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Archive for December 2010

photo 123110 . Winter Blues

Resolved.

As the waning days of 2010 slip by, I find myself resolved. A new year often brings with it the pressure of resolutions–that laundry list of things we want to add or subtract or change about our lives. Sometimes the pressure of actually choosing the transformations we want to pursue are just as daunting as carrying out the resolutions themselves. After all, making resolutions requires that painful task of self-evaluation we tend to avoid. It involves taking stock of life and commitments and habits and determining their value or effectiveness. Ick. The self-help mantras usually encourage that the most successful New Year’s resolutions are those that are specific. And, I tend to agree. This year, my resolution is pretty specific.

No resolutions. Simple resolve.

Resolve calls to mind determination. Firmness. Having made up one’s mind. And I have. New Year’s Day ushers in a new year. And this year, newness is a blessing I am prepared to embrace. With all the successes and challenges experienced in 2010, I’m determined to embrace the ripeness of this new turn of the calendar.

A new year.
A new day.
A new attitude.
A new opportunity.
A new look.
A new habit.
A new step.
A new path.
A new start.

Resolve is like a restart for our minds and hearts sometimes. The new year, 2011, is filled with new days and new moments. New moments are just that. New. And new means I’m free to release that moment from past decisions, past mistakes, past habits and even past accomplishments. Embracing that new moment means cultivating a willingness to let go of the constraints of our own old ways and the benchmarks of our own old strides. Whatever past success or failure, THIS new moment deserves that freedom. THIS new moment can thrive in that freedom. THIS new moment is alive in that freedom.

So, in 2011 I’m resolved to let new be new. I’m resolved to let go and hold on tight. I’m resolved to make these new moments mine.

[Click the desktop wallpaper version above to download and enjoy with your technology and grab this iphone wallpaper version as well. Happy New Year!]

Peace on Earth

Small pond views are always a little wacky and endearing all at the same time. I love this photograph. I took it several years ago in Macon, Mississippi. Macon is a typical small Mississippi town, and I happen to know it well because my parents live there. The photo was taken from the second floor of the old Noxubee County Jail. The structure is on the National Register of Historic Places and was beautifully restored and converted to the county library. It’s quite an experience to visit the stacks inside the old jail cells and see the remains of gallows when walking through the hallways.

The back view of the lighted tinsel “Peace on Earth” spanning Jefferson Street captured from one of the jail cells’ barred windows is an ironic and poignant juxtaposition.

Moments of Wonder

A few nights ago I was giving Baby Girl a bath. I do it every night before reading to her and rocking her to sleep. And although sometimes I can’t help but view bathtime as a chore, every night I’m more keenly aware that these moments are fleeting. I already have phenomenally fewer of them with Little Drummer Boy and Bug. There was nothing particularly special about this night, a Tuesday like any other one. But somehow, this bathtime inspired all-too-common questions. As I sat beside the tub, responding to her squeals, I could feel it rising.

Baby Girl is most often filled with giggles and energy for her bath. When I’m not distracted by the rush of the day and the task list of bedtime routines, I watch her. I see her carefree little body standing there too busy to sit in the bath water. Her pudgy tummy and pudgy cheeks, her hands all in motion and eyes full of light, she laughingly fills a cup with the water’s flow and pours it back into the tub for the simple pleasure of seeing the bubbles. I can’t help but enjoy the simple pleasure of her wonderment myself.

On this Tuesday, she accompanied her water play with talk of Frosty the Snowman. I guess she’s been reading (or singing) about him at daycare and her new snowman washcloth inspired the recollection. For Baby Girl, all snowmen are Frosty. All baths are for bubbling water. In these moments, I’m amazed at the simplicity life boils down to in a two-year-old world.  Her splashing and squeals pierced the sounds of brother car chases and computer clicks just a room away. Their own imaginations hard at work awaiting their turn with the suds. Sitting on my heels beside the tub, I matched her height, and I could look straight into her uncontained eyes. They were completely oblivious to me, and yet they gripped me. With a soapy washcloth in hand I could feel the pull of that required moment of whisking her away from her water experiment and on to more practical cleanliness. But even though the night was getting away from me, I just sat and watched her.

In that tug between my own time constraints and her wonder-full display, that’s when I felt it rising. That’s when the tears began to well. I felt it overtaking me. That odd mixture of overwhelming love and wonder mixed with second-guessing and fear. This little child before me in her innocent playfulness. This precious one who without even realizing it had placed her whole world on my shoulders. And thereby captured my lifelong gaze.

And so the fear and self-doubt rise in proportion to the love.
Can I do it? I ask myself.
Can I give them what they need? What they deserve?
Can I hold their hearts? Until they grow the passion to do it themselves.
Can I mold their whims and nurture their gifts?
Can I provide for them?
Will I be able to fund their warmth and their table and their opportunity?
What if I can’t?
What if I mess up?
What if I get side-tracked and miss something?
Something important?
Can I really do this?

I sat beside the tub and watched her. And cried. I can do that with Baby Girl. She’s so young that my tears are blissfully invisible to her, unlike the array of questions they would produce with her brothers. I took it all in. The carefree spirit. The joyful eyes. The concentrated movements. Filling the cup. Pouring it out. Squealing. Giggling.

The more I sat, the more I wondered. How can I shield them from the worries of living and providing? How do I keep it from creeping in when their only concerns are whose turn it is to choose a movie and how long they get to make bubbles in the bath water? How can I give them that privilege of childhood and ignorance? That sweet and oblivious face standing there by the faucet where the whole world is filling the cup and pouring it out. How can I give them everything I want them to have? How can I make their worlds safe and full and at peace all at the same time?

