Daily Dose (October 28 – 31)
TUESDAY OCTOBER 28 — This week I want to hear the voice of Mr. Rogers, reminding us, “There’s something deep inside, that helps us become what we can.” And this journey of discovery—of unveiling—is truly an ongoing pilgrimage. A journey where we uncover, and restore, and forgive, and heal.
On this journey, I want to take this to heart–God’s pledge to the Israelites. “I will give you a new heart and a new spirit. I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)
A new heart. As a gift. Noting, this is not a replacement—as in a different heart. But my heart, now softer, and more receptive, and willing to grow.
And every gift, must be received. Well, sometimes gifts are not easy to receive, and I confess that my tendency is to say, “This is too good to be true, or something I don’t merit.” No wonder it is too often easier to say, “That’s okay, give this heart of flesh to someone who really needs it.”
Today, I do need it. And I welcome the gift: A new heart and spirit. Letting go of what is hard or stubborn or resistant. A gift signifying a profound internal transformation, a renewal embracing tenderness and grace.
Heading off today (writing this on the flight) for my pilgrimage. And continuing my reading, I found this today from Zac Davis. “First, it reminds us that our very lives are a pilgrimage. Our homes are in this world, but we are only here temporarily. Even within our four walls and our hometowns, we are guests on this Earth. And while a pilgrimage on a pilgrimage might seem a little meta, it does remind us that we should live our lives as if we are merely travelers passing through.
Second, it reminds us that the world and the church are bigger than what we’ve known thus far. It expands our ideas of both time and space. Pilgrimage sites tend to draw faithful people from all over the world.
Third, like a retreat, pilgrimages allow us to step outside of the regular churn of productivity to destabilize us enough that we might actually hear God’s voice. Yet unlike a retreat, it requires that we be on the move, giving us practice at becoming contemplatives in action.
Pope Benedict XVI said, ‘To go on pilgrimage is not simply to visit a place to admire its treasures of nature, art or history.’ Rather, it ‘really means to step out of ourselves in order to encounter God where he has revealed himself, where his grace has shone with particular splendor.’
As a result, you’ll want to approach it differently than you would your typical vacation. Pack simply and lightly. Manage your expectations: Something will probably go wrong.”
Yes, and amen. Smiling big.
WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 29 — In my travel for work—speaking at events—people would often ask, “Did you have a successful trip?”
“I’m certain I did,” I tell them. Although truth be told, I don’t always know.
That memory was front and center on my Camino journey one year ago. And I carry it with me on this journey to revisit some of the places that grounded me.
This I know, there is definitely some kind of pegboard in our heads where we hang our worth or value. The one about “success”. And it’s way too easy to get worked up about finding the right peg. And I’ll tell you what; that peg board is hard to disregard and leave behind.
Here’s what I know—and am grateful to have learned: Life seems to ignore the script we have in our mind.
This brings to mind my mentor, Lew Smedes’ reminder, “Gratitude dances though the open windows of our hearts. We cannot force it. We cannot create it. And we can certainly close our windows to keep it out. But we can also keep them open and be ready for the joy when it comes.”
Living one open window at a time.
I once did a workshop where I asked the participants to describe life. One woman said, “Life is so… life is so… life is so… daily.”
Yes. She’s right. And that is the secret.
The miracle is that there need not be a miracle—just a slow drip of experience. Being mindful of small things; the ordinary is the hiding place for the holy.
Places where we are able to receive. And places from which we give: wholeheartedness, joy, grief, compassion, sorrow, kindness, grace, forgiveness, gladness. And until I understand that truth (until I take it to heart), I miss the point.
Or, in the words of William Kittredge, “Moments when nothing happened. What sweet nothing.”
In other words, we don’t run from the moment (even moments that unnerve and distress).
We don’t suffocate the moment with stuff (physical and mental).
We don’t sanitize the moment with platitudes.
We sit. We listen. We look. We taste. We smell. We see.
We look for the light of God in the most ordinary, and even the most dull, of contexts.
(I know that I preordain, when I hope or try to orchestrate, rather than just experience. I also know that whether it is, experience or relationship or liturgy or prayer or meditation or Camino, if you don’t bring it with you, you’re not going to find it there.)
I will begin my Camino revisitations next Monday in Santiago de Compostela. I write this from Madrid, Spain, a good place to savor a few days of history and music and gardens and good food and the allure of old cathedrals.
THURSDAY OCTOBER 30 — This week I am listening to the voice of Mr. Rogers—a voice that calms my spirit—reminding me, “There’s something deep inside, that helps us become what we can.” And this journey of discovery—of unveiling—is truly an ongoing pilgrimage. A journey where we uncover, and restore, and forgive, and heal.
Ahhh. But what if the journey was not what we had in mind, or takes more time that we wished for?
When a young girl in an African village heard that her visiting teacher would be leaving their village, she wanted to give her a special gift. The girl didn’t have any money to buy a present for her teacher, but finally she decided what she would do.
She was gone for two days and when she returned, she was carrying the most exquisite shell anyone in her village had ever seen. Her teacher was amazed. “Where did you find such a beautiful shell?” she asked. The child told her that such shells were found only on a certain faraway beach.
The teacher was deeply touched, because she knew that the girl had walked many miles to find the shell. “Why, it’s wonderful, but you shouldn’t have gone all that way to get a gift for me.”
Her eyes brightening, the girl smiled and answered, “Long walk part of gift.”
Yes. And amen.
