Daily Dose (December 9 – 12)
TUESDAY DECEMBER 9 — Some days, I really need my buddies, Frog and Toad.
This story is called Alone, from Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad are Friends. Pull up a chair, it’s Storytime.
Toad went to Frog’s house. He found a note on the door. The note said, “Dear Toad, I am not at home. I went out. I want to be alone.”
“Alone?” said Toad. “Frog has me for a friend. Why does he want to be alone?”
Toad looked through the windows. He looked in the garden. He did not see Frog. Toad went to the woods. Frog was not there. He went to the meadow. Frog was not there.
Toad went down to the river. There was Frog. He was sitting on an island by himself. “Poor Frog,” said Toad. “He must be very sad. I will cheer him up.”
Toad ran home. He made sandwiches.
He made a pitcher of iced tea. He put everything in a basket.
Toad hurried back to the river. “Frog,” he shouted, “it’s me. It’s your best friend, Toad!” Frog was too far away to hear.
Toad took off his jacket and waved it like a flag. Frog was too far away to see.
Toad shouted and waved, but it was no use. Frog sat on the island. He did not see or hear Toad.
A turtle swam by. Toad climbed on the turtle’s back. “Turtle,” said Toad, “carry me to the island. Frog is there. He wants to be alone.”
“If Frog wants to be alone,” said the turtle, “why don’t you leave him alone?”
“Maybe you are right,” said Toad. “Maybe Frog does not want to see me. Maybe he does not want me to be his friend anymore.”
“Yes, maybe,” said the turtle as he swam to the island.
“Frog!” cried Toad. “I am sorry for all the dumb things I do. I am sorry for all the silly things I say. Please be my friend again!” Toad slipped off the turtle. With a splash, he fell in the river.
Frog pulled Toad up onto the island. Toad looked in the basket. The sandwiches were wet. The pitcher of iced tea was empty.
“Our lunch is spoiled,” said Toad. “I made it for you, Frog, so that you would be happy.”
“But Toad,” said Frog. “I am happy. I am very happy. This morning when I woke up I felt good because the sun was shining. I felt good because I was a frog. And I felt good because I have you for a friend. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think about how fine everything is.”
“Oh,” said Toad. “I guess that is a very good reason for wanting to be alone.”
“Now,” said Frog, “I will be glad not to be alone. Let’s eat lunch.”
Frog and Toad stayed on the island all afternoon. They ate wet sandwiches without iced tea.
They were two close friends sitting alone together.
(Thank you Arnold Lobel)
My buddies Frog and Toad do my heart good. Stories that ground us, connect us. We are not on this journey alone.
So, today I let go of my agenda.
And I rested. I experienced Sabbath. And I felt nourished by gratitude.
And here’s the very best part; I didn’t even try to figure out how it happened.
I don’t have any great tools to give you. Except this one: Meister Eckert’s advice, “If you can only learn one prayer, make it this one: Thank you.”
Not a bad place to start.
Gratitude for stories that make my heart glad and keep it soft.
Gratitude allowing me to live this life, and not the one I always figure that I’ll trade this one in for.
Gratitude allowing me to partake in the joys of the everyday, to see the sacred in the very, very ordinary.
“Sometimes a person needs a story more than food to stay alive,” Barry Lopez reminds us. “That is why we put these stories in each other’s memories. This is how people care for themselves.”
And thank you for all the birthday wishes. And yes, I did have a wish (well, two wishes) when I blew out the cake candles. One was for gifts of compassion and empathy and kindness in places in our world where pain and suffering are touchable. And two, a wish for a glass of French wine by the fireplace, while lights go on the Christmas tree.
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 10 — We all hurt. And yet. Irvin Yalom reminds us, “Only the wounded healer can truly heal.”
What does it mean to bring this wounded, and real self, to the table today? It’s Storytime—about people who care. About empathy and compassion and forgiveness.
Craig and Irene Morrison, in their late 80s, are the heart and soul of Still Mine, a lovely film with great North Atlantic scenery. Living outside the village of St. Martins in New Brunswick, Canada, they are keenly aware that after spending 61 years together and raising seven children, their time is running out.
