Vocation

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The day comes down to this… me at my writing desk and Maddie laying on the bed behind me.

It feels good to sit after such a busy day. It was one of those days, that after it’s all over, we wonder how we ever fit it all in:  taking  my Addison’s dog in for a check-up, going to the grocery store, doing laundry, baking bread, making lunch and then an entire afternoon at my writing desk immersed in Frederick Buechner’s writing.

Max is doing pretty good, given where we were a few months back.  This past week though, I’ve noticed a little loss in appetite and a few other potential “bumps in the road” that I thought might be tied to the fine-tuning we’ve begun on Max’s hormone replacement therapy.  So today’s visit was all about buying some peace of mind.  With a trip to Surfside Beach in our near future, I want that poodle boy of mine to be fit as a fiddle.

Stuck at the doctors all day, poor Max missed baking day though.  And we missed him.  It’s crazy that we can miss the one that’s not here, even with two dogs still keeping me company.  But Max got a clean bill of health with another order to further adjust his meds.  I’ll be glad when we’re on “maintenance.”

Spending time with Buechner is always holy time.  I’ve decided that Buechner is the patron saint of our Everyday God.  His writing has nurtured my spiritual life in a way that’s beyond words.  Truly.  I remember a former pastor first mentioning his name, sort of in passing.  But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the first time I laid eyes on one of his sentences.  It was literary love at first sight.

It was just a small quote from Buechner, something that I imagine happens a lot with Buechner’s words.  I’m getting ready to do it here.  But I’ll never forget how beautiful the words were and how I felt, that in reading this short sentence, I had just been handed truth in bulk — a lot of meaning for the cost of a few words.

And I pray I have not built this up too much, that you will be disappointed in my short sentence  cum sacred souvenir; but then how could I make too much over this, since this was how I felt reading that first sentence.  I remember putting down the book I was reading, and immediately logging onto Amazon.com to buy my first Buechner book  — Wishful Thinking, A Seeker’s ABC — the very book that contained my sentence.

The quote was the last sentence of Buechner’s definition for “Vocation,” and even taken out of context, it was good.  Very good.  Beyond good.  So what was the sentence that began my journey with Buechner?  Simply this:

“The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”

The day comes down to this… me at my writing desk and Maddie laying on the bed behind me.

Help from St. Julian

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I am gathering threads for next week’s two lessons on the saints.

Nothing is woven together yet.  But before sitting with the saints, both lessons share a similar need to begin  from a common departure point of what makes a saint a Saint.

I am reminded that all Christians living and dead are part of the communion of saints.  We are saints in name, if nothing more, trying our best to walk the talk and talk the walk;  like St. Paul, we  everyday saints openly struggle against doing the evil we do not want to do and in not doing the good we wish to do.

But what causes a saint to become  a Saint with a capital “S”?  What causes a saint to become widely recognized as Saint, if not by the Catholic Church, then at least by a group of spiritual apprentices who regard another person’s words and works as help for their own sacred journeys?

With help from St. Julian of Norwich, I am slowly unraveling a few threads of understanding.

I have been enamored with St. Julian since stumbling upon her in several works of fiction.  I have confessed to enjoying historical fiction, in particular, English history of the Tudor period and of the Medieval period in which Julian lived.  After continuing to cross paths with Dame Julian, I read her Revelations of Divine Love a couple of years ago; these mystical revelations came to Julian during a life threatening illness that led her, at around age 30, to turn her back on the world and live out the rest of her life as a holy woman.  Rather than entering a convent, which was more typical of the time, Julian entered a small cell, a side building attached to the St. Julian and Edwards Church of Norwich, where she remained until she died.  The following is a typical summary of her everyday cell  life.

Julian would have had three windows in her cell or anchorage.  The window called the Squint was to open into the church so that the anchoress could receive communion and follow the church services. The second window provided access to her attendant who would deliver food and remove any waste. The third window provided visitors with the means to talk to Julian asking for her advice and prayers. ..Many people visited Julian of Norwich. Not just the local villages but other important Medieval people of the Middle Ages seeking her advice and comfort.

Metaphorically, all Saints and saints live with the same three windows that Dame Julian had;  a window to take in spiritual nourishment, one for the ins and outs of earthly needs and one to hand out spiritual nourishment to the world.  But the windows of the Saints are opened wider, allowing them to hear and see more clearly than the average everyday saint.

