Tag Archives: spiritual practices

present

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Last night Isaiah was talking in his sleep and it woke me up.  I didn’t need to get out of bed (halleLUjah) so I just rolled over and waited a few minutes, making sure all was well before drifting back to sleep.   But during those 2 minutes of wakefulness I had the urge to check my phone.   You know, to pass the time.   To pass those 2 minutes by checking my email, maybe Facebook, do a quick browse on Pinterest while waiting for Isaiah to settle down.   And it struck me while I lay there resisting the desire to pick up my phone… what is this about?  Why on earth am I tempted to check my phone at 3am?  Who has possibly emailed me, besides GAP, Amazon and Living Social, since I went to bed 5 hours ago?    And unless my friends on the East Coast are updating Facebook suuuuper early, chances are there is nothing new there either.  But I wanted it.  I wanted that little dopamine release that comes from checking my phone.   I resisted but not without effort.

This has been a frequent topic of conversation in our house over the past few years.  Since we got iPhones, really.  You know the drill.  In the car and you have to wait at the light for, I don’t know, maybe 17 seconds?    Check your phone!  Maybe someone texted you!  In the elevator and need to kill a whole 24 seconds riding to the top floor?  Check your phone!  Might have a new email!     Got two glorious minutes while your kids play on their own after breakfast?  Check your phone!  Might be your turn in Words with Friends!  (totally legit, btw – I mean, it works your brain - unlike all the other mindless apps).    You know what I’m saying.  That’s how it’s been for me, anyway.   And Jason, too.  We’ve talked and talked and talked about it.  We’ve long known that these aren’t good habits, not good for our souls, and not something we want our kids to emulate.  We’ve made resolutions regarding our screen time.  We’ve made rules for ourselves, tried to encourage each other and sometimes scold each other for being sucked back in.    We’ve tried putting our phones in different rooms, in the cupboard, on silent, deleted superfluous apps, you name it.  But nothing has really stuck.  It’s always taken monumental effort to change our patterns of behavior with our phones.  And we so easily slip back into old habits.

A few weeks ago, Jason took the boys to the frisbee park for a couple hours and I found myself with some unexpected free time.  I had about 17 loads of laundry to fold and I wanted something to entertain me while I worked on it.   I won’t lie, I was tempted by Dawson’s Creek (season 3) but I had heard recently that my alma mater had a youtube channel with all of their chapel talks so I decided to check that out instead.  Good decision, it turns out.   Not that Dawson and Joey aren’t good company but I found a lecture by one of my favorite professors* and was transfixed almost immediately.

  • *Quick disclaimer – I credit Greg Spencer with changing the course of my academic life (and thus, in some significant ways, my personal life as well) during my undergrad years.  So I might be completely biased but the man is brilliant.  I know you’ll agree.

The lecture was in September of 2010 and was based on material from his book, Awakening the Quieter Virtues (we just got the book from the library and Jason has already snagged it so I’m currently waiting for my turn to read it).  It spoke to just this topic of information overload and gave me a new framework and a new way to think about the use of my phone, and all technology for that matter.  Anything that is competing for my attention, really.   I won’t try to paraphrase his lecture.  You should check it out, or better yet, read the book.  But the one thing I think about now on a daily basis…

  • Am I being a good steward of the present?

I’d honestly never thought of such a thing.  I have thought about being a good steward of my money, the environment, my resources, and so forth.  But never the present.   And it’s flipped everything on its head for me.  Instead of making up rules for myself and my use of my phone, I’m asking myself that question.   Dr. Spencer said (I’m paraphrasing here) that instead of trying to fill up each moment in our life with as much as we possibly can, believing that more is always better, we should focus on giving our full attention to one thing, and one thing only, in each moment.    Instead of multi-tasking, which isn’t really possible anyway, we should uni-task.

I’ve found this much harder than I thought it would be.  I’ve got 2 young kids and multi-tasking saves the day, right?  Making lunch for the boys, scanning FB on my phone, prepping dinner, picking up toys, and starting a load of laundry between, say, 12:05-12:25, sounds about right to me.  It’s hard to slow down.  It’s hard sometimes to give my full attention to making lunch.  Just lunch.  It’s hard sometimes to sit in the backyard with the boys without bringing my book so I can catch up on some reading at the same time.  To give my full attention to them as they dig in the sandbox and pick up bugs.  It’s hard to go to the bathroom without my phone (I am totally embarrassed to admit that, by the way, but it’s true.  I rarely go to the bathroom without my phone).  But the more I attempt to be a better steward of the present, the more I work at it, the easier it gets.

