Priorities
Amos 8:1-12
Psalm 52
Colossians 1:15-28
Luke 10:38-42
This year, I was a member of the Relay for Life committee for Stevens County, helping to organize the American Cancer Society's largest local fundraiser of the year. Each year, businesses, groups of friends, and other organizations sponsor teams of people who collectively walk a total of 12 hours along a path lit by luminaries baring the names of those who have died from or survived cancer.
For years I've been organizing the UMM team. Each year, I purchase luminaries for all of my loved ones who have died of cancer: my mother, my uncle Elias, my aunt Sophia, my cousin Chris; and for all those who survived: my cousin Meredith, my godfather, several friends and students. Each year, I have walked after dark, surprised when I turn a corner on the path or happen to glance down and notice a family member's name suddenly visible among the hundreds of luminaries. I should be used to this by now, but each year, I am moved by the tangible reminder of the pain cancer has caused so many people I love--and, of course, so many others. When walking the path, it is impossible not to feel a connectedness even to those I have never met.
This year, I decided to go one step further and join the organizing committee; I was in charge of invitations to the survivors' supper, writing press releases, and organizing children's games at the event, and I also put in a good number of hours doing everything from walking in the Prairie Pioneer Days parade to serving food at a pre-fundraiser to making last-minute calls to area businesses for door prizes.
But the process of getting the event organized was not easy. There was tension at almost every meeting; we felt a great deal of pressure to ensure that the event would be successful. Before the last meeting, one committee member who could not attend sent me an e-mail asking that I ask the committee members to take a moment to talk about why we each care about Relay for Life, why we had chosen to be involved. We had started our first meeting this way, but in the process of sorting door prizes and making decisions about food and arguing over details, we had not returned to this important conversation. For some reason, mostly because I didn't have the energy to get the group to focus, and because there was so much to discuss at the meeting, I didn't do this, but now I wish I had. It's important in the midst of our work, when stress and frustration and exhaustion threaten to take over, to take some steps back, to remember why we're doing the work in the first place.
In today's gospel reading, Mary sits at Jesus' feet, listening to his teachings, while Martha is busy in the kitchen keeping everybody happy. Finally, totally frustrated with her sister, Martha says, Can't you tell my sister to get up and help me? To which Jesus replies, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed." He then tells her that Mary has made a better choice than she.
I have always had sympathy for Martha in this story--after all, she probably wanted to sit and listen to Jesus, but there was so much to do! I have known so many women like this, women who literally have no choice but to attend to the mundane tasks of life, often joylessly, while others in the family do what they please. It's hard not to feel for Martha, and not to be a little annoyed at Jesus' answer.
But, of course, Jesus was right. We need to take the time to listen--and since he's not around to talk directly to us, this means paying attention to our hearts, making the deep listening that should be more than half of any conversation, including prayer, a priority. Strangely, as I have begun to slow down, to pay more attention to my heart, to read more and pray more and write more, I find that I have more free time than I realized. By the end of this summer, I will have taught four summer classes of various types, completed a grant report, planned courses for next semester, completed some significant work on two writing projects, seen friends regularly, started and maintained vegetable and flower gardens, learned to use a letter press, planned a major fundraiser, raised funds for an internship in Greece for our students, and been part of an effort to purchase the local movie theater in order to ensure it remains a movie a theater. (At least, I hope I will be able to see all of the efforts listed here through; I am done or more than halfway done with each of them!).
I've also been, of course, deeply involved in the adoption process--and glad, frankly, to have this summer to remember just how full my life is without children, and just how many activities and people I have to offer to my children when they arrive. Yes, I will have to cut back--but for now, it is good to be doing so much.
