Steve

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.

Later Thanksgiving day, November 25, 2009

Steve · December 1, 2009 · 3 Comments

Autumn leaf... — One last leaf of autumn, Missouri Ozarks, 2009. Photo by Steve Givens

As I head toward turning 50 just after the first of the year, I sometimes sense what feels like creative energy and a multitude of ideas mixed with a touch of fear bubbling up inside me. The creative energy is good, of course. The fear might be good, too, but it can be crippling. The fear, I guess, is that I won’t be able to act on all the energy and ideas. That’s a stupid fear. Just push forward. Forget the fear.

As a writer and songwriter, I can tell my stories and hope and trust that someone will see a grain of truth in them–a semblance of something real that maybe they have felt themselves. If they believe in God they may recognize their own divine experiences in my stories. If they do not or do not yet know if they believe or not, perhaps they will still glean something from me that points them to their own discovery of God and faith. I don’t preach, but I can’t help but reflect what I hold most true.

So back to the lake. All around me the sights and sounds of late autumn remind me that nature takes these last few moments before the onslaught of winter to prepare and gather. Puffy-cheeked chipmunks scamper about me gathering food for the winter. Squirrels glide from tree to tree, building nests and hording sustenance. A noisy murder of crows continually breaks the silence of the fall air. I don’t know whether that has anything to do with the coming winter or not but they seem content to caw and scare away the occasional gull. Whoever said this time of year is dead has never taken the time to look and listen. For I hear and see things now that I never notice during the peak of the lake season. I actually heard the flutter of a sparrow’s wing high above me in the tree as it perched preening itself. I can hear a pair of ducks cutting through the water. I hear a far-off fishing boat long before I see it. The world is intense and intimate and alive during these moments and I am blessed to be here.

As a Christian and a Christian writer, I believe that I am called to two things. First, like all Christians I believe that the world should be able to see Christ in me. That’s a tall order and I certainly do not always succeed. In what I say and what I do (and what I write) they should be able to see that this “Christian stuff” makes a difference–that it’s real and alive and moving, just like the movement of God in my life. As a Christian who is a writer, I believe I’m called to try and make some sense of all of this “God stuff” and “faith stuff” on the page. I don’t want to grab the readers by the scruff of their necks and pull them screaming into the kingdom, but I do want to help them find evidence of the sacred in everyday life. I want them to see what I see, holy moments that may lead them gently into the light and the waiting arms of God. If they see something they like, I hope they will join me in the walk. It’s a good road.

Thanksgiving Day, November 25, 2009

Steve · November 29, 2009 · 5 Comments

Ozark autumn color captured Thanksgiving Day, 2009, photo by Steve Givens

Today I’m down at our small lake cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks in central Missouri for a few days with my wife, Sue, and our children Jon and Jenny. This has been our Thanksgiving tradition for more than a decade now–a small meal for just the four of us, and a chance to kick back and enjoy the day without the commotion of a larger family tradition. We read and talk and watch movies. We eat, too much. It suits us all pretty well. It is also our last trip of the season to this little retreat that we bought when the kids were young, a small red lakefront cabin that can sometimes be a hassle but more often than not feels like salvation.

It is time to get the place ready for winter–to turn off the water and allow the place a few months of hibernation from us. In many ways this is my favorite time of year, because I think it gets me ready for winter, too. We arrived last night and since I awoke this morning I have seen no other people besides my family and a lone fishermen in the distance making his way across the choppy surface of the Gravois (Grav-oy) Arm of the lake. It’s quiet and uncrowded and that’s why this is my favorite time of year.

Of course, I do like the summers, too, what with the swimming and the boating and the fishing and the kids and their friends adding life and enthusiasm to our little place, but this is the best time for me to gather my ideas and begin to put two thoughts together.

I’ve put off starting this blog because I was too busy with work and life and writing other things and because I didn’t think I’d be able to keep up the pace of posting something interesting often enough. But I’m starting nonetheless. My son Jon, almost 23 and a budding social media guru, has warned me to not be too wordy. People like short blogs, he tells me. So I’m trying to heed his advice. I’ve probably written too much already. I promise to keep it shorter in the future. But it’s my first entry so cut me a break and keep reading a little while longer. A foreword to the digital future, of sorts.

In this blog, I will be writing about those ideas and memories and sparks of creativity that come to me in a flash and also the kind that brew and percolate inside me for months at a time. When I teach writing occasionally I tell my students to remember that they should always be writing, even when they are not physically typing or writing. Writing is a full-time job. I’ll be writing, in one way or another, about two things that are most important to me and drive my life and everything in it: creativity and spirituality. Everything else springs forth from these two and, if I’m really accurate, I suppose the two are inseparable. I can’t have one without the other. More on this later. Much more.