Our Full Story

When asked to participate in the art show, she arrived with half the canvas painted. When asked to recite, the actor delivered a portion of the monologue. And when the band performed their recent hit, they sang only two verses.

Absurd scenarios, I know, and yet they describe what so many of us do when offering our stories to the world around us. Perhaps we do so for self-protection, perhaps we do so because others wish to remain comfortable, but, whatever the reason, when we hold back parts of our story an incredible opportunity is missed. When we cling to our greatest asset, and our lives, and the lives of others, are diminished.

Recently, a friend told of when she sat beside another who was wrestling with a personal tragedy. Instead of sharing her experience with much the same tragedy in her own life, she remained quietly sympathetic. Too embarrassed to admit she’d been there too, the other was left feeling alone in her embarrassment, guilt, and grief.

At a church out west, members of the congregational leadership were encouraged to write “faith statements,” and take turns sharing them with the others throughout the year. Much to his dismay, one man was not asked to share his. With a dramatic downfall in his past, there was little room between the dots about why his invitation was withheld.

Instead of partially painted canvases, portions of a monologues or songs, we owe the world around us all of who we are, the good and bad, the ups and downs. To edit, is to squander the very experiences that make us who we are. To offer them fully is "to see how our experience can benefit others," as they say in 12-step recovery circles. It's a moment when life becomes abundant, and the ground between us sacred.

The season of Lent is a reflective one, a time to examine our lives fully. We all have things of which we are proud and ashamed, and many others that fall somewhere in between. To not regret our past, nor wish to shut the door on it, is to offer the world the sacred gift it needs most, our selves.

Lent II: Problems = Solutions

In math class long ago, I looked up at an equation, with the problem on one side of the equals sign and the answer on the other. It was neat and tidy, and the teacher spoke of the problem and the solution as two separate things, but, looking back, I can see the two were not as divided as they were made to seem.

Reaching the solution, one needs to begin with the problem, begin within the problem. Those fractions and square roots that bewilder, are also the very things that lead to the solution. They stand not as an obstacle, but a gateway.

Most mornings, as I begin my day in a twelve-step recovery meeting, I see many  join us thinking all they need do is quit drinking, but they don't stay around long. They want to jump across the equals sign to the neat and tidy solution, when the key to long-term sobriety lies on the other side, within the messy problems and issues feeding the addiction.

Examples of jumping over the equals sign are not limited to addicts. A company with a morale or culture problem throws a fancy Christmas party in hopes it will make everyone happy again. A couple decides to have a baby in hopes of restoring their crumbling marriage. An overeater has liposuction without changing his or her eating habits. An employee is fired for complaining about irregular accounting practices. A family moves to a new town in hope of being happy again.

Like my friend in math class who pleaded, “Can’t you just tell us the answer?!” doing the work on the other side of the equals sign is hard and frustrating, but I now see the problem is not to be avoided, but explored and embraced.  It not only leads to a solution, it is the solution.

Front Row

There was a humorous advertising campaign showing Bob Ueker being told he was in the wrong seat, and his mistakenly thinking he “must be in the front row.” He was then shown to his new seat, high up in the rafters in what are often referred to as the “nosebleed seats.”

Although never intended as an invitation to Lent, it does beg an important question as we head into the 40-day season of reflection: Where’s our seat?

Our lives take place as if on a stage, or arena to use Theodore Roosevelt's image, and Lent offers us the opportunity to stand back, take a seat, and examine our lives. We can choose seats far away, where we can see what’s going on, if we squint our eyes, hear most of what is being said, if we lean forward, but the performance takes place at a safe distance. Some prefer such a seat, where we don’t have to get too close, or see and hear too much. From far away, our lives look fine.

The seats up front, however, are a different matter. From them, we can see every expression, hear every word, and even notice mistakes or smudges in make-up. From these seats, there’s no hiding.

As we enter Lent, we’re invited to come take a seat. We can head toward the rafters where we can relax and look on from a distance, and go on as if all is as it should be, or we can courageously sit closer, knowing we’ll see and hear things we might rather not? The choice is ours.

The lights in the lobby are dimming, the ushers are calling us to take our seats. Where will we sit?