It’s in moments like this one that I realize what she’s teaching me. That moments of wondering find their rest in moments of wonder. The carefree attention that simplicity provides. The place of wonder she shows me in filling the cup and pouring it out. The sheer amazement of something as basic as a bathtub full of water seen through the clear blue depth of a two-year-old’s eyes. When I stop myself and my rampant thinking–when I let go–in that place of wonder, I am master rather than slave to the onslaught of worry and concern and self-doubt.

So, I look at her. I look at them. Their beauty. Their exuberance. Their joy. Their wonder. And I know.

If I can just keep my eyes here.
If I can just focus here.
And see.
We’ll be ok.

Wise Men

The Magi. I’ve been gravitating to their part in the Christmas story this season. Wise men are kind of a rare breed. To be known through history for the trait of wisdom is pretty impressive in this age of rampant information. We live in a time of unprecedented knowledge, but I see all around me the impact of foolishness. Christmas is usually a time of reflection for me. There is usually a break in my work routine and traveling to visit family. The time away from my own place and schedule somehow gives my heart and mind the space to evaluate. In what seems like life in constant motion, that brief respite to pause and think is a blessing. It helps me see with fresher eyes.

As I’ve been looking at this past year, I can’t help but notice change. And with all the hardship that surrounds change, I can’t help but recognize the opportunity that comes with it. But, opportunity requires wisdom, that rare commodity. Wisdom is often the difference between short-term and long-term, between past and future, between good and best. And so, these nameless figures from an age-old story come to mind. These humans whose actions seem almost implausible and even foolish at times. And yet, they are known simply as “wise men.” Men of prestige who were satisfied and even humbled in worship before a small child. These men who came and went on their way, having recognized God. I find their story fascinating. And I find their journey worth pursuing.

They were wisdom-seekers in a mystic tradition that was centuries old spanning many cultures and historical accounts. And because they were wisdom-seekers by trade, people seemed to assume they had it. World leaders and kingdom makers sought them to advise or divine or justify their decisions. The biblical account of the birth of Jesus doesn’t give us much information about these particular wise men. Over the centuries Christendom has imbued them with details that may not have really been true at that defining point in history. In my varied nativity scenes and storybook illustrations, there are only three of them. They rode on camels and visited the holy family in a stable. They were multi-racial and dressed in fine and brilliant colors, and always with crowns of some kind or another. Noone knows how and when they really arrived on the scene in Bethlehem, but in thinking about these unknown figures, I’m stilled by some important realities about a life characterized by wisdom. Some that surprised me.

Meaning mattered.
These men had positioned their whole lives in a mindset of meaning. It was the backdrop to all their days and to the singular experience with the Christ child. I heard a quote once that said you don’t find meaning. You give meaning. The magi spent their lives giving meaning and significance to events and natural phenomena and people.  It brought order and power to their world. It enabled them to see, to follow and ultimately to worship.

They were searching.
They noticed the course-altering star because they were looking. It’s not like a star shines in the sky for one man to see. The light radiates indiscriminantly. The difference is that these men had trained their gaze to find it. So often we are so entrenched in knowing the answers that we see no value in searching. And, admittedly, sometimes there is no place like Christianity for assuming a choke-hold on answers. Why do we diminish the process of seeking and searching as a lesser and distracted pursuit? The only way to find is to seek.

They recognized importance when they saw it.
They recognized significance. Something in their mystic training program or in their own experience told them the star they saw mattered. They had paid enough attention to see that it was different from what they’d known in their searching of the skies. They were able to discern that for them in that moment, the star was important.

They followed significance with unencumbered action.
This is so often the hard part. When we recognize that something matters, that it’s important, how do we respond? Significance involves determining what really matters to me, what qualifies my baseline of the life I feel I need to live. To grasp that significance and hold it often requires change. It often requires letting go, moving from where I am. The Magi followed the star. It was likely a long journey and an unexpected one. But, they loaded the camels (or whatever mode of transportation) and left. The significance they saw fueled their desire to know what this star was about. To find the meaning behind it. They were prepared enough to be unencumbered in moving. And they were prepared and expectant enough to load the gifts as well.

They didn’t lose sight of their vision.
The wise men had a picture of their destination. A hazy one, but a picture. They held firmly to what their heart recognized in seeing the star. They were looking for a king. And they met a legitimate king–Herod. Obviously, they were men of prestige and possibly renown. They probably were men of wealth and prominence. They were ushered into the king’s palace, after all. Apparently without much effort, they gained a direct audience with the ruler to ask their questions. But they recognized he wasn’t the one they were seeking. They didn’t break out the frankincense for Herod.

But, when the time was right, they were ready to give their gifts.
Trusting our own vision is so hard sometimes. Circumstances and the opinions of others push and pull and try to mold a vision we don’t recognize. But, my significance is mine. What’s valuable to me matters. It takes courage and resolve to stick with it.  The Magi trusted the sign post placed in the sky before them even though it probably seemed unlikely. Whatever small and seemingly insignificant situation they found Jesus in when the star rested its journey, they didn’t hesitate to open their treasures there. They weren’t enamored by wealth and prestige. They weren’t deterred by meager circumstances. They weren’t dictated by the assumptions of others. They recognized a situation and a person worthy of everything they had brought. And they gave it.

I’m on this same journey. Somewhere. I haven’t determined exactly where at the moment. But it’s my journey this season. A journey of significance. A journey of meaning. A journey of vision. A journey of giving. A journey of recognizing. A journey of choosing. A journey of moving. A journey of seeking. A journey of following. A journey of finding. A journey of worshiping. I’m on this journey. Aren’t we all?

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