Steve

A Light in Darkness (A Christmas villanelle)

Steve · December 23, 2009 · 3 Comments

Here’s a villanelle I wrote a few years ago to celebrate the joy and the promise of Christmas. It appears as a spoken-word poem with original music by Phil Cooper on Nathanael’s Creed’s new Christmas CD, “Home Again with You.”

Merry Christmas…

A light in darkness fights off the cold
thrust into the world yet of its own making.
The new life is fragile but the message is bold.

A gentle king, as the prophets foretold,
stirs in the straw and yawns in his waking.
A light in darkness fights off the cold.

A star from the East beckons prophecies old,
the expanse between heaven and Earth is breaking.
The new life is fragile but the message is bold.

In this child a mystery will unfold,
for wise men there is no mistaking.
A light in darkness fights off the cold.

The angels proclaim what shepherds behold,
for this night the whole world is aching.
The new life is fragile but the message is bold.

A gift from on high more precious than gold,
a life that brings life for the taking.
A light in darkness fights off the cold,
the new life is fragile but the message is bold.

Taking on the Black Hill of Death

Steve · December 19, 2009 · 2 Comments

Me, Jon and Jess, at the foot of Cerro Negro before the climb.

This past summer, I accompanied my parish youth group on a one-week mission trip to Nicaragua, where we helped build homes and a school near the northern city of Chinendega. But first, we were told that we were going to climb Cerro Negro, a 2,400-foot high volcano that had last erupted about a decade ago. When we arrived at the site, dubbed (jokingly, I hoped) the “black hill of death,” I stood in awe of the giant black formation. I wondered, and even doubted, if I could climb to the top along a narrow path among the jagged rocks and boulders and then make my way down the smooth slope of the other side of the hill that was covered with foot-deep volcanic gravel. I knew, of course, that I had an easy out. I could say that I just didn’t feel up to it and no one would question me. But I decided to go for it.

I thought it might be tough, but I wasn’t ready for just how tough it was. I stopped often along the way to catch my breath and gather the strength and will to go on. When I reached the top of the first winding and difficult path that led to another narrow path that shot straight along the crest of the volcano, my heart fell when I realized how much I had left to do. But I put one foot in front of the other, I put my head down and just walked, and with time I found myself standing at the highest point of the volcano.

My good buddy, Larry, takes a break on the way up Cerro Negro. Photo by Steve Givens

The pay off was great. The views were spectacular, and I got to share the accomplishment with the others in the group, including my son, Jon, and his girlfriend, Jess. We cheered on those who were still making their way up. We shared stories of the ascent and a simple meal of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We took photos of each other rejoicing at our accomplishment. And then we headed down – a joyous descent, sliding and jumping through the loose volcanic gravel in minutes and making the multi-hour ascent a mere memory.

I learned a lot about myself that day. I learned I could do more than I thought I could. I learned the power of “one step at a time” and I remembered my high school coaches’ encouragement to get past a little bit of hurt by “walking it off.” But for me, this day was about much more than walking or physical strength.

I rediscovered an inner strength that I know comes from God. I reconnected with the idea that we are called to take care of our bodies because they are the temples of the Holy Spirit. I’m not going to become a marathon runner any time soon, but my experience on Cerro Negro, along with the intense physical labor of the rest of the week, awakened in me a need to both push myself a little physically (as my body with its disease will allow, of course) and, more importantly, to learn to call upon God as the source of my strength.

IMG_4127_2 — Me and Jon at the top of Cerro Negro

So when I just can’t do it, or when I am winded or fall, the greatest blessing is knowing that I have a God who sees me in my weakness, who knows me by name, and who picks me up and carries me the rest of the way. I am not ashamed of my weakness, for it is just an outward sign that there is still healing to be done inside me.

Emptying ourselves to make room for God

Steve · December 13, 2009 · 4 Comments

In the grotto at the University of Notre Dame, South Bend. Photo by Steve Givens

There’s an old story, attributed to the Curé d’Ars (St. John Vianney) that tells about an elderly man who enters his parish church everyday, sits for a while in silence, and then leaves. One day the parish priest (the future saint) asks him about what he does everyday. The man replies simply: “I look at God, God looks at me, and we enjoy one another.” I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a more clear and instructive description of prayer.

I think sometimes we try to make prayer more difficult or complex than it really is. There is no right way to pray, of course, and what may work for one person might be as dry as a desert for another. We can say the prayers we learned as children that have been etched into our brains and souls. We can recall favorite passages of scripture or poetry. We can just talk to God about what’s going on in our lives. Or, like the old man in the church at Ars, we can just sit with God and enjoy the company.

Many talk about being “filled” by God in prayer and that can be an apt description of what can happen in prayer. But here’s the problem: If we’re too full of ourselves and our busy lives, there’s just no room for God. So we have to empty ourselves. We have to get out of our own way and make some room for God.