And I’m finding this week that in those moments, those little spaces in the day, those brief seconds in the car at a stoplight or those 10 minutes in the morning before the boys come banging into our room, if I just sit, just be, rather than fumbling for my phone, those are often the “thin spaces” in my day.    It’s an image I like from the Celtic tradition, referring to “a moment and space in time where heaven and earth are so close together that the spiritual and the natural world intersect.  A place where it is possible to touch and be touched by God.  Thin spaces are the moments when we experience a deep sense of God’s presence in our everyday world.”

So it’s not about whether or not Facebook or email or smart phones or television are inherently bad.   For me, it’s about trying not to talk to one person while texting another (we all know how good that feels).  It’s about resisting the temptation to troll Facebook while playing trains with Gryffin and Isaiah.  It’s about focusing on one thing, not 3 or 4 or 7.  It’s about sitting quietly so that I can sense those thin spaces.  I’m finding that they are not so elusive as I once thought.   It’s a struggle still (I’m finishing this post while the boys have their afternoon snack…  sigh) but it’s sure worth the effort.  Thanks, Greg – you came through in a clutch once again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jason reaping the benefit of a good stewardship moment.  Can’t beat that!

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a Wiggles dance party that needs my full attention.

An Experiment in Forgiveness

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I watch Oprah sometimes.  Who doesn’t, right?  She hosts famous authors and celebrities, interviews sex offenders and other criminals, gives away cars and trips to Australia, likes dogs, reads books and is generally not a bad way to pass the hour while I workout.  So I was at the gym a few weeks ago and I was watching her show while I was running on the treadmill.  I don’t remember what the show was about but she was talking about forgiveness.  And I was ready to scoff.  I was ready to write her off.  Sometimes she gets a little fluffy, a little woo-woo (as my friend, Brianna, would say), and I can’t help but shake my head and roll my eyes.    Forgiveness is (supposedly) what Christianity is all about.  I know all about forgiveness.  But I found her definition intriguing.   And I’ve been pondering it ever since.  Here’s what she said:

“Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could be any different.”

At first I thought, no, there’s a lot more to it than that.  But is there?   The more I think about it, the more it resonates.  Regardless of the situation, this definition works pretty well.  It’s more about the offended person than the offender.    It’s empowering for the offended person.  They choose to release that hope and move on, regardless of whether the offender apologizes, sees the error of their ways, or wants forgiveness in the first place.  They might continue in relationship with the offender.  They might not.  But it frees them and enables them to move forward.

I have a relationship in my life that has been troubling me for some time now.  There have been unmet expectations and hurt feelings for both of us over the past few years.  We have usually done so unknowingly but it has been painful nonetheless.     I started noticing several months ago that I was no longer able to be myself around this person.  I didn’t want to be vulnerable with her in any way and I was no longer able to see her as the good, kind person that I know her to be.  I questioned her motives and her sincerity.  No matter what I inwardly told myself about her good character, I was unable to break out of this pattern of cynicism and frustration with her.  I was entrenched in this behavior and unsure how to disengage, give her to benefit of the doubt, and move forward in my friendship with her.

So I talked with Jason about it one evening last week.  He listened attentively, proclaimed that “females are complicated!” (true enough), and said that he was stumped.  It didn’t seem a good idea to sit down and re-hash all the layers of hurt with this friend, lest we injure one another more.   So all that was left for me was to move on.  But how was I supposed to do that?   I still wanted a friendship with this person.  I wasn’t about to walk away from her or phase her out.  But I just couldn’t seem to crack the cyclical patterns of interaction with her.   I was behaving out of memory, out of remembrance of past wounds and pain.   And then I remembered Oprah’s definition.  Oh, Oprah.  Wise Oprah.  Maybe she was right.  Maybe I needed to give up the hope that my relationship with my friend in the past could be any different?  Maybe I needed to let go of those hopes I held on to so that I could proceed with freedom in our friendship today?   Yes, that sounded good.

