Gift of a soft heart

With care the surgeon reiterates the essentials about the heart surgery to his patient, as the gurney is about to be rolled into the operating room. Regardless of how many times the surgeon has performed this procedure, he is aware that for each patient the anxiety is firsthand and not easily quelled. The patient’s mind feels thick (perhaps the drugs), and while the words are understandable, the meaning muddled. Seeing the patient’s fear, the surgeon takes a model heart from a nearby shelf, shows it to the patient and says, “You brought me your heart. I’m going to give you back your heart. And it will be in better shape than the way you brought it to me.”
Not a bad mantra for all human encounters.
After all, we are hearts that touch.
Which may sound too sentimental in the real world, where hearts touch, and hearts hurt. In the real world, where hearts hope, and hearts break. Hearts heal, and hearts splinter. But here’s the good news: it is from those splintered places, that hearts give—love and empathy and healing and mercy—again, and again, and again. We are hearts that touch, and it makes our world a better place.
Yes. This does sound encouraging and inspiring, but if I were honest, I would tell you that I often wish for a world, where there are no broken hearts.

And my mind goes back to a lesson I learned, while sitting in a barber’s chair.
Years ago, I was in downtown Atlanta with a conference for Spiritual Directors International, doing a presentation about how spiritual care is grounded in self-care.
I have a window of time, and need a haircut. So, I take the recommendation of the concierge, and find myself in a salon near the hotel—in underground Atlanta, following a young hairdresser toward a chair in the back of the salon.
One of my philosophies is this: In a barber chair—an inevitability on par with airplanes and bank teller lines—conversation is a bother. Just cut my hair, and let me go. After all, I have important stuff to do.
Because she made me laugh, I break my rule about staying mute. Seeing another chap in the chop getting a buzz cut, I tell Sharon that maybe a buzz cut is in order, and then say, “I’ll look like my Dad.” I then tell Sharon about my father’s decision after cancer, to enjoy his new hair-free care-free look.
She smiles and I say, “Just take a wee bit off and I’m good to go.”
As she is cutting, I look into the mirror. Sharon has a Bob hairstyle, and it is perfect for her bubbly personality.
And then after a bit of silence, she says. “I’m a cancer survivor too. Just finished my chemo.”
Okay. I wasn’t ready for that.
Because if there is conversation, these chairs are for small talk only—no different than coffee hour after church.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “When did you learn about the cancer, and what kind of treatment did you go through?”
“I had the whole nine yards,” she laughs. “Surgery. And then more surgery and then chemo.”
We are quiet, except for the sound of scissors.
“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” she adds.
I’ve heard people say that—about tragedy or loss or heartbreak or misfortune—but am honestly unsure what to think. How can such a statement be true? I do know that something inside us wants (needs) to find a silver lining, a way to make sense of what appears to be an utterly senseless invasion of our body, or life, or world.
I watch her in the mirror. Sharon is young, late-30s, petite, her facial features delicate and freckled, carrying a youthful innocence. There is no sign of any recent clash with the drug treatments that traumatize body and spirit, all in the name of health.
She looks into the mirror, and holds my gaze.
“It has made me softer,” she tells me. “And now, I love different.”
A single mother, Sharon talks about her 15-year-old daughter, in a tenor both wistful and filled with pride. She describes a young girl whose life was turned upside down with the possibility of a mother’s death. And about a renewed relationship between mother and daughter.
I nod. I understand.
“We never know,” she continues. “A year ago, if you had told me that this is where I’d be, I’d have told you you’re crazy. But not now. Now I look at people different.”
After a pause, I tell her, “Your hair is really cute.” And then, quickly realizing my blunder, I try to apologize.
But Sharon shakes her head, tossing her hair, looking cute and sassy. “Thanks. I made it myself. And it is something I do now. It is my new calling. I make personal wigs for people going through chemo, so they can look beautiful on the outside, and feel beautiful on the inside too.”

Go figure. I’m at a conference with spiritual directors from different faith traditions around the world, and my moment of enlightenment and grace is gifted to me in a beauty-salon-barber-chair, where self-compassion was alive and well. And the empowerment to spill light, and grace, to the world around them. A confirmation that hearts that touch, make our world a better place
I was taught—in church—as a boy, that we should love one another. You know, practice kindness and compassion.
But here’s the deal: love can only spill from a heart that has been softened, and in most cases, broken. A heart where self-care—yes, self-compassion—is blossoming, replenishing, and healing.
In these encounters—if I do give, or offer my heart—it does come back to me in better shape. Because it comes back to me, softer.
There is no doubt that when faced with tragedy or chaos or uncertainty or misfortune, we want to have a “handle” on it, or fix it, or make it go away.
But this is not about a way to figure life out. Nor is it about determining whether we have intentionally or unintentionally invited chaos or sickness into our world.
It’s about the permission to see the world—this day—through the eyes of our heart. Our heart made soft.

After the conference someone asked me, “What did you do there?”
Well, I got a haircut.
And felt my heart soften just a little.

I am writing this Sabbath Moment in the Cotswolds (England). Visiting and wandering in gardens, and looking for fields with sheep to chat with.
And today, grateful for church service, in St John the Baptist. An Anglican church in Burford, England, that dates back to building work which began in 1175, and finally completed by 1500. Let’s just say that the walls hold oodles of stories.

Quote for our week… “The heart is the only broken instrument that works.” T.E. Kalem

BULLETIN BOARD

​​​​Today’s Photo Credit: St. John the Baptist. An Anglican church in Burford, England… And thank you to all, I love your photos… please, keep sending them

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​POEMS AND PRAYERS

Never Give Up
No matter what is going on
Never give up
Develop the heart
Too much energy in your country
Is spent developing the mind
Instead of the heart
Be compassionate
Not just to your friends
But to everyone
Be compassionate
Work for peace
In your heart and in the world
Work for peace
And I say again
Never give up
No matter what is going on around you
Never give up
Dalai Lama XIV

Music for the Soul…
New–
May God Love You (Like You’ve Never Been Loved) — Over the Rhine