I am sometimes tired, but I'm not exhausted. Exhaustion belongs to people who don't care for themselves--I have been caring deeply for myself, giving myself the time to reflect alone and with friends who are able to truly listen; allowing myself long walks and writing time and exercise and time to make good, healthy meals. Perhaps most importantly, I've chose work that has meaning. I am privileged to have such work to do--and grateful to all those who do the work with me. When I'm encouraged by someone to either brag or complain--"You must be exhausted after staying up all night at the relay"; "You're not going to do that committee again next year, are you?"; "Aren't you getting a break this summer?"; "It's so great that you're so committed; congratulations on your effort."--I've been able to honestly respond with, "Yes, and I feel great." It's a good feeling.
Strangely, as a result, I find that I come to clarity a lot more quickly on what I am feeling; I know what to do if I'm frustrated or sad or tired or with someone who is not making me feel like I can be myself. In other words, because my priorities are clearer, I am acting with more authenticity, and loving myself more completely, but with less effort.
"And you who were once estranged and hostile in mind," St. Paul writes to the Colossians, now have been reconciled to God, "provided that you continue seculrely established and steadfast in the faith, without shifting from the hope promised in the bible." And the psalmist sings, "But I am like a green olive tree in the honor of God. I trust in the steadfast love forever and ever." And God presents Amos with a basket of summer fruit, not unlike the okra, tomatoes, and peppers just now growing ripe in my own garden, saying, "I will never again pass [my people] by."
Yes, I seem to be ignoring important parts of each of these stories, the details of darkness and destruction that lead to the promises, the songs. But I am not cluelessly pretending the darkness does not exist; I am not smiling through it, being inauthentically optomistic, or stuffing my less-than-happy feelings. I am, instead, passing through the darkness, feeling it, and coming into light.
"I have hope" one little girl wrote on a poster she made at the Relay for Life kids' corner. Why do you have hope? I asked her, and she said, "because my mom has survived for four years, and because I love God." I wanted to say something in response, but before I had a chance, a three-year-old ran up to me, handed me a bottle of bubbles and said, "Open." I did, and he knew what to do: he pulled out the small, plastic wand and blew a stream of round, shiny, easily shattered planets into the wind. And then he chased them until he had popped every single one, giggling, shouting, "Look! Look! Look at the bubbles!"
Later, when I was walking the candlelit path and saw my mother's name, unassuming among the more artfully decorated luminaries, I thought to myself, "Look! Look!" As I walked, I prayed that I would be able to hold onto this new perspective, to live hopefully and fearlessly even in the face of the deepest darkness, to walk the path, to give attention to loss and survival in equal measure, to pay attention to the most subtle change in the sky's light, and after, to the morning.
Psalm 52
Colossians 1:15-28
Luke 10:38-42
This year, I was a member of the Relay for Life committee for Stevens County, helping to organize the American Cancer Society's largest local fundraiser of the year. Each year, businesses, groups of friends, and other organizations sponsor teams of people who collectively walk a total of 12 hours along a path lit by luminaries baring the names of those who have died from or survived cancer.
For years I've been organizing the UMM team. Each year, I purchase luminaries for all of my loved ones who have died of cancer: my mother, my uncle Elias, my aunt Sophia, my cousin Chris; and for all those who survived: my cousin Meredith, my godfather, several friends and students. Each year, I have walked after dark, surprised when I turn a corner on the path or happen to glance down and notice a family member's name suddenly visible among the hundreds of luminaries. I should be used to this by now, but each year, I am moved by the tangible reminder of the pain cancer has caused so many people I love--and, of course, so many others. When walking the path, it is impossible not to feel a connectedness even to those I have never met.
This year, I decided to go one step further and join the organizing committee; I was in charge of invitations to the survivors' supper, writing press releases, and organizing children's games at the event, and I also put in a good number of hours doing everything from walking in the Prairie Pioneer Days parade to serving food at a pre-fundraiser to making last-minute calls to area businesses for door prizes.
But the process of getting the event organized was not easy. There was tension at almost every meeting; we felt a great deal of pressure to ensure that the event would be successful. Before the last meeting, one committee member who could not attend sent me an e-mail asking that I ask the committee members to take a moment to talk about why we each care about Relay for Life, why we had chosen to be involved. We had started our first meeting this way, but in the process of sorting door prizes and making decisions about food and arguing over details, we had not returned to this important conversation. For some reason, mostly because I didn't have the energy to get the group to focus, and because there was so much to discuss at the meeting, I didn't do this, but now I wish I had. It's important in the midst of our work, when stress and frustration and exhaustion threaten to take over, to take some steps back, to remember why we're doing the work in the first place.