On my time here in Madrid, and beginning next week on the Camino de Santiago, I am carrying Mary Oliver’s invitation with me, “Pay attention, be astonished, tell about it.” This is what grows in the soil of gratitude.
The permission to unpack. To let go of the messages that cling, or that scroll through, unquestioned. Such as keeping pace, “Am I falling behind?” “Am I getting there on time?” “Is this what I expected?”
On this journey, I’m grateful for the moments every day (well, the moments when the rain is not too meddlesome), when I pause, and say, “Looook.”
Thank you for being a part of Sabbath Moment. And I am grateful that we continue to walk one another home.
I am writing this on a rainy day here in Madrid. Perfect for walking, even without an umbrella (so says the Seattle boy). And a good bit of the day spent in the Cathedral of Santa María la Real de la Almudena. A good day to pay attention, and be astonished.
For those who’ve never been, the Cathedral began to take shape on December 22, 1868, when the Congregation of Slaves of the Virgin of Almudena requested permission from the Archbishop of Toledo to build another church dedicated to the Virgin of Almudena, since the first one had been demolished in the revolution of 1868. And, now, remembering “long walk, part of gift,” on June 15, 1993, Pope Saint John Paul II came to Madrid to dedicate and consecrate the Cathedral. Yes, it had taken 110 years to build. My Oh My.
And all of this, alive in the quote I heard in a recent movie, The Salt Path. “People here fight the elements. But when it’s touched you and you let it be, you’ll never be the same again.”
FRIDAY OCTOBER 31 — “There’s something deep inside, that helps us become what we can.” Mr. Rogers reminds us. And this journey of discovery—of unveiling—is celebrated in those moments when we know that we’ve come home.
So. When do you know that you’ve come home?
I’m smiling big reliving a memory from not that long ago. It’s already long past departure time. I’m standing near the gate, waiting for the inbound passengers to deplane. There’s nowhere to go, and the plane will depart when it departs. Even so, the passengers (including me) are beginning to huddle, as if our hovering will speed up the process. (And it doesn’t take much to make the air fretful and heavy.) We form a makeshift column, all of us wanting dibs on the precious above-seat-cargo-space.
Standing nearby, facing the now open jet-bridge-door, is a uniformed soldier. He stands with nervous energy, conveying a restless and eager air. He watches the door intently. In his right hand he holds a large poster board sign, now hanging down by his side, hand stenciled in magic marker, “Welcome Home! I love you!”
Since he has been allowed to stand at the arrival gate (past airport security), it is evident that he is waiting for an “unaccompanied minor.” The passengers from the inbound flight spill from the doorway. She is the final passenger to deplane, accompanied by a flight attendant. Around her neck, a plastic packet hangs with her documents. She is, perhaps twelve or thirteen, although still childlike with two perfect braids. She scans the faces; sees her father, and her smile is radiant and luminous.
There is a moment. A pause. She drops her backpack and catapults into his wide-open arms. His hand-lettered sign has dropped from his hand to the floor, now immaterial, and as his daughter leans into his chest, he clutches her tightly and kisses her head. Those of us lucky enough to witness this scene know the healing power, and blessedness of this embrace.
No, we do not know their entire story. How long since their last visit? Why have they been separated? Has he been deployed and in “harm’s way”? And will he be returning to a war zone? Does she live in another state, unable to frequently visit her father?
But this we do know: Every single one of us in that departure lounge wished to be in that embrace. And you could feel our disquiet dissipate.
Here’s the deal: in that embrace, the little girl was at home.
In that embrace, both the girl and her father found replenishment and restoration.
I don’t remember the year I witnessed this hug, but it stays with me to this day.
I know that I do replay it in my mind, for emotional sustenance. And I love to tell the story at events. I can still see the look on the faces of the Father and Daughter.
The embrace resonates (and soothes) because in the cacophony of our world, it’s easy to lose our way. Derailed or distracted or disconnected, we forget where we park our well-being.
Which begs the question: When do you know that you’ve come home?
Even so. In all of us, there is a yearning. A hunger.
A need to know that we count.
That we are seen. That we matter.
So, we scan the “crowd” for that gaze. And the embrace that will follow.
The embrace that tells us someone knows us, and sees us, and is willing to open their arms wide no matter what.
It does my heart good to read Robert Capon’s reminder, “You can’t get away from a love that won’t let you go.”
And revitalization and restoration are the way we are wired. In our DNA.
And as we recognized it, embrace (and are embrace by it), we can begin to be that place of restoration for those around us.
It could be in another’s arms or hug, or in a kind word, or welcoming smile, or a memory, places of safety where we know we are seen.
It is taking me awhile, but I am learning the reality that true Grace does not waiver or diminish. Grace does not depend upon our response, performance, attitude, faith or checkered past. It just is. Why? Because Grace heals not by taking shame away, but by removing the one thing our shame makes us fear the most: rejection.
For me personally, this story came to life at my core on my Camino pilgrimage last year, and I’m looking forward to next week, pausing, and raising a glass to those moments where “the hug” of Grace invited me home.
Prayer for our week…
Uphill
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
Christina Rossetti
Photo… “Greetings Terry from MA, It’s becoming a daily occurrence to wipe the tears from injustices, cruelty, suffering and pure selfishness displayed every day in our country. I hold as much as I can with compassion and then a morning walk. Today, I am gifted a reminder of the Glory of God. Nothing can take it away, tarnish or destroy it. So grateful and blest.” Deb Symonds… Thank you Deb… Thank you for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com
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