Alright, I had a plan.  I was going to forgive her.  Novel concept.  But how would I know if I had actually done it?  Was it enough to just think it.  Did I need to say it out loud?  Tell someone else?  Write it down?   And how would this actually change my behavior with her?   I needed something tangible.   So I sat down during the boys’ naps the next day and thought through the various ways I felt injured by this person.  This was unpleasant and surprisingly painful.  But necessary, I think.  I decided to write each hurt onto a post-it note.

 

Then I folded them up and took them outside.  I scooped up a handful of sand to add some weight and to symbolize all the little details over the past several years in my relationship with this person.    I held them for a few minutes and felt the weight of them.

Then I slowly let it all slip through my fingers.

I’ll admit that I felt mildly silly doing this out in our backyard, amidst the slackline, the hammock, the various toys and what not.  But I felt freer afterwards.  Lighter somehow.  And when I called this person the next day, I felt lighter still.  I had let go.  I was free.  Free to move forward in genuine friendship with this woman, free to once again be curious about her and what she is experiencing, no longer bound by my own pain and bitterness over unmet expectations.   I’ll no doubt feel tempted to slip back into the comfortable, protective position I’m used to taking with her, but when I do, I’ll look back on this little exercise and remember that I let my hopes for the past slip through my fingers so that I could walk forward with her and enjoy many years of friendship to come.

Here

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Most of you know I’m a Christian.  Sometimes I feel anxious admitting that.  There are Christians out there who have done some terrible things and I’m ashamed to be huddled together under the same umbrella.   But I am.  I think I was practically born a Christian.   And although it’s my own faith now, not just a family thing,  having grown up in a Christian home means that all the Bible verses and stories are familiar.  So much so that I often find myself checking out when reading or discussing a particular passage.  I’ve heard ‘em all.  I’ve studied ‘em all.  I know all the answers.

So when our church started our series on the beatitudes this summer, I did an inward yawn.  Been there, done that.   When Gail started off the series in June, though, I was completely thrown.  She intro-ed the beatitudes and outlined them in a way that I had to admit I’d never heard before.  I was captivated.  A whole new way to look at the sermon on the mount.   Whaaaat?  By the time Brian preached a couple weeks ago on “blessed are the pure in heart,” I was all in, all ears.  And his exploration of the text penetrated in a way that few sermons have for me in, oh, maybe the last decade.

I can’t paraphrase it.  You’ll have to listen for yourself.   But this is the part that reverberated deep inside me.  He said that the second half of the beatitude, the “for they will see God” part, implies that God already sees us.    That we are not hidden from God.  God always sees us.  Sees us as we were intended to be seen and God comes near.    That it is an invitation, God saying “I want you to see me seeing you.”   So pull down the things that cover you, the fear, the anxiety, the pride, the attempts at greatness, the protecting, the guarding, the whatever,  and see God seeing you.

I guess it struck me so because this has been a rough year.  I lost two of my grandparents and it looks like I’m about to lose another.  I was sick a lot last Fall, requiring 2 rounds of antibiotics and one trip to Urgent Care, I broke a toe on BOTH of my feet at the same time (seriously, who does that?) which meant weeks on crutches, unable to take care of the boys, and some really sad things happened to various close friends of ours. But I don’t feel like there has been any time to pause in the midst of all this. To really sit in my grief for my grandparents. To really feel the sadness that is simmering under the surface for my friends. There is just no down time when you have 2 toddlers. None. And if there is, by chance, the rare moment of quiet and solitude when I’m not running around thinking “oh my gosh, oh my gosh, I have twenty minutes alone, what should I do?! what should do?! Shower?! Eat?! Sleep?!” I’m usually snoring in 5 minutes flat. It’s an exhausting season of life. Joyful, yes, but unbelievably exhausting.   Time for introspection and reflection is really rare.  So when I heard Brian say that God sees me, really sees me, I wanted to weep.  Seriously, people.  Almost started crying in the middle of the sermon.  Even though I’m too tired and worn down to see myself, God sees me. And God draws near.

