on accompaniment, attentiveness, and contribution
These are two very different pieces of paper. Humans relate very differently to each one.
Sometimes I wonder: Is my relationship with the Gospel more like that of an insurance policy or a treasure map?
An insurance policy makes me feel secure for minimal input. It leads me nowhere and exerts no attractive moral force over my life.
A treasure map leads us on an adventure and gives us hints about where the good stuff is.
Our firstborn learned to walk in the middle of a Chicago winter. I was home with him full-time, so, to survive, we had a lot of indoor adventures together.
One of our favorite outings was to go to the children’s area at the planetarium by our apartment.
During one morning at the planetarium, faint sounds of a choir carried into our area. I heard it, but stayed seated. My son lifted his face toward the sound, grabbed my hand, and ambled off toward its source. On the other side of the complex, we found a children’s choir and sat together to listen. He was rapt, turning away only to make sure that I was listening, too.
Attending to a child attending to beauty is a deeply remarkable thing. I am convinced that, in moments like these, we are invited to become like children.
I once heard a Mennonite missionary tell the following story.
When he was growing up in the US, their family would, after steeping a tea bag, dry it out on the counter. When they had a good number, they sent them overseas to families doing relief and development work with Mennonite Central Committee. The idea was that the missionary would enjoy the tea left over in the bag.
Yes, the gesture was rooted in a place of generosity and one has to marvel at this superlative frugality. But the error is fairly obvious. Why didn’t the supporting family just send new tea bags? Then, the recipient could enjoy the first use themselves, as well as the subsequent use.
While this seems obvious, I am often guilty of a similar mindset. That is, generosity often does not receive pride of place in my plans.
In our culture, big things (career, large projects) are often dedicated to the accumulation of money or status. The leftovers (of time, money) are for generosity. Sometimes.
But what if we committed to the opposite? What if we offered the big things to generosity?
This is the idea behind our dedication of all profits of Sorin Starts a School to the work of the Holy Cross in Dhaka, and namely the flourishing of Notre Dame University Bangladesh.
We are pumped to share that we are on schedule and set to ship out the books this May. Here’s to offering the big things to generosity, to love.
Our family has three different books that tell the story of the Nutcracker, and our sons are all about them.
This version (my favorite) cleverly tucks ten buttons, which each play a bit of the score, in with the narrative. (After repetitions of this book last Christmas, our (then) 21-month-old would exclaim, “Cracker!” when part of the ballet’s music would play on the radio.)
This edition, which was my wife’s book as a child, is an Advent calendar, and tells the story in twenty-five tiny picture books.
This book is the most visually striking and includes thoughtful descriptions of the actual production of the ballet.
Of course it is the same story, but each time it is told, the beauty is uniquely revealed.
I can often forget that the same dynamic is on offer when folks of varied life experience read each of the Gospels (the (same) story) together.
Today, there are far too many things to pay attention to, and there is far too little time to attend to them.
On my better days, I aspire to deal with the above problem accordingly: I desire to consider what I value most, and to structure my time accordingly.
Often, instead, I allow my attention to be scattered by the next email, the next text, the next darn thing, instead of ordered by what I consider to be of ultimate importance.
In this second instance, my failure to choose functions as a choice.
When I lived in Uganda, my housemates and I would take turns shopping at the local market. For this task, we took a backpack and two large bags with handles, one for each hand. When the bags were full, we returned home.
When I would walk in our front door, my hands would be cramped around the bag handles and I had to rest a minute so that they were fully functional again.
For me, this is an apt metaphor for Lent. Often, I grip life so hard, believe in my own strength so much, that my interior life cramps and I am unable to receive the grace in front of me. The “work,” then, remains relaxing into a receptive stance.
If the “other side,” the people who your inner chatter argues against, had a point… how would you know? Who do you listen to that would put you in contact with this information?
If complexity is the marker for credibility, we do well to listen widely and constantly update our map of the world based on an accurate perception of reality.
My four-year-old was recently gifted a book.
Dan Brown wrote it. That was the first thing I noticed. “Pooossibly a weird one,” said my snap judgment. I set it aside.
Some weeks later, my son found it and asked to read it.
We opened it and were, no joke, entranced for the next hour.
The book is called Wild Symphony. On each page is a witty poem and (with the free companion app loaded) an orchestral piece, composed by Brown and played by the Zagreb Symphony Orchestra, cleverly introducing the ethos of an animal. Clues tucked away on each page teach the reader each element of a full orchestra.
The last page features a triumphant musical finale, with each animal playing an instrument that suits them.
Now, both of my sons ask for turns to sit and listen to the music. They have logged hours of quiet listening to a full orchestra.
So, obviously, my first reaction could not have been more wrong. It is one more reminder for me to attend to and relinquish my mind’s allergies. These allergies often close me off from things that might enrich my life.
My younger son (almost two) has started to do something fascinating.
When I ask him to do something that he does want to do, he doesn’t say, “no.”
He says, “later.”
I know that I can do this too, in tasks I desire to have done, but often fail to start. Reaching out to a friend, thoughtfully planning for the future, general household maintenance… I don’t tell myself that I won’t do it. I say that I will do it later. This dynamic does not enhance my life.
“Later” can be a trap, a way to avoid a strenuous but generous path.
Recently, I was speaking with a life-long friend, a Catholic priest, about how his order considers on-going priestly formation. One observation focused my interest.
He said that, some time ago, priests were discouraged from forming “particular friendships.” The rationale was that forming these connections would decrease one’s ability to respond to the needs of the church, to serve where sent.
My friend reported that the opposite is true today. Particular friendships are regarded as integral to one’s formation, one’s development as a whole, flourishing person.
What a gift of insight! Particular friends are able to know us in the fullness of our history and evolution as a person. When I consider what is of ultimate value in my life, particular friends who know me in the fullness of my history ranks among the top.
So, let us attend to our particular friendships. Who we know and who knows us will make all the difference.
Paul's Blog