I get down on my knees
in front of her and gently slide
one sock on, then the other
past her toes
around her heels
flipping the elastic band so
everything is right. I
think she might be uncomfortable
letting me do this. Her
skin is tight, her leg
swollen from surgery. I go into her
room and find her white shoes
loosen the laces
and push them on
much like I do for my young son,
wedging in her heel,
tying the laces
and doubling the knot.
I guide one arm into her coat, then
the other. I go through her box of scarves
and she tells me which one
she’s looking for.
No, not that one, not
that one, yes, that’s
it, that’s the one.
There now.
All set.
There’s something holy about this
dance. I have never held her gently
behind the elbow while she rises
from her rocker
or lifted under her
arm while she leans into
the passenger side of the van.
Perhaps we should get down on
our knees more often
for those who once cared for us,
for those who have seen the passing
of decades, the turn of centuries,
for those who have been to too many
funerals to count.
Perhaps we should wait longer,
walk slower, and
even though they might refuse,
offer to help them with their socks
their shoes
their coat.
There is something about getting down
on my knees in front of my grandmother
that reminds me someday soon
that will be me
in the armchair
while some grandchild not yet
born slips on my socks,
ties my shoes, helps me to the car.
Can we not be gentle now
with each other,
while these uncommon days
are running out?
We left the house and I locked the door and it was early, at least for a Sunday: 9:00am on the first truly cold morning of autumn. I pushed Leo’s stroller and the other four kids trailed behind, like ducklings. The wind snatched at our coats. The leaves and the litter blew across James Street and crunched under our feet.
Eric doesn’t sit on his porch anymore, not when it’s this cold. This is the first winter that Mr. Paul is no longer with us, so his porch is empty, too. I didn’t see anyone walking Barb’s dogs. We made it one entire block on James Street, and the only person we saw was a young man emptying out an apartment, piling all the furniture like trash into the back of a trailer. Besides that, James Street was asleep.
It’s six blocks from our house to church, and some of those blocks were in the warm sun and some of those blocks were in the shadows, like the dark side of the moon. We pulled our hands inside our coat sleeves and lifted our shoulders. When we passed the library we were almost there.
We walked into Saint James Episcopal Church and slowed down in the warmth. I took a program and the kids picked a pew to sit in and we took breaths that came and went like sighs. The air in there was still and serene, like walking through thick woods and stumbling into a wide open place.
“Dad,” whispered Abra, “which one is your favorite?” And so the five of us (Maile was with Leo in the nursery) let our eyes taste each of the stained-glass windows, like we do almost every Sunday morning.
“I like the one with the angel,” Sam said.
“I like the blue one, at the top, in the middle,” Cade said. Lucy and Abra each picked their favorite window.
“What about you, Dad?” Abra insisted.
“That’s the one for me,” I said, pointing at one that shimmered white, the sun shining straight through it.
“Yeah, I like that one best, too,” Abra said, because she always changed her mind to choose the one I liked most.
There’s something about sitting in a warm church after a long walk through the cold. There’s something about the way the light shines through white stained glass. There’s something about that opening hymn, when the choir proceeds down the aisle and the priests line up and Reverend Lauren says in her clear voice,
“Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,”
and all the rest of us say in voices silver-lined with hope,
“And blessed be his kingdom, now and for ever. Amen.”
Blessed be his kingdom. Not just today but on and on for as long as on-and-on goes. So be it.
That’s it, I guess. That’s why we walk six blocks through the cold. Can we believe that the Kingdom of God can somehow overcome the violence in our city, the injustice in our country, ISIS, or, even more tangibly, the darkness in my own heart? Can we somehow believe that the terrors and the sadness of this world do not have the final say? That each of us, in our own place, on our own streets, can somehow usher in this upside-down kingdom, where the last shall be first and the first last, where it’s not by wealth or by power or by making boisterous claims that we inherit everything of true value, but by being poor in spirit? Where those who hunger and thirst are finally filled?
Most days, I don’t know. Most days, it seems the evil and the ignorance is winning. Most days it seems like the corrupt businessmen and the blowhard politicians have everything going for them. But then there are brief moments, when we’re choosing our favorite stained glass window, or when Reverend Lauren’s voice first sounds out, or when we as a congregation say those words together, I can almost believe it.
When I am sated, it is easy to feel independent. When I am hungry, it is possible to remember where my dependence lies.
Lauren F. Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath
Think about how much time we spend making sure our senses are sated. We eat, sometimes when we’re not even hungry, in order to avoid hunger. We work more hours to make more money, even when all of our current needs and most of our wants are fulfilled. We watch television long into the night instead of sitting in silence, because who wants to confront the voices that emerge in that vacuum?
At the foundation of this striving for surplus is an intense desire for independence and self-sufficiency. We avoid lack because we don’t like the feeling of being in need. We avoid vulnerability and community because we don’t want to be hurt again. We don’t want to be let down. We can still feel the sting of those last recent betrayals.
