Imperfect Poses

She wasn’t very good at yoga, but she went to class two times a week. Always sure to pick a spot in the back of the room, she tried her hardest not to look at the others and compare. Her downward-dog pose was crouched, her warrior wilted. Still, she tried. “It’s enough to strike the pose,” her wise instructor once said. “That you are here and trying is what truly matters.” Such graced kept her from quitting, and now she’s growing proficient in her practice.

When she told me about her yoga efforts, I was comforted by her instructor’s sage advice. It’s enough to get in position and try. When it comes to my life, particularly my spiritual life, that’s what I need most. Too often, I struggle with absolutes - I must do something absolutely, and it must be done to perfection. If you know me, you know that all the evidence is to the contrary.

I am working with my sponsor on steps two and three of the 12-steps, which are, believing in a power greater than myself, and turning my life and will over to the care of God, as I understand God. You would think for a minister such steps would be easy, but because I too often look around the room and see others who live more spiritual lives and see the countless faults in my spiritual “poses,” I often want to quit. I convince myself there’s more integrity in not believing than in believing imperfectly, but then I find myself drawn to God, once again. I can’t help it.

Today, I am going to accept my crouchy, wilty faith and trust that my showing up and trying is what matters in God’s sight. I will strike the pose and trust, somehow, it’s enough.

First-Hand Redemption

The emotion caught me by surprise. So much so, I closed my eyes and shook my head like I’d swallowed a particularly hot cup of coffee. I’d been in church before, but this was different. I’d attended funerals, but never one like this. What made it different were the people. At first, I couldn’t figure it out, but then it became clear: Everyone gathered was redeemed . . .  and they knew it. Just recalling it a day later gives me chills.

The man whose life we were celebrating was a member of Alcoholics Anonymous. He’d been a member for forty years and his impact in the recovery community was as large as the congregation. Whether in suits or dresses, blue jeans or shorts, adorned with tattoos or glittering jewelry, what they had in common were lives filled with struggles and countless mistakes. Remembering the various gutters from which they had been lifted, their gratitude made the ground so holy I almost removed my shoes. I’m embarrassed to admit the experience was new - not the gratitude, but its source.

You see, I grew up in churches with grateful people. They were grateful for the blessing of their lives – comfortable homes, financial security (if not abundance), and Christmas card worthy families. The folks at the funeral had none, or not many, of those things. Instead, they had a personal sense of God’s love and forgiveness. You could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. They were grateful for a different abundance, the abundance of God’s love and forgiveness. I know everyone is redeemed. I was just moved to be surrounded by people who knew it first-hand.

A Gift

 There once was a child who was given a gift. It was wrapped in colorful paper and his heart leapt when he came downstairs as saw it. He placed it on a nearby shelf and sat looking at the present. He imagined what it was and gave thanks for being given a gift in the first place.

“Well,” said his mother, “aren’t you going to open it?”

“I’m scared,” he said. “What if it’s a soccer ball and I don’t know how to kick well enough? What if it’s a football and I can’t throw it high enough? What if it’s a book and I’m not smart enough to understand what it says?”

With a smile, his mother replied, “You’ll never know unless you open it. Gifts are meant to be opened. Gifts are meant to be used. Even if you struggle at first, you’ll learn whatever you need to in the end. Eventually, it will become such a part of your life you’ll forget it was even a gift.”

The boy listened to his mother but waited until she left the room. Then he reached up and took the package from the shelf. It felt more real in his hands. Slowly untying the ribbon and removing the paper, he paused before lifting the lid. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and took hold of the lid with both hands. In the box he saw his gift.

It was freedom.