Reeds

 I went to the beach by myself this morning with no headphones, books, or journal. It took time to become comfortable without my usual tools to occupy me. I wanted to try and be still and listen for whatever voice God might use to speak to me. It was only me and the sea, but it turned out that was all I needed.

When I was a child, I was taught that praying meant bending my knees, folding my hands, closing my eyes, and saying certain words. I learned that prayer is as much about listening as it is speaking, and that I do better praying with my eyes wide open.

“Ok, here I am,” I whispered. “I’m not too good at this praying stuff, but I’m here if you want to say something.”

It was a particularly windy day, and the sea was unsettled. The tide was coming in, and I knew I would eventually have to move my chair back toward the dunes, but, in the meantime, I watched as each wave inched closer. There were piles of reeds along the shore which served as buffers from the water’s rise. Watching the waves approach and hit the reeds spoke volumes to me.

I have had a life-long relationship with the ocean and consider it one of my closest, even divine, friends. I’ve spent hours watching it, swimming in it, and walking beside it. Through many chapters of my life, many times when I felt I was on my own, the ocean has been a constant companion, a steady comfort. It’s not a surprise that as I have searched for an understanding of God, a power greater than myself, my heart turned to the ocean as an image. In fact, waves always seem to be calling out “hello” and washing my feet when abruptly climbing the shore.

Sitting there this morning, I watched a wave approach and the pile of reeds hold it back. As this scene repeated itself, I thought of all the ways God seeks to draw close to me and the various “reeds” that stand in the way. My pile is made up of wounds and character defects (as they say in AA), fears I hold and mistakes I’ve made. Each one is not enough to hold back a wave, but when they’re piled together, they have surprising power. The church has long known this, so have twelve-step recovery circles.

It’s time to recognize the reeds piled before me and remove the ones I can so the sea can flow effortlessly up the shore toward me feet again.

Leaves Turning

“There’s a storm coming,” said the wrangler as we rode past a grove of aspen trees.

“How do you know,” I asked, not sure if he was kidding me. The sky was blue, the breeze light.

“When the leaves twist like that, there’s always a change in the weather coming.”

I still didn’t know if I should believe him, but as I watched the rain that afternoon, I knew he was right.

Days later, when I was sitting in a room full of recovering alcoholics, I realized the same wisdom is true with other kinds of storms. Long before it rains, there are signs . . . if we have eyes to see. For the assembled people, they know that a drink happens long before a bottle is pulled from the cupboard. For others, divorces begin long before papers are signed. Jobs are lost before one is called into the boss’s office, and small pains arrive before the doctor delivers the news.

The question is, can we notice the signs? Can we see the leaves turning as we ride past?

For people seeking to live spiritual lives, the goal is to live in God’s will and not our own. That’s easier said than done, but we know when we are in one and not the other. Sometimes we don’t realize it until it rains, but the wrangler helped me remember there are signs calling out to us to let us know when we’re not completely in God’s will. When we begin judging everything and everyone, the leaves are turning. When we look at someone with envy, when we can only see the mistakes of our past, when we no longer care about the plight of others, or there’s a sarcasm or an edge to something we say, the leaves are turning and a storm is on its way.

We cannot tell the breeze not to blow, but we can notice the leaves. It takes practice and a good dose of humility, but, in time, we don’t need to wait for the storm. We can notice the leaves.

Playing On

This is a week when I know I need to be “all prayed up,” as they say in AA. Fathers’ Day kicked it off, then conducting the funeral of a dear friend before heading to Vermont to officiate at the wedding of a childhood friend’s son. All three are reasons to celebrate, but all three carried the potential to shroud the joy if I let them. My relationships with my children are not as good as I would like them to be. I’ve hurt many who will be assembled for the funeral, and each time I speak about marriage I’m reminded how far from it’s wonders I’ve strayed. After a brunch with two of my children, I was given the day to watch the US Open golf tournament and that gave me all I needed to carry on.

For those of you who do not follow golf, the US Open is a particularly challenging tournament. They choose the hardest courses and make the conditions almost unbearable. This year was no exception and the best golfers in the world struggled to survive. One golfer stood above the rest, but with each shot over four days the crowd booed and harassed him because of something he did a year ago. I don’t know how he did it, but the golfer kept playing on. In the end, he was victorious, but as I watched him hoist the trophy I couldn’t help but think his victory was over more than a difficult golf course.

Making our way through life is never easy, and some seem to have a steeper climb than others. The crowd, however, awaits us all to lpoint out our imperfections, remind us of all our mistakes. We are faced with the same choice the golfer had: to crumble or play on. While it sounds simple, it’s grueling to play on when the crowds (the ones surrounding us and the ones inside our heads) are so loud.

Even if we don’t hoist a trophy at the end, at least we’ll have chosen the more difficult, more excellent, way and that’s a trophy in its own way.