Through their Squint, they listen and gaze attentively for a word or glimpse of the Holy; in their second window, they more fully experience  their own human poverty as they rely on others to bring in food and carry out their waste; and in their third window, they listen  — really listen — to the needs of the world and invite the world to see and listen for God in their own everyday lives.

Saints are Saints and not saints because they desire God more than an everyday saint.  They desire God more than worldly power or money or fame.

Perhaps a litmus test for Sainthood is that a true Saint would be as uncomfortable as hell at being called a Saint.  Seeing more clearly and maybe standing a little more closer to God, they know just how far they stand from the holy.  But to a blind and deaf saint like me, they are holy indeed; holy in the sense of being set apart, accessible by all.  True Saints are not pious in the sky.

As they live out their quiet lives as they must, Saints come closer to incarnating Christ in the world.   There is simply no help for it.

Better Letters

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Rather than writing next week’s Advent presentation or contemplative prayer practice, I’m twiddling  thoughts for this year’s Christmas letter.

I dropped one percolating thought right into Friday’s Food post on oatmeal cookies.  Remember this line? — Isn’t it ironic that we remember the times when certificates change hands —  like  for a marriage or the birth of a child or a college graduation — and forget that the best of real life is found sandwiched in between?

When I wrote that line, I was thinking of this year’s Christmas letter and how the contents of past letters, both sent and received, were not much more than a series of life punctuation points accompanied by certificates.

I want to write a better letter this year though I’m unsure of what ‘better’ will look like.  I’d like the letter to recognize the importance of the everyday.  But how do I do this in the age of no words please – in the age of twitters and texts and short-attention spans?  Longer will definitely not do;  and if longer is not better, this means the content must change.

Perhaps I need to write more than I need and then distill.  Cut, cut, cut.  I could even begin with my everyday thoughts on certificate days.

Thoughts on marriage:  It is in the  daily living rather than on the wedding day where two lives are joined together; where true knowledge of each other grows out of mere knowing about the other, where each learns, often the hard way, what brings the other joy or angst and where dreams and fears are shared and sometimes even heard.  On  good days, one partner may deftly read in-between the lines of a spouse’s spoken word, though not too often.  But  it is upon the smooth and rough seas of the everyday, where days of sameness collide together, that an unnoticed miracle will occur: a few threads of the mystery of each partner will gradually unravel to allow the loose threads to be woven into the others own.  The weaving  of lives together is not a pretty process or even a pretty result.  Nor does it happen overnight.  But thread by thread and day by day, two lives will become one, as long as they remember to stay loose and unravel every so often.

Thoughts on parenting: Parenting grows out of everyday care and the raising of  a child rather than in conception and delivery.  If most parents are like me, they haven’t a clue of what to expect when they bring their darling newborn infant home; no mere eighteen year commitment this, since love is sown deep to keep parents forever parents to a child, no matter how many wrinkles a child ultimately grows.  Parent boot camp consists of never-ending feedings and diaper changes and later the never-ending chauffering and coaching and all the sleep-deprived nights from sleepovers and sickness and forgetfulness of some teen- aged child who stays out  past curfew.. or forgets to come home.  Parents are made and not born.

Thoughts on graduation: It will be mixed bag of emotions (pride, joy, relief) to watch two adult children walk across the stage to receive their college diploma next May and walk off the stage and their father’s payroll.  But the celebratory moment would be hollow without awareness of  the hard work that preceded the certificate… and the hard work that will follow it.

Of course lessons in the classroom are important — but the lessons outside are the ones that birth character, as one of mine has recently discovered through a Shakespearean tragedy of errors where he became the unlucky scapegoat of the university student newspaper.  Helplessly, I have watched him suffer.  Thankfully, I am now seeing him pick up the pieces to carry on  life wiser and stronger.  He has been fortunate to attract two able mentors to see him through his ordeal. Perhaps, Hillary Clinton was right in saying that it takes a village to raise a child.   So yes, while there is pride, joy and relief, it has less to do with certificates than in the men they have become.

These thoughts will take some serious editing.  I guess shorter really makes for a better letter.  If so, perhaps this sweet tweet might just do?

This year we had one marriage, no births and two graduations.

All our best to you and the rest.