The first duty of love is to listen.Paul Tillich
(Warning: a late-ish post after a long day. My sole New Year’s resolution was to write every day, and, doggone it, I’m not giving up in the first ten days of January!)
My son came downstairs this morning while I was working on Duolingo. I’ve been using the app to learn Scottish Gaelic. “I find that really inspirational, Mom, that you work so diligently on that,” he said.
Mind you, Laurel, found it less inspirational when she was talking to me yesterday and I opened Duolingo. She was talking away and I interrupted with something profound like, “OH MY GOODNESS! LOOK! LOOK! LOOK!” They had just added a whole bunch more levels of Gaelic and I thought I was finishing the only remaining lesson available to me.
“See? You never listen to me,” Laurel said.
I repeated back to her verbatim whatever it was she had just said to me — but honestly, I was pretty excited that I now could continue learning Gaelic. Unfortunately today, I have no idea what it was she said to me.
I was planning to write a post about learning new languages and tell a sweet little story of an experience I had while in Gradačac, Bosnia. I said something in Croatian (which is close cousin to Bosnian) to a girl in a souvenir shop. She whispered something to her friend and then answered me in English. The friend told me that was the first time she has been brave enough to speak English to an American.
But the Laurel interaction niggles at me.
On the one hand, I connected with a teenager in Bosnia several years ago and remember it, despite the fact that that was the extent of our relationship. On the other hand, I was not giving my own daughter full attention yesterday morning and she felt the sting of it. Which of these people is more important to me?
Laurel. Hands-down, without-a-doubt Laurel.
Yet a connection over a cultural divide is also important. My poor Croatian betrayed my non-fluency and gave a girl a little boldness. I’m glad I was brave enough to risk sounding foolish.
So, if, as Paul Tillich says, the first duty of love is to listen, I need to do better. I need to close my computer, put down my device, and pay attention to the people who are most important to me and right in the room with me.
But somewhere down the line in duties of love, there has to be something about remembering those little moments, those little interactions, when you connect with someone else, maybe even someone from a totally different culture, and you’re both the better for it.
“…I want to ask you something. I can’t remember behind the last ugly thing. Was she very beautiful, Samuel?”
“To you she was because you built her. I don’t think you ever saw her — only your own creation.”John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Like most of our country, I’m still trying to understand what happened in Washington on Wednesday. The mob scenes from the Capitol play over and over in my mind. It’s like when every station on the car radio is playing the same song. And it’s not a song you like.
I’m reading East of Eden right now (and not reading the back of the book first). This won’t be a spoiler for those who haven’t yet read it because I’m smack dab in the middle and I don’t know how things will turn out. Plus, who knows? Maybe I’m all wrong in this middle of the book assessment. But here goes —
Adam, the main character, is the one speaking in the quote at the top of this post. He had recently been seriously injured by Cathy, a woman he loves. “I can’t remember… Was she very beautiful?” he asks.
Samuel’s answer to Adam helps me understand Wednesday’s events. “To you she was because you built her. I don’t think you ever saw her — only your own creation.”
Other people saw Cathy, Adam’s wife, for what she was – dark and evil. But Adam was smitten. He saw something in her that wasn’t there.
There are people in my life — some of them family members — who see our president very differently from how I see him. I can’t fathom their vision. It feels twisted. But they may wonder the same about me.
And as I continue to read about Adam working through his feelings, I’ll be working through my own, trying to make sense of something that may never make sense to me.
… In the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in Thee to fail.Book of Common Prayer, “For Our Country”
My heart caught in my throat when I saw the news yesterday afternoon. I couldn’t look away from those scenes I didn’t want to see.
Immediately I was back on September 11, 2001. Mid-morning that day, my brother had burst into our home saying, “Turn on the television!”
Over and over we watched planes crash into the World Trade Center. We watched chaos on the streets. Smoke. Confusion. Bodies falling. Then it would loop back again to planes hitting the towers. Our country was under attack.
I remember looking at my children watching the screen with big eyes and shooing them out of the room. Finally I shooed my brother out, too, and turned the television off.
But some things you can’t unsee.
I tried to fall asleep last night but the images of marauders scaling the wall to the Capitol Building kept playing through my mind. Their garish outfits, their over-sized flags, their fake patriotism. Ach — it was all too much.
Yesterday was a day of prayer for me. I fasted until 6 PM, praying often, especially when reminded by pangs of hunger. Around 3 PM, my words were gone, and I reached for Lancelot Andrewes to help me remember what words I should pray for my country.
In his prayer “For Our Country”, he says with, “Bless our ingathering, Make peace within our borders” — but peace doesn’t come without a cost.
Around the same time as 9/11, we had a terrible man as pastor of our church. He was divisive. He used the pulpit to bully and berate. I was called in for church discipline because, as chair of the Missions Committee, I questioned him, his motives, and his tactics. I’ll never forget sitting in his office for my “discipline” and watching him lean back in his chair and lace his fingers behind his head — the picture of pompous confidence — all the while saying untrue things. The Board of Elders sat by and said little to nothing.