But what if we, in this culture of abundance, need to intentionally place ourselves in positions of hunger so that we can remember our true state of dependence? What if we decided to be more open regarding our weaknesses? More generous with our resources, even to the point of self-deprivation?
What would we learn, if we would allow ourselves, every once in a while, to become truly hungry?
Hi, there. I know you’re out there because after I sent out my newsletter yesterday confessing to my struggle with wanting to be famous, some of you emailed me. You wanted to let me know I wasn’t alone. You wondered what the right way forward might be.
I can’t tell you exactly what to do. After all, some of you might BECOME famous soon – how much fun would that be, right? I can’t tell you the perfect proportion of time to spend promoting versus creating. But one thing I want to say is this:
Keep creating. Keep trying. Keep having fun.
I’m talking to you, writer of a small or medium-sized blog, rolling out posts every week that don’t get a ton of comments, likes, or shares. You may not realize it, but your words are rippling out into the world, and they’re affecting people.
I’m talking to you, Pastor of that Tiny Church in the Middle of Nowhere. You’re not worth less than the megachurch pastor in his shiny suit and sparkling smile. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Bigger church doesn’t equal better church. Keep going.
I’m talking to you, Self-Published Author, Mom of Five, Small Business Woman, Painter, Actor, and every other person who’s doing what they were created to do but might never be famous, might never be publicly adored. I’m talking to all of us. We need to revel in the enjoyment of the simple act of creation. Play. Live our beautiful, hidden lives. We need to go about our days and recognize how fortunate we are, those of us who have the means and the desire and the wherewithal to create.
Keep creating. Keep doing. Keep trying.
Now, there is a bit of difficult news, at least for those of us who have strong desire to be known, to contribute in measurable ways, to leave some kind of exceptional mark. The tough news is this: the world needs most of us to create our creations and focus on our calling even without receiving the adoration of the masses, without ever feeling the thunderous applause of a large crowd.
We’re no less needed, mind you. Even though our calling might be to fewer people, those people will be affected, hearts and minds changed for the better. We need to be okay with that. As Anne Lamott says, we need to be the kind of people who believe that “if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won’t wash them away.”
I shared the following words by Henri Nouwen in my newsletter, but I want to make sure you read them, because sometimes these are the words that keep me going. These words adjust my heart in all the right ways:
“There is much emphasis on notoriety and fame in our society. Our newspapers and television keep giving us the message: What counts is to be known, praised, and admired, whether you are a writer, an actor, a musician, or a politician.”
“Still, real greatness is often hidden, humble, simple, and unobtrusive. It is not easy to trust ourselves and our actions without public affirmation. We must have strong self-confidence combined with deep humility. Some of the greatest works of art and the most important works of peace were created by people who had no need for the limelight. They knew that what they were doing was their call, and they did it with great patience, perseverance, and love.”
Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey
I don’t think wanting to be famous is always a negative thing, but I have found the pitfalls. Believe me. The main dangers I see, when my desire to become famous turns towards obsession, are these: it leads to strong feelings of jealousy; it leads me to scrap and claw for my own piece of the pie, completely disregarding others; it leads to discouragement when I’m not the one speaking at the conference, when I’m not the one giving the interview, when my books are not the ones flying off the shelves.
So today, let’s you and me, in our relative anonymity, follow our calling “with great patience, perseverance, and love.” Let’s be okay with our current platform, no matter how simple. Let’s encourage each other, help each other. Let’s keep creating.
Remember, whether or not you’re known, praised, or admired, your work is important.
We live in time and in process; we constantly change…The danger comes in our failing to see and embrace the seasons, in believing that all times of our lives must be the same. We cannot claw and scramble our way back to summer or quickly leave a harsh winter season…we must embrace the place where God has brought us, find the meaning and lessons to be learned in that place, and then be willing to move on…
– Wayne Martindale, The Soul of C.S. Lewis
It’s 5:29am and I’m sitting in my living room. It’s a glorious feeling, especially after spending ten hours on I-81 yesterday during our drive home from eastern Tennessee. Outside the large windows I can hear morning cars creep through the dark streets of this city, one at a time, intermittent, like moths in and out of the light. Patty Griffin plays on the stereo in the next room. She’s making pies. Scattered through the two floors above me, a wife and five children sleep.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what a difficult year 2015 has been. For about nine months, I didn’t have a lot of writing work. Things were slow. We had to take on some debt just to get by.
I’ve been writing full time now for six years, and these slow seasons seem to come every once in a while. They’re not easy – it’s never easy to not be making any money. You begin to doubt your calling, your ability. It’s easy to wonder if you’re on the right track.
But over the last six weeks, as is always the case, work has picked up. 2016 will be a busy year, I think.
Which brings me around to what I’ve been thinking about lately – this idea of seasons. Each time Maile and I go through a slow season, a season that feels, well, meager, I’ve become happier with how I deal with it. The first two times we had a slow year, I panicked. I ran around in circles screaming, “The sky is falling!” I thought I should find work in a factory or melt down my laptop and use it as a doorstop. My moods and my emotions came and went in tidal waves.