Trouble begins when Craig decides it is time for them to downsize, to abandon the sprawling farmhouse in which they raised their children. To something more suitable for Irene, whose Alzheimer’s is getting worse.
Craig announces his intentions of building the new home himself—only to be met with bewilderment. And his children doing their best to stop him. “Isn’t it time for a retirement home?” he is asked.
Unfortunately, in the years since Craig built his previous home, regulations have proliferated, as has the willingness of government officials to enforce them. So, when one particularly dogged bureaucrat gets wind of Craig’s project, he does everything in his power to shut it down.
From generations of shipbuilders, Craig knows wood; and he knows his wife, so he doesn’t need anyone else telling him how to do things.
This tough-mindedness also adds emotion and power to the film’s best scene, in which Craig runs his hand over a large pine dining table, worn and scratched after years of use and abuse.
“Do you remember when I built our dining room table?” he says to Irene.
“It was on the saw horses for so many years I’d given up. My Father helped me mill the boards. It didn’t help when Ruth spilled ink. I wasn’t that upset; you were table proud back then. A very nice piece of carpentry. First few years, every nick that table absorbed, I took it personally, it’s all I could see. Scratch from a skate blade, a ghost of handwriting pressed through a single piece of paper. There were a lot of times I regretted not making the table out of oak. But as the years went by and the scars added up, the imperfection turned that table into something else. Because that’s the thing about pine; it holds a lot of memories.”
As he talks, his hand continues to touch the table surface, his face now part tenderness, part pride, part gentleness hewn from stories and memories.
What a strange web we weave. We hate (well, let’s just say we are downright uncomfortable with) our “brokenness.” Our woundedness. Our imperfections.
You know, those parts of our self (just like that pine table) that are flawed, skewed, damaged, beat up, wearing the marks of a full life… that feel not quite “together.”
I guess if we ‘fess up, “woundedness” is the curse of ordinary folk. For the rest of us (the educated and mature and enlightened), we can “get a handle” on this, “figure it out” or somehow “rise above.” Lord knows there are plenty of people who offer us solutions and secrets and illumination. (For a small donation, of course.)
But what if?
What if weakness, woundedness, brokenness is not a “fixable problem,” but an opportunity for love, passion, ministry, reconciliation and restoration?
An opportunity for grace?
We are all, wounded healers.
No, this is not a strategy.
This is a fact.
It spills from those parts of our life that have been broken open, from those parts of us flawed and imperfect. And this I do know… I will bring my wounded self to the table, to find space for sanctuary, healing, empathy, mending, compassion and grace. So. Pull up a chair… let’s tell stories about people who care, and keep the conversation going.
THURSDAY DECEMBER 11 — A woman came to see a priest and she said, “Would you come and pray with my daddy? He’s dying of cancer, and he wants to die at home.”
The priest went to the house and, when he walked into the man’s room, he saw the man lying on the bed with an empty chair beside the bed. The priest asked the man if someone had been visiting.
The man replied, “Oh, let me tell you about that chair. I’ve never told anyone about this–not even my daughter. I hope you don’t think I am weird, but all my life I have never known how to pray. I’ve read books on prayer, heard talks on prayer, but nothing ever worked. Then, a friend told me that prayer was like a conversation with Jesus. He suggested that I put a chair in front of me, imagine Jesus sitting in the chair, and talk to him. Since that day, I’ve never had any difficulty praying. I hope you don’t think I am off-the-wall.”
The priest assured the man that there was nothing weird about praying to Jesus sitting in a chair.
The priest anointed the man and left.
Two days later, the daughter called to say that her father had just died.
The priest asked, “Did he die peacefully?”
She replied, “I left him at 2:00 this afternoon. He had a smile on his face when I walked out the door. He even told me one of his corny jokes. When I returned at 3:30, he was dead. One curious thing, though—his head was resting not on the bed, but on an empty chair beside his bed.”
To this man, Jesus was an intimate friend, and so he died with his friend.
All changes, all growth, all improvements in the quality of our lives flow out of our vision of God. And when our vision of God is one of a God of relentless tenderness, we ultimately become tender ourselves.
