Lowering my hands

I was scared. Without any other need or reason, I placed my hands over my eyes as my soul clung for dear life. It was a familiar pose, and yet looking back at me as a little boy I realize covering my eyes did nothing to remove the object of my fear. I suppose it offered me a sense of safety, but only a sense. Only when I lowered my hands was I able to breathe again and get on with my life.

I’m braver now, but, if I’m honest, I still lift my hands and cover my eyes, often. I still think if I don’t look at something it will go away. I do it with unexpected bills, difficult conversations, even my health. I also cover my eyes when it comes to my spiritual life. I suppose I hope my doubts and many failings will somehow disappear, or at least recede, into the margins of my life if I cover my eyes. 

But just as the adult encourages the frightened child to lower his or her hands, I must use whatever words I have, whatever compassion or empathy I can muster, to encourage myself to lower my hands and look at what there is to see. In the end, whatever I find will be better than the darkness my hands provide. Monsters will disappear, storms diminish, and eventually I will be able to breathe again.

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.