Finding Spring

“The world is your palette. What seems ordinary can, with the right verbal brushstrokes, become a thing of beauty or intrigue” Fred White

In the last stubborn days of winter, when the weight of darkness causes us to stumble toward the promised dawn, it’s time to lift our heads and look with new eyes. “With the right verbal brushstroke,” as Fred White said, we can see our ordinary lives in a new way. For some, to do this only takes a mental or spiritual reminder. For others, it requires deliberate action .

Trace your child’s bare feet and listen to the giggles.

Bend down and listen to the sound of your grandchild sleeping.

Reach out and grab a pine branch then lift your hand to your nose.

Call or meet up with a friend you haven’t seen, or someone you want to know better, and talk about something that matters. (Golf scores and what your children are up to don’t count)

Find a stream and sit by it.

Get up and watch a sunrise, or watch a sunset in silence.

Do something for someone who’s struggling, especially if they’re someone you usually pass or ignore.

The list is endless, and I offer these just to get you thinking. Our ordinary lives can be extraordinary not because we achieve something monumental, or a profound blessing comes our way. All it takes is for us to see our lives as the gifts they are and treasure each moment, each day, as if it were our last. With such a mind shift, with such deliberate effort, darkness becomes light, and winter gives way to spring, or, as White said, our lives become things of beauty or intrigue.

Lent II: The full armor of God

The look on his face was unmistakable. He’d been in the rooms of 12-step recovery for years, but his sitting off to the side, clutching his wife’s hand, and looking anywhere but at us, told me what had happened: He’d gone back out.

Eventually, he confessed. “I thought, ‘I’ve got this,’” he said. “I stopped going to meetings, stopped calling others and doing the work. I thought I was too busy to take time in the morning for prayer.” It was a sad and familiar tale, but it was the look of shame that squeezed my heart. The crowd did what it always does, welcomed him back and let him know he was not alone by telling their own struggles.

The apostle Paul writes about wearing the full armor of God, that we should put it on before making our way through the world. I remember hearing the passage when I was a child and liked the idea of being a knight and wearing armor. Back then, though, I pictured shiny, new armor, but I’ve grown more attracted to the dented, beat-up kind, the kind that’s been to battle, and those who wear it. I guess that’s why I’m drawn to the rooms of 12-step recovery, but the message I was reminded of that morning was one for us all.

The world in which we live is cunning and baffling. Although I think God wants only good for us all, there are people, places, and things that make that challenging. There are also ways we make the road more difficult on ourselves (and others) with the ambition we exercise, the fear we hold, and the insecurity we release.

It sometimes feels like temptations surround us! Whether it’s to eat what we shouldn’t, buy what we can’t afford, gaze at things that rot our souls, or bend the truth to suit our professional or personal wants, temptations dangle before us hoping we’ll take a bite.

No wonder we need help. No wonder we need the “full armor of God.” Without such armor, I go on automatic pilot and start thinking, “I’ve got this.” When that happens, it’s only a matter of time before I look like the man sitting off to the side full of shame.

Lent, for me, is a time to re-attach my armor. It’s dented and tarnished, but it’s all I need. One piece is to take time for morning solitude, so I connect to God and remember to whom I belong; another piece is to connect with like-minded souls who are willing to be vulnerable and real; a third piece is to perform an act of service to ensure I get outside of myself; and another is to study and learn from others further on the journey.

No one piece guarantees success, but, together, they’ll give me a chance to be the person I was created to be. Lent is a perfect time to remember that and do something about it.

Lent I: Tuning our Lives

I was only twelve when my father took me to the New York Philharmonic, but the memory has remained and contains all I need to know about a life of faith. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to understand.

Sitting in the balcony beside my father, I watched as the musicians, dressed in black in white, walked onto the stage. Some carried their instruments – violins, oboes, and cellos - while others, those who played instruments too big to carry, took their places on the stage. Some moved their seats, others adjusted their music stands, then they began playing various notes. It wasn’t a pleasing sound. Eventually, the woman in the first chair lifted her violin to her chin, dragged her bow across the strings, and played an A. All the other musicians stopped what they were doing and followed her lead, tuning their instruments to hers. Soon, they were all playing the same note. Then there was silence, and the conductor walked onto the stage knowing they were ready to perform.

I think that’s what we’re supposed to do. Too often, we walk on stage with our own instruments and play whatever notes we fancy, but the sound of everyone playing his or her own song is not pleasing. In fact, it’s awful. But God offers a note to which we’re invited to tune our lives. “God’s will, not ours,” the folks in 12-step recovery often say, and each time they do I think of the orchestra.

Lent is a season in which we are invited to re-tune our lives. It might require reaching up and adjusting the strings, but the note is there for us all to hear. The question is: will we tune our instrument to it so the symphony can begin?