(Thank you Brennan Manning, The Wittenburg Door, Oct–Nov 1986)
Even so. I can be easily derailed. And I fall back under the spell of angst. And that unnerves me.
But even there, I’m invited to participate in this life. To bring all that I am (without letting the unsettled parts dictate) to the table of this moment. To invest my whole heart. What Barbara Kingsolver calls a conspiracy with life.
My friend Phil Volker used to say that it takes one kind of hope to show up for life, and another kind to partake. I don’t think we are supposed to be casual observers here with our precious—and often precarious—time.
This can be transformative. Embraced by a God of relentless tenderness, gratitude empowers us to spill the incarnation. And embracing beauty allows us to practice the sacrament of the present moment. And that which we have buried—mercy, gentleness, kindheartedness, tenderness—comes to life. Let us never forget that.
So, here’s the deal: to partake is to throw myself into the game of life wholeheartedly. Which means that I choose to foster and nurture, to mend and reconcile, to feed and tend, to proclaim and celebrate, to heal and advocate.
And, to tell stories. Stories about people who care—about empathy and compassion and forgiveness.
Stories about people who come back for us—and protect (safeguard) presence and inclusion.
Stories about people who see hope, and spill light.
Stories about people who give, even from “empty” pockets.
FRIDAY DECEMBER 12 — I am a storyteller. And I am so grateful to have traveled near and far, over the years, telling stories. To young and old. To those connected to a faith tradition, and to those searching, and to those contentedly undecided.
Regardless of where we find ourselves, the stories I tell, remind us of our connections—and that we are mercifully, on this journey together.
One of my favorite exchanges is when a person comes up to me before the talk (or seminar, or homily) and says, “I brought a friend today. They have never heard you speak. Can you please tell the ‘such and such’ story?”
“Yes,” I tell them. And, I smile real big.
I do have favorites, but here’s a story that settles me at my core.
An American traveler planned a long safari to Africa.
He was a compulsive man, loaded down with maps, timetables, and agendas. Coolies had been engaged from a local tribe to carry the cumbersome load of supplies, luggage and “essential stuff.”
On the first morning, they all woke very early and traveled very fast and went very far. On the second morning, they all woke very early and traveled very fast and went very far. On the third morning, they all woke very early and traveled very fast and went very far. And the American seemed pleased.
On the fourth morning, the jungle tribesmen refused to move. They simply sat by a tree. The American became incensed. “This is a waste of valuable time. Can someone tell me what is going on here?”
The translator answered, “They are waiting for their souls to catch up with their bodies.”
And yes, I tell this story mostly for my own benefit. Just saying’.
I am frequently asked, “What specifically can we do to keep sane in a world that too often feels upside down?”
Here’s my answer. “Let’s give ourselves the permission to let our soul catch up.”
We don’t need another assignment. Or test to pass. Sometimes, without even knowing it…
We need times and places to decompress.
We need times and places to let our soul catch up.
Savor your moments this season, for Christmas and Hanukkah. (To my Jewish brothers and sisters, “Happy Hanukkah”, which begins at sundown Sunday.)
And say thank you to those who make your life richer. A shout out to my son Zach for the great time we had today—it always does my heart good.
Prayer for our week…
Today I purpose to live
My life will shine
As the morning sings
I walk in liberty
Bound in true dreams
Manifested promises
Chase my forward motion
A covered path before me
The fruits of my hoping
The fruits of my living
Today I purpose to love
My love will speak
With the sound of grace
Merciful within mercy
The works of my faith
Smiles of overflowing
Inspire my giving
Abundance of joy as rain
The fruits of my living
Michael John Faciane
Photo… “Dear Terry, Your writing really keeps me going even on the darkest days! Here’s a bit of brightness on a cold walk, to remind me to treasure every bit of light.” Anne Carter Mahaffey… Thank you Anne… And thank you for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com
Donation = Love… Your gifts make Sabbath Moment possible.
I am so very grateful.
Please Share Sabbath Moment with others. And find it on Facebook @RevTerryHershey