Fast forward a week or so.  I was still sitting in that sermon, so to speak, trying to figure out how I might live into the reality that God is near.  It’s kind of abstract, right?   Enter Naked Spirituality by Brian McLaren.  I wasn’t too keen to read it, truth be told.  I like old stuff when it comes to “spiritual” reading.  Think Celtic Book of Daily Prayer, Oxford Book of Prayer, and so forth.   But I had been given a Kindle for my birthday from a group of friends and I was eager to read something on it.  Jason already had an e-version of Naked Spirituality and loaded it on the Kindle.  Since I hadn’t purchased anything else yet, and was still in the middle of a different novel, I reluctantly started reading it one night, if only to try out my new gadget.   Within just a few pages I was hooked.

McLaren uses 12 different words (help, when, please, etc) to introduce and center 12 spiritual rhythms.   I’ve only read one word and its corresponding spiritual practice so far – here.    McLaren defines it as “The practice of invocation and presentation, awakening to the presence of God.”   There is a lot that goes into it and again, I won’t try to paraphrase.   This excerpt sums up the practice part of it. You simply say “here” -

“Here I am, at this point in history, within today’s swirl of politics and economics, within epochal shifts in climate and plate tectonics, and within the ongoing drama of human civilization and its discontents.  Here I am, at this point in muy own story –as a child, a teenager, an adult, a senior citizen.  Here I am, on this hill, on this grass, looking up at this sky. Here I am, on this unique day in the history of the universe, with that bird singing over there, those planes flying overhead, these plants springing up around me, each thing with its own unique luminosity.Here I am, in this predicament, in this catastrophe, in this boring afternoon, in this hospital bed with all this beeping, buzzing, humming equipment. Here I am, with all my problems and faults, all my embarrassments and mistakes, all my whirring conscious thought and all my subconscious rumblings and doubts. Here I am, walking down this aisle, taking this exam, in between these contractions, about to deliver this lecture, in the middle of this divorce, writing this book. I don’t have to be somewhere else—right here is okay. In fact, it’s the only place I can be to begin to awaken spiritually. Here. Now. Just as I am.”

This practice seems perfect for someone who is busy, busy, busy with 2 little ones ever underfoot.    A way to stop what I’m doing, even if just for the briefest of moments, to acknowledge,  ”Here I am, in the presence of a mystery.  Here I am, in the presence of a Presence who transcends, surpasses, overflows, and exceeds every attempt at definition, description, and even conception.  Here you are, whoever you are, however similar or dissimilar you are to my preconceived notions of you.  May the real I and the real you become present to one another here and now.”   I’m perhaps not quite that articulate when I’m changing diapers, of course.  Here is what it looked like for me yesterday…

Here I am, having a snack with the boys.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, trying to grocery shop in Fred Meyer while we get our flat tire fixed next door (not the best laid plan – seriously, where might one put a week’s worth of groceries?).  Here you are, God.

Here I am, trying to make a quick cup of coffee while Gryffin is briefly entertained by one of his favorite activities.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, prepping dinner while the boys nap.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, gazing at my sweet almost-three-year-old boy.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, supervising play-dough time.  Isaiah’s first time! (he only ate maybe a half cup, tops).  Here you are, God.

Here I am, reminding them yet again, that the play-dough stays on the table, not the couch or the reading chair, in their ears or in their mouths.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, watching in wonder as they attempt to give each other a hug.  Here you are, God.

Here I am, listening as Jason and Gryffin chat after dinner.  Here you are, God.

I suppose this seems like a pretty minor practice.  Just saying “here.”   But it’s sustainable and it’s simple and it brings me back to that beatitude and Brian’s sermon.  I acknowledge that I am here and God is here.  I see God seeing me.  Or as McLaren puts it, “How much higher and wider and deeper and richer our lives become when we awaken to the presence of the real, wild, mysterious, living God, who is bigger than our tame concepts of God.   As we sense an inward vocation from God and toward God, we can respond with presentation, saying, ‘Here I am, Lord.  I present myself to you, presenting yourself to me.’  We begin to live with a perpetual Here I am, and Here you are, in our hearts, inviting constant, vital connection, unbroken communion, lifelong friendship –starting right here, starting right now.”