Tag Archives: sabbath reflections

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Sabbath Reflections: Week 7

Another early rise from the covers. Playing with my daughter while the day awakes. Rain in the trees. Spongebob in German (as always). Rattle of toys. Screeches from a delighted child. Hot chocolate and Cheerios. Buzz of television on the laptop. Nap time, with Andrew Peterson and Over the Rhine for lullabies. Hot shower and worn-out clothes. Scrubbing dishes like Brother Andrew. Knife-technique practice, and a colorful fruit salad the result. Chicken flecked with seasoning and Chex cereal. A side of mashed potatoes beaded with roasted garlic. Friends at the table, and moist cake. Celebration and conversation drawn in a web between us, like cans connected by strings. Steaming coffee and tea. Gathering to watch a squealing baby root around the floor on chubby legs that grow stronger each day. Returning to the story, feeling my way through it like a nocturnal hiker with a flashlight. Splashing in the baby bathtub. Powdered sugar, a diaper and pajamas. More Over the Rhine, and a Rich Mullins tune. Potato soup reheated and re-delicious. Laughing at Andy on Parks and Recreation. More writing. A surprise visit from a good good friend. Long, meandering dialogue that instigates yawns but refreshes like a cool breeze. Reflecting on it all and cherishing every minute.

Good night.

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Sabbath Reflections: Week 6

Today felt like a true sabbath. It began with my wonderful wife tending to the baby (who woke up at seven AM) so that I could catch a few more z’s. Every weekday is her day to entertain the baby in that 7-9 AM period before the first nap; consequently, I am glad to watch Katy Jo on the weekend days so that she can sleep a bit longer. However, I think my bride knew how tired I was this morning after the two of us stayed up until almost midnight watching a rather long movie (Polanski’s The Ghost Writer – decent, but quite long-winded, story-wise). She tip-toed out of the room, blessing me with a little extra rest.

Later on, in between some odd jobs and taking turns watching our eight-month old scoot around (she’s mobile now, and apparently believes her feet are plenty secure for pulling up on anything, thus requiring constant supervision), I was able to spend some time writing, feeling my way through a story, stumbling along the path of sentences dimly lit by the flickering lantern of a concept. However, creating in this way often feels more like a release than a stress, a respite rather than work. I put reality on hold and spend time in another world where I am little more than a people-watcher, following my characters as they think and speak and interact with each other. I’m like a man in the park, reclining on a bench in the background and breathing in the energy of life that surrounds me. For me, writing a story is a great way to honor the sabbath. Once again, I have to acknowledge my wife – I’m glad I have someone who has been patient enough to learn how important this odd, seemingly unproductive work is to me, that, when given time, it becomes a labor that replenishes rather than drains.

Today, the rest simply continued. Since I’m still wearing my Aircast and receiving ultra-sound therapy on my injured foot, I cannot take part in my usual Sunday ritual of indoor soccer, something I usually look forward to all week and am often preoccupied with on Sunday. However, today, I can honestly say that I hardly gave Sunday-night soccer any thought at all. Instead, I rested on the floor of the living room, watching Katy Jo goo-goo, ga-ga, and da-da-da-da to every little object I held out to her, watching her strain to pull herself onto the couch to try to get to Mama, watching her waddle-crawl back and forth from me to the toys. Earlier, while Leigh and I shared a sandwich-and-soup lunch, and I was spoon-feeding our daughter applesauce, Leigh said that she really felt like we were a family and asked if I felt the same. “We are a family,” I said. This isn’t a simile – this just is.

I’m blessed beyond measure. I have a wonderful wife, a beautiful baby girl, and constant opportunities to enjoy life. I don’t mean to brag in this post – that’s not the point. What I mean is that sometimes we are spoon-fed glimpses of wonder, like occasional mouthfuls of applesauce. But every once in a while, God shakes the apple tree and the wonders rain down upon us. We are overwhelmed. These are good days indeed.

I try to remember the way these good, restful days make me feel whenever I find myself trudging through the bad ones. I think this is part of the reason for the sabbath in the first place – to rest up and grow strong for the next round. That might sound pessimistic, but only if you haven’t placed your trust in just how restful the good days can be.

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Sabbath Reflections: Week 3

May God continue to surprise you, may love continue to astonish you, may life continue to captivate you…

This was the first part of the blessing spoken over us today at ACB, the community of faith that Leigh and I call home. It was spoken as a sending out at the close of the service. The relationship between the three nouns and the three verbs in this statement has clung to me today.

