it off with a dinner of taco salads and leftover birthday cake ice cream. As Abby and Simon walked their best friend to the door they all hugged and made plans for her to come over after the first day of school and do homework together.
You see, that's the thing about time, and about life in general. If we tried to make an evaluation of our life based on any one moment in time, we would never be able to confindantly move forward. We could never be sure what to hang our hat on. We would just have constant emotional wiplash. The real joy of life is found in all the in-between spaces, the moments of grace, where we grow, learn, and find love despite our best laid plans. It's a lot like planting a garden. We put the seeds or plants in the ground, water them, get on our knees and get dirty pulling up the weeds to help them flourish, let the light bathe them. Then one day you walk out on your porch to relax and your senses are overcome with delicious aromas. The mint, basil, coneflowers, and marigolds are carried on the breeze and become part of the air you breathe. The beauty of their blooms is almost an afterthought. I think this is how moments of grace are in our lives. They're intangible, invisible. They capture us sometimes, and elude us sometimes. But they are always there if we have the eyes to see, ears to hear, and the quiet to let our senses behold them.
At the end of this Missouri summer I have a 3rd grader and a preschooler in his last year of preschool. I have had days where I felt like a crazy person,days when I felt like the most blessed person on earth, and days when the best thing to do was to do only what neeeded to be done and just keep moving. We have played in the ocean, visited grandparents, gone to movies, taken swimming lessons, played at the pool, taken little excursions to the "big city" (Kansas City). Dave and I even got out on one big date!! Most important of all, though, is that we all move into another year with the knowledge that we are known fully and loved deeply by one another. We have everything we need, even if there are still things that we want. We laugh together and share questions together before bedtime at night. We make provisional plans for our future, and have each other to love as we talk through the challenges of the present. These are the aromas of grace, the beauty that surrounds us even when particular moments may not be so lovely. This is, as Anne Lamotte puts it, "carbonated holiness".
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Why Do You Run?
"Rabbi Levi saw a man running in the street, and asked him, 'Why do you run?' He replied, 'I am running after my good fortune!' Rabbi Levi tells him, 'Silly man, your good fortune hs been trying to chase you, but you are running too fast.'" --Traditional Tale
After a summer filled with many Do-It-Yourself projects, the kids' swimming lessons, visits from wonderful friends, the daily tending of a veggie garden, and all the normal everyday cleaning and laundry that has to be done for a family of 4, my husband and I are ready for rest. We're ready for the rhythms and routines that come with the kids being back in school, the weather getting cooler (of course anything under 100 degrees would feel cool at this point), and a little added structure to our days. I don't know about you, but I'm one who enjoys deadlines, projects, and schedules that help give shape to the content of my days. I'm not particularly good at creating that for myself, so I appreciate the natural structure that the school-year offers. The lessons, homework, conferences, and meetings for me are like posts in time, to which I can attach the pickets of my endeavors.
This personal need for routines and rhythms drew me back to read a couple of my favorite books about rest: one by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, and the other by ordained minister, therapist, and founder of Bread for the Journey (an organization serving families in need) Wayne Muller. Heschel's Book is entitled "The Sabbath". Muller's book is called "Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest". Outside of clergy like myself, these kind of books tend to be overlooked (even among clergy, quite frankly). We Americans aren't particularly comfortable with rest and reflection. We seem to have internalized the notion that to be idle is to be lazy. We even use Sundays as catch-up time for yardwork and housework. With so many demands, we just rarely let ourselves off the hook, much less set aside time to commune with God and just revel in silence.
We often avoid such time altogether because we don't know where to start. We feel like we would have to neglect family and work to incorporate time for spiritual reflection and rest. We tend to see Sabbath rest as an archaic restrictive rule, rather than an opportunity for renewal. Rabbi Heschel describes it this way, "...the world becomes a place of rest. An hour arrives like a guide, and raises our minds above accustomed thoughts. People assemble to welcome the wonder of the seventh day, while the Sabbath sends out its presence over the field, into our homes, into our hearts. It is a moment of resurrection of the dormant spirit in our souls."
Muller takes Hechel's Sabbath wisdom to heart, and offers small, manageable, life-giving spiritual practices that we can incorporate into the rhythms of our fast-paced life. Muller suggests we
"choose a period of time or an activity--such as a walk or hike,
alone or with someone you love--when you will refrain from speech.
Notice what arises in silence, the impluse to speak, the need to judge
or respond to what you see, hear, feel. Notice any discomfort that
arises when you are not free to speak. During a 10-day silent meditation
retreat, I was convinced that other retreatants--also silent--were all
angry, or somehow mad at me. I could not rely on my wit, charm, or
intellect to engage them. For the first few days I resented the silence.
Now, after years of practice, I seek out silences, I delight in them.
They seem sweet, safe, a Sabbath, a genuine sanctuary in time"
(Muller, p56).
