Lifting our Sails

Two friends stood beside each other looking out at the open sea. It was a bright, clear day and the wind was blowing gently from the north. One of them looked over and realized the other had disappeared. It was only moments later that he looked at the dock below and saw his friend lifting the sail and heading out toward the sea.

This simple tale reminded me of the sacred dance waiting for each of us. The world and our lives lie clear and bright before us and it’s sometimes tempting to stand and gaze, imagining what could be. But the wind and the sea are waiting. They were given to us not only to admire and appreciate but to join.

The wind invites us to lift our sails, and, as they fill, our lives move in mysterious ways. Slowly we head into the seas and discover things we can’t see from the shore. Lifting one’s sails and heading out into the sea (in whatever way you conceive that) is harder than remaining on the shore, but it is only when we do our part that we experience what it means to “dance” with God.

Dropping Books

How can it already be August?

It feels as if I was just welcoming Summer. Now Labor Day is approaching, and I’m dizzy looking back over the past few months. There are weddings, a funeral, this trip and that weekend. No wonder I feel exhausted.

It didn’t help that this morning’s reading spoke about rest, about creating greater margins in our lives by doing less. It left me feeling convicted because I’ve “packed my suitcase full,” as my wife likes to say, with good and important things. But right now, I feel like I can’t keep this up. Something has to give. I’m not my best self when I’ve run out of gas.

I took a moment and wrote down everything I spend time on. I thought I had a good sense of what would be on the list, but it ended up being a longer list than I expected. Knowing that I needed to find something or somethings to cut, I could see the real struggle that faces all of us who seek to live grounded, intentional lives: what goes?

It made me remember a moment in high school when I was walking toward the library with my arms full of books. A friend met me on the path and invited me to a game of wiffle ball. “I can’t,” I said lifting the books as evidence, to which he reached over and knocked them out of my hands. “Now you can,” he said with a grin.

We all carry a large stack of books. All of them are important, or at least we think they are, but the truth is we can’t possibly “read” them all, or at least we can’t read them well. In these dog days of summer, maybe it’s time to consider lightening our loads. What really matters? What’s filling our calendars that we can cross out? What “books” can we drop?

Oh, I know, we are very important and the world (or that particular social event) can’t possibly survive without us, but I think God is waiting on the path to knock all the books out of our hands, or at least a lot of them, so that we can breathe again, become who He created us to be again, and, who knows, maybe even join in on a game of wiffle ball.

Attending a Funeral

I returned to my adopted home of New Hampshire to attend the funeral of my children’s grandmother. Despite my excitement to return to a place I love, I knew I was entering an “emotional minefield” and needed to have my wits about me or, as they say in AA, be “prayed up.”

The roads were familiar and the pines as fragrant as I remembered. Tempted to roll down the window and shout “I’m back,” I refrained. This special place, so intertwined with my soul, existed whether I was there or not. Still, I was desperate to awaken our dormant relationship. I went to an familiar diner, drove by our old house, passed the church I used to attend, and ate a flavor of ice cream I’ve only found there, but none of it stirred the magic I missed and craved.

The funeral was down the road from where I used to live and my chest tightened as I entered the sacred space. Ex-inlaws were up front and other familiar faces were now adorned with grey hair like mine. I took my seat in the back, where I felt I belonged, and, real or perceived, some greetings seemed frosty and I was tempted to read into each one. I tried to focus on the mother-in-law I loved, but after the service, I went to her grave to say a proper goodbye alone before skipping the crowded receiving line.

No place to go, I drove and drove. I even imagined buying a place to which I could return from time to time but realized I was like a child knocking on a door that had shut years ago. No matter how hard I knocked, it remained closed.

I came to attend a funeral. I just didn’t know that funerals come in all shapes and sizes and that grief wears many masks.