That God would be surprising…

At what point did such a concept of a surprising God become strange? Even now, the idea is a bit unnerving. I’m not sure I want God to truly surprise me, because that would most certainly mean he is challenging me, taking me somewhere I have not planned, showing me something I have not already imagined and prepared myself to see. Sometimes I think that when we prayer for God to surprise us, we’re actually asking for something very specific, like a person who knows exactly what birthday gift he or she is receiving, but feigns surprise to make the exchange all the more exciting for everybody involved. In other words, God can surprise us by coming through with something that we want – but the surprise will be more in how it all worked out than in the fact that it worked out at all. A perfect example of this is found in my current search for a job when Leigh and I return to the States this summer. I want God to surprise me … by somehow conjuring up a position and smoothing out the interview and hiring process. I know exactly what I want – the surprise of actually getting it won’t really be all that surprising, but if I had my druthers, I’d take the job over an actual surprise ten time out of ten. The thought of God actually surprising me – moving me somewhere and into something I am not ready for, that I have not previously envisioned – well, now, that’s a frightening thought. That would mean I’m not in control. That would mean that God doesn’t play by the rules I have established for my life. That would make God much more real and active and sovereign than I want him to be.

That love would be astonishing…

On the other hand, who doesn’t want this one, right? We all want to be astonished by love … but, then again, the word “surprise” sneaks up as a synonym. Truthfully, we want to be astonished by love as long as relationships stay the same, and as long as there is no hard work involved in instigating astonishment. How much does it depend on me to make love astonishing? That reservation goes for any kind of love: brotherly, romantic, familial. I’m okay with a lack of astonishment as long as things keep cruising at a comfortable setting. We’re as eager to be astonished by love as we are to be surprised by God. If love becomes astonishing, it would mean we have surrendered to its power, that we have recognized and submitted to the fact that all forms of love, if they are to be fully expressed, require sacrifice. Loving someone means to deny yourself in favor of the connection forged, and the greater depth we desire in the connection, the more sacrifice is required on our part. Love will astonish us only when we’ve stripped off our selfishness and donned the less popular coat of selflessness.

That life would be captivating…

I suppose this is what I’m up to with this blog. I want to be captivated by life. I don’t just want it to mean something, I want it to mean a thousand somethings all at once. I want eyes that glimpse even the littlest wonderstuffs in each day. I realize now, though, that such a desire can only go so far. Just like encountering a surprising God, life can only captivate when I’m willing to release the reigns of control. And my eyes will only glimpse the beauty of this life once I have learned to put the priority of my comfort aside.

These things seem like abstract resolutions, but I know they manifest themselves in many practical ways throughout my days and weeks. I understand, now, why this “blessing” was meant to send us out. It is a challenge. Almost a dare. Relinquish control. Let go of comfort.

I wonder if I even have it in me to accept the challenge.

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Sabbath Reflections: Week 2

This week contained a day of errands through good ol’ American downtown rush hour, an overnight flight across the ocean with a baby that refused to sleep, a declaration of war against an insurgency of apartment mold, another job application, the beginning of ultra-sound therapy, a drive to the Zurich airport in search of lost keys (worth approximately 200 Euro), a few sleepless nights with that same jet-lagged and teething baby, and a jaunt up to Freiburg’s Martin’s Brau for a taste of very satisfying Germany fare. A full week by most standards.

What didn’t happen this week was a time of quiet and contemplation – a lingering moment to consider the Great Mystery – an intentional respite for communion with the Other. I have my excuses: jet-lag, necessary rest, lesson plans, luggage issues, resumes… the list goes on. But in spite of these excuses, I can only ask myself one question.

How can I ever call any week full if I was never truly filled?

When I think of “being filled,” I’m reminded of the words that one of the priests spoke to me (or over me) when I visited a Benedictine monastery several years ago. Not being a member of the Catholic Church, I was unable to partake in the mass, but I was welcome to receive a blessing. I remember shuffling forward along the cold floor, bowing my head, and feeling a rough, wrinkled hand touch the crown of my head. A hoarse yet gentle voice said in my ear, “May Christ be in your heart and in all your ways.” In that moment, I returned to my seat more filled than I had ever felt before in a worship gathering, and finding the sensation rather puzzling.

I don’t know what it was about the blessing that moved me so deeply. The words were beautiful, but simple. The sound of the old priest’s voice was calming, but there was nothing magical about it. I suppose the inspiration had something to do with how desperately I wanted to be filled. The blessing came on the heels of several afternoons spent in profound, frustrated prayers, trying to force some spiritual epiphany. I had felt a great deal of anxiety that week which, until that morning mass, had made everything seem dishearteningly empty – not unlike this past week. Sometimes, the best way to find release and clarity of vision is not in immense, grab-you-by-the-collar events. For Elijah, who felt hopelessly empty even after the Carmel victory, it was a gentle whisper (or, direct from the Hebrew, “a sound of sheer silence”). For me, it was an old, Benedictine priest whispering a blessing in my ear.

Earlier this week, I wrote, rather hastily, that I hoped real life was found in the the little things.

It only took a few more days for God to confirm that, yes, of such little things is his kingdom.