Category Archives: Accompaniment

A friend recently shared with me the following story.

He was, some months ago, on a road trip with Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM.  

(Moment of delightful appreciation for what it must be like to make a road trip with the good Friar.)

In a glorious non-sequitur, Fr. Rohr shared one definition of sanctity.  He said: “You know, a saint is someone who has forgiven reality.”

Since hearing this definition, I’ve thought about what this might mean… to “forgive reality.”  

Surely, understanding this definition could take a lifetime, but for me, now, “forgiving reality” means relinquishing my emotional reactivity (anger, judgment, pride, etc) as I confront any reality that appears, in this moment, imperfect or threatening.  (It is my hunch, also, that I am able to do this to the extent that I experience forgiveness myself and trust in the loving kindness of God.)

As I am able to forgive reality, I am able to see more clearly, live more artfully, and respond to reality with love.

The novitiate for the Congregation of Holy Cross in East Africa is located at Lake Saaka, a crater lake hidden by the rolling hills of rural Western Uganda.  It is impossibly temperate and beautiful.  Here, the men in formation will work, pray, and study for a year before taking first vows.

And, for many years, their next stop in formation was Dandora, a slum of Nairobi, Kenya.  In Dandora, one hundred thousand people struggle to survive on four bleak square kilometers that border Nairobi’s largest dump.  Depending on which way the wind is blowing, the air smells either strongly or faintly of burning garbage.  Save for the sunrise and sunset, there is no natural beauty.  Here, the religious who took vows at Lake Saaka, would continue their formation with pastoral work and theology studies.  

Both Saaka and Dandora are places of sincere intensity.  At Saaka, it is the intensity of witnessing the growth of one’s own inner life in a wildly abundant experience of God’s creation. In Dandora, it is the intensity of witnessing the visceral resilience, strength, and prayer of God’s people.

I have thought about these extremes for some time.  They certainly defy clean interpretation.  What remains clear to me, though, is that I have known religious of the Holy Cross who, because they have lived in both intensities, carry a profound capacity to witness to the unrelenting and merciful love of God.

In German, the way to say “to meet” (as in, “good to meet you”) is actually a composite of two verbs: kennen lernen.  Kennen means “to know” and lernen means “to learn.”

Fascinating, right?  Truly meeting someone does, in fact, demand attentive receptivity so that we can learn how to know the person.

I do not know if this interpretation is implied by its etymology, but it is still a worthy reminder.

We have the opportunity to learn to know those around us every day, even those that we met, for the first time, long ago.

Here is one of my favorite stories from the writings of the Desert Fathers.

A novice is worried because the monk that he sits next to during the late prayer keeps falling asleep. He asks an older monk what he should do.

The master’s response? See that the sleeping monk is comfortable. Do not disturb him.

Often, we conceive of a “conversion experience” as necessarily startling or shocking.  Many times, though, an experience of unexpected gentleness can be uniquely powerful and an enduring reason to believe.

Last week, our older son and I flew on an airplane. As we were about to take off, the pilot explained where on the trip we might experience turbulence and how to prepare ourselves.

This is an outstanding exercise for our personal and professional lives. Anticipating turbulence with loved ones, in counselling, and in spiritual direction can enable our artful response.

And yes, there is turbulence for which we cannot prepare. Knowing this, we can spend the time in silence, cultivating solitude and trust, so that we have the interior resources we need when a challenge arises.

Anticipating turbulence helps us respond instead of react when strain enters our lives.

The experience of being a first-year teacher is uniquely disorienting.

I find myself suddenly responsible for children at an age of which I have limited experience. I must attend compassionately to who they are and what they need even as they are unable to communicate this to me directly. I must, balancing empathy and assertiveness, consistently create the world of the class. And I must maintain this sense of consistency even as I integrate constant improvements to serve the students better. And I must do this every day.

For parents, too, a similar dynamic is always at play. Since my oldest child is always getting older, I am always a parent of a child of an age of which I have little direct experience. (Today is the first day I have parented a child of 4.65 years, for example.)

It is right to acknowledge the challenge of this dynamic. When we do, we are able, also, to see the possibility. We get to meet our child anew every day.

(This is the first of the Four Horsemen of Fixed Mindset, four mental stances that clip our potential, limit our intelligence, and stifle budding growth.) 

When faced with a setback, a challenge, or a bit of critical feedback, we occasionally collapse into ourselves declaring: “You’re right. I suck.” We fixate on the negative so thoroughly, we are scarcely able to see anything else. We over-identify with the experience of failure.

This represents a subtle form of hiding. If I am fundamentally incapable of addressing the challenge with flexibility and insight, I am off the hook!

This mental stance distorts reality and side steps the wisdom on offer. Namely, it:

1) Over-identifies with the negative moment, hardening the (untrue) narrative that we are bad and incapable.

2) Blinds us from the positive buds of growth that already exist in the situation.

Let’s watch out for “you’re right, I suck.” Seeing and naming it drains it of its power.