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Standing at Edge of the World Singing

Steve · October 28, 2015 · 5 Comments

tree — Monochrome horizon, Lauderdale By the Sea. SJG photo.

I stand at the edge of the world
Sea and sand swirling ‘round my feet
Anchored by the weight of the pulling and swelling
Facing outward, toward a monochrome horizon
Ocean and sky barely distinguishable one from the other
A landscape that could have been sketched by a No. 2 pencil.

Hidden in plain view before the sand and the foam
I sing you a song only you can hear within the roar,
A song I’ve known from before I could even pronounce the words
Prayers from my Grandmother’s throat as she rocks me to sleep
A lullaby that lured me into a bigger life than I could possibly imagine.

And as I sing, blowing words into the wind that rush back into my mouth
The clouds shift ever so slightly, a last-ditch effort, it seems,
For a sunny day that has not been,
And I catch glimpses of something beyond
black, white, gray.

A gull’s beak, the color of a yield sign.
How had I missed that?
A soaring pelican with a hint of blue in its wing.
No, wait. Brown. Green.
There it is. Blue again.

Further out, white swimming buoys bob,
Nearly lost in the metallic except for the red icon of danger,
A warning not to be missed,
A signal that there is always something waiting, lurking
Something to be seen.

blob — Looking closely at new life. SJG photo.

For if we look
Give ourselves over to standing still,
Paying attention,
Rejoicing in the present, recalling the past, peering ahead.
We are sure to see in all three directions at once.

What have I done?
What am I doing?
What should I do?
For you, maker of monochrome skies that hide rainbows.
For you, creator of gull beaks and pelican wings.
For you, hidden but right before my eyes.

Then sings my soul:
How great thou art.
How great thou art.

Today’s Word: Self-Image

Steve · December 28, 2014 · 2 Comments

mile — Mile High footbridge, Grandfather Mountain, NC. SJG photo.

It’s that time of year again. We gaze into the mirror and, with the prospect of a new year and a new opportunity for beginning again facing us, we start to think of all the ways we can improve ourselves. And I’m all for it. I’ve lost some weight the past six months and gotten into better eating habits and an exercise routine I enjoy. Taking care of ourselves — physically, mentally, spiritually, professionally — is important.

But even as I think about how much more weight I want to lose and what my exercise goals for the next year should look like, I am nudged deep inside by a voice that says, “there’s more.”

Okay, I think. More. Hmm. So I start making a self-improvement list. A class perhaps. Cook more, eat out less. See family more often. Start that journal again. Walk further. Maybe get back on the bike. The list can grow long, as we all know. But then I hear a voice once again, and this time it whispers, “Maybe less would be better.”

Self-care is critical if we want to spend many healthy years with the ones we love and if we want time to do the work to which we feel called. The danger, so to speak, is not letting ourselves slide down the slippery slope toward a self-image that is based entirely on, well, ourselves. For we are more than what we look like in the mirror and how far we walk or run. We are more than our educations and professional relationships. We are more than what we appear to be.

Mile High Footbridge, Grandfather Mountain, NC. SJG photo

We are at our best when we give ourselves to others in service. We are at our best when we are able to empty ourselves of the bounty and noise of life and focus on the still, small voice of the One who calls us to be more (and less) in different ways than the mirror or the scale could ever show us. For God sees us differently than we can ever see ourselves.

Today, even as I think of ways I can improve my health in the coming year, I recall the words of St. Francis of Assisi who said, “I am who I am in the eyes of God—nothing more and nothing less.”

Ask yourself in silence: As I make my New Year’s resolutions, where’s God?

Today’s Word: Green

Steve · October 12, 2014 · 4 Comments

This morning I almost decided NOT to go on the long Sunday morning walk around Creve Coeur Lake that has recently become my habit. It was gray, dreary and a bit cold after raining much of the night, although it wasn’t raining at the moment as I stared out of my bedroom window at the deck and the yard and the woods beyond. What the heck, I finally thought, the worst that could happen is that I’ll get a little wet. I got dressed and drove the quick few miles to the park.

My soundtrack for much of the walk was Rich Mullins’ wonderful and eclectic “A Liturgy, a Legacy and a Ragamuffin Band” album, which begins with the late-Mullins mumbling into the studio microphone: “Bear with me everybody, I’m barely ready to do this…” I felt sort of the same. But let’s move on, I thought.