My friend (a pen pal, actually), Sr. Immaculata, is an 89-year-old Sister of St. Joseph from Sault Ste. Marie in Ontario. She has spent her life in prayer and service, including teaching piano to children, which she still does. She wrote me a note just this past week and included this quote from the great mystic, St. Teresa of Avila: “There is no stage of prayer so sublime that it isn’t necessary to return often to the beginning.” Sr. Immaculata added: “That’s where I am right now and very happy to be there as I find the Lord being very gentle with me.” At 89, she says she needs to “keep working for a closer relationship with God.” Even now, she’s not afraid of or concerned with the idea of starting over. That’s a prayer in itself.

Returning to the beginning, I think, is about placing ourselves in the presence of God and then making room for him. Like an old married couple, it’s sitting before the fire together that means so much, not the words that are spoken or left unsaid.

Here’s a relatively new song I wrote with all this in mind. It’s called “Empty Myself.” Click on the link below to hear the song. There’s a bit of a gap before the music starts…be patient.

IMG_5158_2 — Self-portrait in the Ozark sun, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

In the morning as the light breaks
I rise to face another day.
All my worries, all the distance
All the ways I fail to say:
I am filled to the brim…
I am filled to the brim…

In the silence, in your presence
I bring you all I have and hold.
All my loves and all that glitters,
All my gifts and dreams of gold.
I am filled to the brim…
I am filled to the brim…

So I empty myself.
Empty myself. Empty myself.
And I pray…fill me up.

In the evening as the day fades
I stop and try to find your gaze.
I look at you and you look to me.
I see beyond my mindless haze.
I am filled to the brim…
I am filled to the brim…

So I empty myself.
Empty myself. Empty myself.
And I pray…fill me up.

\”Empty Myself,\” by Steve Givens

Finding the Sacred in the Ordinary

Steve · December 6, 2009 · 2 Comments

[an excerpt from a work in progress: “Embraced by God: Facing Chemotherapy with Faith.]

Holy is the dish and drain, the soap and sink, and the cup and plate,
and the warm wool socks, and the cold white tile, showerheads and good dry towels, and frying eggs sound like psalms, with bits of salt measured in my palm. It’s all a part of a sacrament as holy as a day is spent.
– Carrie Newcomer

I was driving to work one day last week and, when I was almost to my office, I realized that I didn’t remember a thing about the drive. I remembered backing out of my driveway and turning onto the main road that would lead me toward the university, but that’s all I remembered. I had been so lost in thought and in the business and busy-ness of my day that I failed to notice anything along the way. No stoplights, no trees, no people, no cars around me. How I arrived safely I’ll never know. It was like I was on autopilot. And that experience of mindless driving, I thought, is exactly how I so often find myself plunging ahead through life, unaware that all around are signs and moments of God’s presence and grace.

The sacred in an ordinary lollypop. Chinendega, Nicaragua, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens.

It’s relatively easy to recognize the things in our lives that we have come to know as holy or sacred. If asked to list these elements of life, many of us would quickly rattle off words like church, scripture, God, mass and sacraments. We might even branch out further from these distinctly religious ideas and objects and include words like family, children, grandchildren and friends. We might even recall those special moments in our lives when God seemed especially close – perhaps standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon, listening to a favorite piece of music or observing a work of art. We might think of holy days and holidays. We might recall weddings and births and even deaths. Certainly all these experiences can be seen as sacred to us.
But there is also sacredness in the seemingly ordinary moments of my life that, like my drive to work, all too often passes by in a noisy blur without much notice. These moments can be fleeting and seemingly meaningless, but when we take the time to reflect and allow ourselves to live a more examined inner life, we can begin to see that the sacred is all around us.

Departure: The sacred in a moment of sadness. Chinendega, Nicaragua, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t live in a constant state of spiritual bliss, always aware that God is in the room with me and that everything I do is part of a grand sacrament of ordinary life. Indeed, a week or a month can go by when I don’t feel this (or remember to sense it) at all. But I do believe we are all called to this way of living, and we are perhaps especially called to it if we find ourselves facing serious disease and health issues. For when we allow ourselves and our lives to be drawn into the realm of the sacred and the divine, then even our pain can take on a semblance of the sacred and our days of chemotherapy can transform into sacramental moments of sacrifice, prayer, worship and even grace.

The Same Favorite Moon

Steve · December 4, 2009 · 1 Comment

Here’s a poem I wrote a few years ago for my daughter Jenny, now 18, when she was learning to drive. This “sliver of a silver crescent” moon has since become “our thing,” and whenever either of us sees it (I have no idea when or how often the moon takes this shape…) we call each other. I’ve come to love the moment when my phone rings and I hear Jenny’s voice say, “Daddy, look in the sky! It’s our moon!” (see also my attempt at a painting to capture the poem…)

You probably don’t remember but
we were out driving one night
and I looked out the window and saw
my favorite moon.
A sliver of a silver crescent
of the bottom of a globe
a delicate, fragile, candy bowl of a moon
just sitting there in the early spring sky
waiting to catch whatever fell into its belly.
I was mesmerized by it and told you so.
You, this delicate, fragile moon in my life,
this satellite spinning steadily around me.
And you looked up briefly and smiled
and said, “Yeah, it’s my favorite, too.”
And I thought: How glorious.
How mind-numbingly and achingly perfect
That we share the same favorite moon.