Shortly after that — I think it was Palm Sunday — that pastor once again began making untrue divisive statements from the pulpit. This time the head of the elder board, a man named Zig, rose from his seat, pointed his finger at the pastor, and said, “You, sir, need to stop.”
Shouting ensued. I herded my children out of the sanctuary and into the nursery. I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want my children to witness any of it. A sanctuary should be a sanctuary.
Zig passed away a few years ago but I thought about him a lot yesterday. He remains for me a picture of what it means to push back against a bully.
I spent time last evening intentionally reading posts of Facebook friends that I know to be Trump supporters. One by one, I prayed for them and then “snoozed” them. I ache for them, but I can’t fill my mind with their vitriol.
This morning I reached for The Preces Privitae of Lancelot Andrewes again and settled on this prayer — For Unity —
… If in anything we be otherwise minded,
to walk by the same rule whereto we have already attained:
To maintain order, decency, steadfastness…
With one mind and one mouth to glorify God.
Lord, our country is so divided. It will take a miracle to reunite us. I’m so glad You are a God who specializes in miracles. Amen.
Thanksgiving is not a result of perception; thanksgiving is the access to perception.Virginia Stem Owens
By taking the time to be grateful, I can melt the icy fingers of fear that squeeze my heart today.
Today I am thankful for my neighbors down the road with the Trump sign in their yard and my neighbors in the other direction with the Biden sign. We co-exist on a single stretch of road in peace.
I am thankful for my co-workers who support different political parties and ideologies. We work side-by-side. We laugh together. We learn from each other. We have common ground.
I am thankful for my family members who believe conspiracy theories and for my family members who honor science. Although we may disagree — PASSIONATELY disagree — on issues we hold dear, at the end of the day, we hold each other dearer.
I am thankful that I live in a country where people can assemble peacefully and voice their opinion.
I am thankful for the thoughtfulness and perseverance of the framers of our constitution. I’m thankful for the many people over the years who have served in our government, hashing out amendments and other acts to guide us through turbulent times.
I’m thankful for mistakes because we can learn so much from them.
I’m thankful for wise decisions.
I’m thankful for the dog sleeping here who is oblivious to any of my internal angst. I’m thankful for the cat who tries to taunt the dog — and still the dog sleeps.
I’m thankful for friends who can reassure me that it will be okay.
I’m thankful for coffee.
I’m thankful for quiet mornings when I can gather my thoughts and offer them to God.
I’m thankful for snow. It’s so pretty.
I’m thankful for slush. It means I’ll get to wash the car.
I’m thankful for a woodstove and wood and a cozy room in a drafty house.
I’m thankful that the more things I list here, the more things come to mind. There is a magic in seeing blessings.
I’m thankful for tomorrow because it will come. And the next day, and the next day.
I’m thankful for you, whoever you are, for reading through all this because no matter who you are and what you think or believe, we can link arms and walk a few steps down the road together.
And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.John Steinbeck, East of Eden
My one New Year’s resolution was to get back to writing every day.
For me, that means posting here every day. Posting keeps me honest — and humble.
Posting every day means that I’ll probably post 360 of drivel and hopefully 5 days of something worth reading. (You’ll have to keep watching for those good ones.)
Today was a busy day for me. No problem, I thought. I have a ton of drafts available to draw from. (291 to be exact.)
For the past hour, I’ve looked through drafts that date as far back as 2011. I didn’t find a single one that I wanted to post. But here’s what I realized — those years that I thought were dry and hard, when I was helping with my mother and then caring for my father, actually weren’t dry at all. They were rich.
And I had forgotten how rich.
The drought that we call COVID has been the ultimate dry. I feel desiccated.
So lest I forget, here are some photos from a richer time:
This dry time will pass — and none too soon.
God, I need Thee.
When morning crowds the night away
And tasks of waking seize my mind;
I need Thy poise.
God, I need Thee.
When love is hard to see
Amid the ugliness and slime,
I need Thy eyes.
God, I need Thee.
When clashes come with those
Who walk the way with me,
I need Thy smile.
God, I need Thee.
When the path to take before me lies,
I see it . . . courage flees–
I need Thy faith.
God, I need Thee.
When the day’s work is done,
Tired, discouraged, wasted,
I need Thy rest.
Howard Thurman, “Deep is the Hunger”
When I first came across this prayer/poem by Howard Thurman, I read it through multiple times. I can honestly say that I had never prayed for poise but it made so much sense. To start my day with confidence, even though it may seem daunting from the outset, seems so powerful.
Not in an I’ve-got-this way. Rather, a You’ve-got-this-therefore-I-can-do-it way.
I go back to this prayer regularly and pray for poise, for God’s eyes and smile, for faith, and for rest.
It is my prayer for 2021.