We live in a culture that values diversion, busyness, and productivity over wholeness. Everywhere we turn we find the entreat to do more, be more, make more, and acquire more. It's no wonder that at the end of the day we feel exhausted and depleated, reaching desperately for that third cup of coffee or the energy drink of choice. Regardless of what particular faith tradition we belong to, if we want to be whole we must find a way to stop running, to face the quiet, and to give in to stillness. At first it will feel uncomfortable, even unnatural and unsettling. After some practice, though, it will begin to feel like the pool of fresh, cool water beneath a beautiful waterfall. Have you ever hiked for hours to get to a waterfall? You're hot, sweaty, tired, your muscles ache, your feet may be blistered. But when you reach the waterfall, lay down your pack, take off your shoes to immerse them in the cool water, it is easy to rest. It's a relief. It's the most natural joy, just sitting on a rock, breathing deeply of the mountain air, and taking in the beauty. This is Sabbath rest. Each of us will hike different hikes, struggle with different pains along the way, start our journey up the mountain from different places. At the end of the journey, though, we all need to be whole. We each need to bathe in the rest that is freely offered to us. Find the spiritual practice that works for you. Find a place of rest. Set it apart. Stop running. Your soul is waiting.
After a summer filled with many Do-It-Yourself projects, the kids' swimming lessons, visits from wonderful friends, the daily tending of a veggie garden, and all the normal everyday cleaning and laundry that has to be done for a family of 4, my husband and I are ready for rest. We're ready for the rhythms and routines that come with the kids being back in school, the weather getting cooler (of course anything under 100 degrees would feel cool at this point), and a little added structure to our days. I don't know about you, but I'm one who enjoys deadlines, projects, and schedules that help give shape to the content of my days. I'm not particularly good at creating that for myself, so I appreciate the natural structure that the school-year offers. The lessons, homework, conferences, and meetings for me are like posts in time, to which I can attach the pickets of my endeavors.
This personal need for routines and rhythms drew me back to read a couple of my favorite books about rest: one by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, and the other by ordained minister, therapist, and founder of Bread for the Journey (an organization serving families in need) Wayne Muller. Heschel's Book is entitled "The Sabbath". Muller's book is called "Sabbath: Restoring the Sacred Rhythm of Rest". Outside of clergy like myself, these kind of books tend to be overlooked (even among clergy, quite frankly). We Americans aren't particularly comfortable with rest and reflection. We seem to have internalized the notion that to be idle is to be lazy. We even use Sundays as catch-up time for yardwork and housework. With so many demands, we just rarely let ourselves off the hook, much less set aside time to commune with God and just revel in silence.
We often avoid such time altogether because we don't know where to start. We feel like we would have to neglect family and work to incorporate time for spiritual reflection and rest. We tend to see Sabbath rest as an archaic restrictive rule, rather than an opportunity for renewal. Rabbi Heschel describes it this way, "...the world becomes a place of rest. An hour arrives like a guide, and raises our minds above accustomed thoughts. People assemble to welcome the wonder of the seventh day, while the Sabbath sends out its presence over the field, into our homes, into our hearts. It is a moment of resurrection of the dormant spirit in our souls."
Muller takes Hechel's Sabbath wisdom to heart, and offers small, manageable, life-giving spiritual practices that we can incorporate into the rhythms of our fast-paced life. Muller suggests we
"choose a period of time or an activity--such as a walk or hike,
alone or with someone you love--when you will refrain from speech.
Notice what arises in silence, the impluse to speak, the need to judge
or respond to what you see, hear, feel. Notice any discomfort that
arises when you are not free to speak. During a 10-day silent meditation
retreat, I was convinced that other retreatants--also silent--were all
angry, or somehow mad at me. I could not rely on my wit, charm, or
intellect to engage them. For the first few days I resented the silence.
Now, after years of practice, I seek out silences, I delight in them.
They seem sweet, safe, a Sabbath, a genuine sanctuary in time"
(Muller, p56).
We live in a culture that values diversion, busyness, and productivity over wholeness. Everywhere we turn we find the entreat to do more, be more, make more, and acquire more. It's no wonder that at the end of the day we feel exhausted and depleated, reaching desperately for that third cup of coffee or the energy drink of choice. Regardless of what particular faith tradition we belong to, if we want to be whole we must find a way to stop running, to face the quiet, and to give in to stillness. At first it will feel uncomfortable, even unnatural and unsettling. After some practice, though, it will begin to feel like the pool of fresh, cool water beneath a beautiful waterfall. Have you ever hiked for hours to get to a waterfall? You're hot, sweaty, tired, your muscles ache, your feet may be blistered. But when you reach the waterfall, lay down your pack, take off your shoes to immerse them in the cool water, it is easy to rest. It's a relief. It's the most natural joy, just sitting on a rock, breathing deeply of the mountain air, and taking in the beauty. This is Sabbath rest. Each of us will hike different hikes, struggle with different pains along the way, start our journey up the mountain from different places. At the end of the journey, though, we all need to be whole. We each need to bathe in the rest that is freely offered to us. Find the spiritual practice that works for you. Find a place of rest. Set it apart. Stop running. Your soul is waiting.
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