Nature

Today’s Word: Peace

Steve · September 20, 2013 · 1 Comment

Such an overused, overworked word is peace. Whether between nations, between individuals or within us, peace does not come easy, quickly or simply. Peace, William Butler Yeats wrote in his poem, The Lake Isle of Innisfree, “comes dropping slow, dropping from the veils of morning to where the cricket sings.” The peace of mind, soul and heart that we seek within ourselves takes its time and comes, not upon demand like so much else in our lives, but when we slowly and deliberately open ourselves to its possibility as a gift. It is a treasured commodity, a gift of highest worth, and so we must seek and work for peace. We must apply ourselves to peace. We must leave ourselves open and wait for peace.

Peace, like God, is ours for the taking, for the acceptance, for the willingness on our part to seek it out and find it. For most of us, that means seeking time in silence, whether in the quiet of a small room or chapel or in the hush of nature. Yeats sought this peace on his beloved Irish island, where he knew it would be quiet enough to “hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore…in the heart’s deep core.” We need to get away, to hear the water lapping, to listen to the quiet voice that whispers in our heart’s deep core. For we cannot be fully ourselves, cannot be fully aware of all that is present in our lives, without this peace that comes by abandoning ourselves to the silence of prayer and time alone with God.

Ask yourself in silence: When and where will I make time today to listen to my heart’s deep core?

Today’s Word: Dust

Steve · September 18, 2013 · 2 Comments

According to Genesis, we’re supposed to remember that we are made of dust and to dust we will return. It’s a humbling, earthy thought, a reminder that our physical selves are little more than the stuff of earth. And according to Carl Sagan and other such trustworthy scientists, the dust we’re made of is actually stardust or “star stuff,” as Sagan once said. Every single atom in our bodies, it seems — including the calcium in our bones, the carbon in our genes, and the iron in our blood — was created in a star “billions and billions” of years ago. We live today because stars died, and I’m cool with that. The science of the earth is a reinforcement of my faith in a Creator-God, not a deterrent.

But we’re also more than this very old stardust because we are more than the physical bodies given to us so we can walk the earth and marvel at the beauty of it all. The Psalmist says that we have been made “little less than gods” and reminds us that God is “mindful” of us. We are, in fact, more “souls with bodies” than we are “bodies with souls,” although I realize that’s a bit of a word game. As believers, we are stuck with this duality of being both animal and beloved by God. Both natural and supernatural. A being of the earth and a child of God. Dust in the wind and heir of the Creator. In faith, we can embrace the two dimensions of our being and stand in awe and worship of a God who knows our dusty selves and loves us anyway.

Ask yourself in silence: Where’s my home? Do I feel more like a soul or a body?

Today’s Word: Rain

Steve · September 8, 2013 · 2 Comments

Today’s word is rain because, well, it’s raining. I’m up early this morning after a late night out with my band, and I’m sitting in my favorite chair next to an open door. The early morning breeze is cool and a gentle rain has been falling for the past hour or so. Off in the distance thunder rumbles. This rain, hitting off the deck outside the door and splashing noiselessly into the thirsty earth, today speaks to me of prayer and the presence of God.

St. Ignatius once described our interaction with the Spirit as “lightly and gently, like a drop of water that enters into a sponge.” Think of the gentleness of that; it’s barely noticeable until we are filled. Without the Spirit, we are an empty shell of being, dry and useless, just taking up space. But when we open ourselves to the Spirit, when we set ourselves out in the rain, so to speak, we can be filled, inundated, inebriated even by the gentle yet powerful presence of God. Then we become more that we could ever become on our own, filled with joy and purpose and ready to serve others.

Ask yourself in silence: Do I make time to “set myself out in the rain?” Am I willing to empty myself of my own desires in order to be filled by the Spirit of God?

Today’s Word: Sustained

Steve · September 4, 2013 · 1 Comment

The egret goes down to the shore everyday and waits for the fish to come in. Its beady eyes pierce the sand and the foam and — quick as lightning — it plucks a minnow from the froth. Moving away from the waves so as to lessen the chance of escape should the prey be dropped, the bird manipulates and maneuvers the tiny fish in its beak until it finally tips its head back and swallows it whole. Then the egret goes back and does it all again. And again and again, answering some inner egret call, taught by a preceding generation of like-minded egrets. It does what egrets do and thus is sustained.

We, too, seek a shore that sustains. We search for an edge, a cusp that connects our world to the sustaining sea. Day after day we hunt and peck, hoping our efforts are not in vain, transfixed on an idea that there must be something meaty swimming in the froth of our lives, something that will get us through our days, our months and years. What we grasp there we must also judge. Is it what we need? Is it real and healthy or a piece of plastic that can harm? Both good and bad float in the foam. We need quick, discerning vision and even quicker movements that allow us to reach out and grab what the sustainer offers — something fresh, alive, whole and holy. Just what we need and nothing less or more.

Ask yourself in silence: What sustains me? What gets me out of bed and pulls me through my day?

Today’s Word: Astonished

Steve · September 3, 2013 · 4 Comments

sunset2 — Sunset lesson on Captiva. SJG photo (As always, click on photo for a larger view...)

A few nights ago, watching the sunset on Captiva Island in southwest Florida, I witnessed a young mother teaching her son a most important lesson. As the sun was near setting, she drew the three- or four-year-old close and helped him be still long enough to see what was going on. While he is too young to understand that the sun is not actually sinking into the ocean, the beauty and awe of the moment was not lost on him. The lesson was not in vain because he couldn’t understand the science. He stood perfectly still next to her and didn’t move until the sun was gone. Her effort was worthwhile and may be remembered for many years to come. If nothing else, this young man may grow up to remember that his mother loved sunsets and first showed them to him.

But more importantly, he may grow up to be a man who knows that it’s important and okay to slow down, to stand still and to watch the sun slide into the ocean. It’s appropriate to gasp in exhileration when the world explodes in beauty before you. It’s right and just to fall on your knees and acknowledge that the Creator of everything likes to show off a little every night and paint the sky for our enjoyment. He may grow to be a man who was taught by his mother to look outside himself to find the real meaning in life. He may learn to see God in the beauty of a Florida sunset.

May we all remember what it’s like to be amazed by something we don’t fully understand. May we all pray the words of the New England poet Mary Oliver:

Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.

Ask yourself in silence: When was I last astonished?