The first part of the walk was as dull as the steel-gray lake surface reflecting the cloudy and overcast sky above. “Just keep your head down and walk,” I thought to myself, “it’s good exercise, but not so much about the view today.” I circled my way through the woods along the back stretch, walked the length that runs under the highway overpass and finally came to the long homestretch about three-quarters of the way around the approximately 4-mile loop.

About that time, Mullins’ “The Color Green” came in through my ear buds. It is perhaps my favorite song for walking through nature and includes these picture-painting lyrics:

Be praised for all Your tenderness by these works of Your hands,
Suns that rise and rains that fall to bless and bring to life Your land.
Look down upon this winter wheat and be glad that You have made
Blue for the sky and the color green that fills these fields with praise.

No blue sky today, I thought. But then I looked, perhaps for the first time that day, at the green. The green of the grass and the trees exploded into my vision and I was taken aback by the utter beauty and contrast of the wet green against the coldness of the rest of the landscape. I woke up, it seems. It’s not drab, I thought, it’s just God telling me to remember that beauty lies all around us, all the time, if we’ll only wake up and pay attention.

And then, as if on cue from the great director in the sky (and I kid you not nor do I exaggerate the perfect timing on this), there was a flash of brown and white in the corner of my right eye. I turned my head just in time to see a bald eagle gliding to rest on a tree branch not 50 feet in front of me, clutching in its talons two (two!) approximately two-pound fish, obviously and recently pilfered from the lake. My hand went to my chest. I could not move. Seriously, God?

“Seriously, Steve. This is what I do, day in and day out.”

Ask yourself in silence: When was the last time you were totally caught off guard by the wonder and power of God?

Note: As I was writing this, I searched online for the lyrics to the song to double check them, and while I was there ran across this video of Rich Mullins singing the song while walking through a drab, gray Irish landscape, with contrasting scenes in black and white and vibrant color. Great minds and all that. Enjoy the video by clicking on the highlighted text above.

Blessing: For an Early Saturday Morning

Steve · September 20, 2014 · 13 Comments

May the sun, which is yet to show its molten face, greet us today with all the warmth and light we need to bring us fully alive and fully awake, ready to meet our day with purpose and love for those who surround us;

May it cast shadows across our faces and hands to remind us of all that needs to be done, all that needs to be healed, all that needs to be offered up to the giver and taker of life;

May this day bring us what we need and nothing more, for it is often in the excess of desire that we lose our very selves and our connection to the Divine Provider who knows better than we do the difference between want and need, who will give us our daily bread in exact proportion to our reliance and trust of the giver;

May those who enter our lives today — new friends and old, colleagues and strangers — end the day changed for the better because our shadows crossed theirs, because our lives touched in some small, significant way that we may never know.

May we live today knowing this power we hold to make small dents in the armored lives of others, that we possess in our hands and in our words the ability to make change and draw the attention of the world to the source of all light, the one sun who casts shadows too many to count across the surface of our days.

Amen.

Today’s Word: Climb

Steve · February 16, 2014 · 1 Comment

Since I was a child, I Ioved the story in Luke’s gospel (Luke 19: 1-10) of Zacchaeus the tax collector who, because he was so short, ran ahead of the crowd following Jesus and did a surprising, almost childlike thing — he climbed a Sycamore tree so he could get a better view and try to get Jesus’ attention. The child in me could relate, especially because I was a “wee little one” and always one of the smallest in my class until I was about 15 and had a growth spurt. Some of you will, indeed, remember this childhood Sunday School song:

Zacchaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he.
He climbed up in a Sycamore tree for the Lord he wanted to see.
And as the Savior passed that way, he looked up in the tree,
And he said, “Zacchaeus, you come down.”
For I’m going to your house today…for I’m going to your house today.

Zacchaeus is rewarded for his effort. Jesus sees him, calls him by name, and then invites himself to Zacchaeus’ house for dinner. This leaves the crowd stunned, for Jesus does something we will see him do over and over in the scriptures: He dines with sinners. He prefers the company of those who need him and his healing and transforming ways to the pious and self-righteous who just want to be seen in his company.

Today, I pray that my inmost desire is still the view from that tree, sitting in that gnarly crook awaiting the one who knows me by name, knows all of my shortcomings and failures and loves and accepts me as I am. It is my passionate desire to hear that voice say, “Come, let’s spend some time together,” because I know that time of presence can take away all my other false and misplaced desires. To hear my name called by the one who created me is to know I am loved; it is to know my purpose, my foundation.

Ask yourself in silence: What do I need to overcome and rise above in order to see Jesus more clearly? What’s blocking my view of God?