There are no ugly questions except those clothed in condescension.John Steinbeck, East of Eden
“I’m showing you this because I think you want to know. You always ask questions,” my co-worker Michelle said to me the other day.
I started a new very part-time job a few months ago. I now work at the front desk of the facility where I’ve worked for years in Aquatics. The new role is mostly people-y. I greet people as they come in the building and I make sure they have a reservation.
The other front desk-ers remark often on the quietness. No kids are allowed with the facility’s COVID restrictions. Members only, no day passes. And everything is reservation only.
My new job also involves administrative work which has been eye-opening for me. This has been the biggest area of learning.
I would learn better if we were busy, but we’re not, so I DO ask a lot of questions. Most of my questions are “How do I do this again?” Some are “Why do we do it this way?” Others are “What if [insert a set of circumstances]?”
The other day when Michelle came to show me something it was because I had wrongly activated a person who was deceased. His widow had mailed in her renewal and I entered it into the computer. The main member was still listed as the husband, and they weren’t people known to me, so I just activated the whole subscription.
“See — he’s listed as ‘inactive.’ That’s because he died last year. But she’s only ‘expired’ so when we mark her as paid, she becomes ‘active’ again,” Michelle explained.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Well, I know the people,” she said, but then she also showed me a clue on the registration form itself.
“So, let me get this straight. If they’re inactive, they may be dead, but if they’re expired, they’re probably alive.”
Michelle laughed. “I guess you’re right.”
Words are funny things — and fun.
And questions are good — especially when you’re trying to learn.
Another friend once told me that the only bad question is the one you have but don’t ask.
Maybe that’s why I ask lots of questions.
My father used to say we should learn something new every day.
Maybe that’s why I ask lots of questions.
Curiouser and curiouser. That’s me — in more ways than one.
… one may find it extremely helpful to discover a clothesline on which all of one’s feelings and thoughts and desires may be placed.Howard Thurman, The Creative Encounter
I woke up feeling irritable. Then, my cinnamon rolls didn’t turn out (I think I left out an ingredient). My pizza was cold when I got around to eating it. And now, it’s bedtime and I haven’t written anything. Humbug.
I found myself thinking about Howard Thurman’s clothesline.
Clotheslines have happy memories for me. My mother would dry the sheets on the clothesline up by the chicken coop. In the spring and summer, the sheets smelled like mown grass. In the fall, they carried the crisp fresh smell of autumn. When Bud and I bought our first house, I asked for — and got — a clothesline that stretched from the house to the garage. At our next house, he installed a shed-to-tree line with a pulley.
The idea of hanging thoughts on a clothesline appealed to me. Thurman was talking about putting our negative thoughts there to allow them to “float away” and then replace them with higher thoughts.
Honestly, I think I need two clotheslines.
The first would be for those thoughts I need to put aside. They are easy to identify. They have to do with cinnamon rolls with forgotten ingredients, cold pizza, parenting challenges, and disharmonies in my life.
The second clothesline is the better one. I have quotes I’ve copied from books I’m reading, scriptures I’m working on memorizing, and little notes people have sent or given to encourage me. What if I make a little clothesline — a quoteline — of those encouragements? I could stretch a length of twine somewhere, write quotes on little slips of paper, clip them to the twine, and then reread them often.
After a year like 2020, I could do with regular doses of encouragement. Could you?
Take your time and expect them to take theirs. Be very tolerant. Be as undemanding as you can. This slow tempo will help the contemplative side of your life: but if you get in a frenzy and want quick results, you will run into spiritual disaster. I repeat, disaster.Thomas Merton, Seeds of Destruction, letter to a Papal Volunteer leaving for Brazil
Early yesterday morning I shopped at a warehouse store during their senior citizen hour. Yikes — yes — I qualify as a senior. I thought it would be a zip-zap-zoom trip. Nobody else would be there so I could grab my things and get home pretty quickly.
I was wrong.
It turns out that senior citizen hour at a warehouse store means that most of the shoppers are driving their shopping carts instead pushing them.
They drive slowly.
Down the middle of the aisle.
And stop frequently.
Zip-zap-zoom turned into wait-wait-wait.
I remembered taking my father to Target in past few years and he tried to drive one of those carts. I guess it’s not as easy as it looks.
I laughed when I read Thomas Merton this morning. He was writing to a volunteer heading to Brazil in the early 1960s. The different country, the different culture — it fit so perfectly with my shopping expedition. The slow tempo did indeed help the contemplative side of my life. I paused and listened to the Christmas music playing in the store. I prayed for patience when I realized that those one-way arrows on the floor don’t apply during senior hour. I prayed for a shopper who was struggling and short-tempered. I helped someone find something.
The warehouse store may not have been Brazil but it was another world.
What is Christmas, though, if not a venture into another world? The ultimate venture.
Lord, let me take my time and be tolerant,
not just at Christmas, but all the time.
Christmas is a good season to begin.
The world feels disastrous enough.
I don’t need to add to it.