This time was a bit better. I tried to recognize the season for what it was, focus on the positives. Here are some things I’ve learned about slow seasons of life, times when work is scarce, times when things are difficult:
Enjoy the change of pace. It goes against our grain to attempt to enjoy anything that’s difficult, I know. But there’s no use in being financially tight AND anxious (change out financially tight with whatever best describes your current difficult season, if you’re in one). Might as well enjoy the leisure. I try to spend more time with Maile, more time with the kids. I sit in silence more often, write more letters, catch up on all the little things I’ve been meaning to do. The slow season (or whatever difficult season you’re in) won’t last forever. Which leads me to something very important:
Keep believing things will turn. This is crucial when you’re in a season of life that’s difficult or uncomfortable. These difficult times will pass. I promise. Hang in there. When we were going months without a paycheck, I clung to that belief. It’s going to change. It’s going to get better. Easier. More fun. Less depressing. Whatever difficult season you’re in, I promise, it will end.
You know who you are. A change in seasons doesn’t require a change in identity. This is something I still struggle with. When works slows to a trickle, I am still quick to look for something else. I am too ready to give away this wonderful life that’s taken six years to build in exchange for predictability or (perceived) stability. Don’t let a difficult season lead you to hit the panic button. Stay calm. Make solid decisions. But difficult seasons make that a tough thing to do, so…
Rely on people around you, people who aren’t in the middle of your mess, to help you keep perspective. I have certain people I know I need to have a coffee with when things get tough because these people help me stay the course. Locate these people in the good seasons of your life and then lean on them in the tough seasons. (And be there for them when they need you.)
Every season, no matter how difficult, has gifts to offer. During this last slow time, I reached out to some writer friends, which in turn led to me landing a literary agent. Who knows what that will lead to? I never would have gotten this agent had life continued on, steady and predictable. It was the instability of that slow season that led me to try something different.Keep your eyes open for the unlikely gifts that difficult seasons have to offer.
Be willing to move on. I’m always willing to move on from difficult seasons. But am I willing to do the same when a good season, an abundant season, is coming to an end? How hard do I cling to seasons when it is simply time to let go?
“Aren’t you moving to Iraq or something?” they ask.
“No, not yet,” I say.
It’s much easier for me to commit to doing big, radical things than it is to commit to the simple, daily things. I’m not sure what that says about me or my personality.
But as I get older, I’m learning important lessons about waiting. I care less about “impact and more about the crucial nature of little things. Maybe I’m not on this earth to write for millions of people. Maybe I’m here to make an important difference in the lives of a few.
I’m slowly, slowly becoming okay with this notion of a beautiful, hidden life.
* * * * *
A few weeks ago I read an article in the local paper about a few Syrian refugee families being relocated here, to the city of Lancaster where I live. This idea of being a refugee struck me more clearly than ever when I imaged people from halfway around the world trying to acclimate to life in Lancaster County. Seriously. My wife had trouble feeling like this place is home, and she’s from Ohio.
Maybe I would have read that article and went on with my day, but I made the crucial mistake of reading the comments under the article. Within moments I was ashamed of my fellow Lancastrians.
“Send them back,” one person wrote. “They’re probably with ISIS.”
“You know how those Muslims are,” someone else wrote. “They’ll take jobs but they won’t contribute to the community.”
It was embarrassing, this lack of regard for other humans beings who just want a safe place to live, a safe place for their kids to go to school, a safe place to work and eat and make new friends. But instead of just being embarrassed, I thought, you know what? I’m going to help welcome them. That racist, insular voice can’t be the only voice they hear when they arrive in Lancaster, our city.
So I contacted a few local organizations who are helping with their relocation. One of them sort of brushed me off, and that’s okay. When you offer to help, you can’t be offended when people say no. That’s something I’ve learned. But another organization wrote me back. We exchanged emails. I offered to write about the refugee families. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if my neighbors read about what these refugees have gone through, their hopes and dreams, their history, their stories, then maybe we would welcome them.
Next week I’m meeting with one of these organization, and I hope to share some of these refugee stories right here on my blog. That’s my dream anyway.
It’s not a big thing, you know? I don’t have a million dollars to donate. I don’t have a huge platform. I’m not writing a book about it. I don’t even know if anything will come of it, or if I’ll get to meet the families, or if they’ll want to share their stories.
But I think this is the crucial nature of little things. No one else was going to do this thing, this simple thing, not until I stepped forward. And who knows what might come of it?
The whole point of this post isn’t about me stepping up and doing something – it’s about you. What little things are you not doing because they seem too, well…too little? We all have to start somewhere. You know that sense that you should call that certain person or volunteer at that non-profit or take the lead on that project or mail that thank you note? You’re getting that sense for a reason. Follow through. Take that first, little step.
Do you believe in the power of our beautiful, hidden lives?
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