In today's gospel reading, Mary sits at Jesus' feet, listening to his teachings, while Martha is busy in the kitchen keeping everybody happy. Finally, totally frustrated with her sister, Martha says, Can't you tell my sister to get up and help me? To which Jesus replies, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and upset about many things, but only one thing is needed." He then tells her that Mary has made a better choice than she.
I have always had sympathy for Martha in this story--after all, she probably wanted to sit and listen to Jesus, but there was so much to do! I have known so many women like this, women who literally have no choice but to attend to the mundane tasks of life, often joylessly, while others in the family do what they please. It's hard not to feel for Martha, and not to be a little annoyed at Jesus' answer.
But, of course, Jesus was right. We need to take the time to listen--and since he's not around to talk directly to us, this means paying attention to our hearts, making the deep listening that should be more than half of any conversation, including prayer, a priority. Strangely, as I have begun to slow down, to pay more attention to my heart, to read more and pray more and write more, I find that I have more free time than I realized. By the end of this summer, I will have taught four summer classes of various types, completed a grant report, planned courses for next semester, completed some significant work on two writing projects, seen friends regularly, started and maintained vegetable and flower gardens, learned to use a letter press, planned a major fundraiser, raised funds for an internship in Greece for our students, and been part of an effort to purchase the local movie theater in order to ensure it remains a movie a theater. (At least, I hope I will be able to see all of the efforts listed here through; I am done or more than halfway done with each of them!).
I've also been, of course, deeply involved in the adoption process--and glad, frankly, to have this summer to remember just how full my life is without children, and just how many activities and people I have to offer to my children when they arrive. Yes, I will have to cut back--but for now, it is good to be doing so much.
I am sometimes tired, but I'm not exhausted. Exhaustion belongs to people who don't care for themselves--I have been caring deeply for myself, giving myself the time to reflect alone and with friends who are able to truly listen; allowing myself long walks and writing time and exercise and time to make good, healthy meals. Perhaps most importantly, I've chose work that has meaning. I am privileged to have such work to do--and grateful to all those who do the work with me. When I'm encouraged by someone to either brag or complain--"You must be exhausted after staying up all night at the relay"; "You're not going to do that committee again next year, are you?"; "Aren't you getting a break this summer?"; "It's so great that you're so committed; congratulations on your effort."--I've been able to honestly respond with, "Yes, and I feel great." It's a good feeling.
Strangely, as a result, I find that I come to clarity a lot more quickly on what I am feeling; I know what to do if I'm frustrated or sad or tired or with someone who is not making me feel like I can be myself. In other words, because my priorities are clearer, I am acting with more authenticity, and loving myself more completely, but with less effort.
"And you who were once estranged and hostile in mind," St. Paul writes to the Colossians, now have been reconciled to God, "provided that you continue seculrely established and steadfast in the faith, without shifting from the hope promised in the bible." And the psalmist sings, "But I am like a green olive tree in the honor of God. I trust in the steadfast love forever and ever." And God presents Amos with a basket of summer fruit, not unlike the okra, tomatoes, and peppers just now growing ripe in my own garden, saying, "I will never again pass [my people] by."
Yes, I seem to be ignoring important parts of each of these stories, the details of darkness and destruction that lead to the promises, the songs. But I am not cluelessly pretending the darkness does not exist; I am not smiling through it, being inauthentically optomistic, or stuffing my less-than-happy feelings. I am, instead, passing through the darkness, feeling it, and coming into light.
"I have hope" one little girl wrote on a poster she made at the Relay for Life kids' corner. Why do you have hope? I asked her, and she said, "because my mom has survived for four years, and because I love God." I wanted to say something in response, but before I had a chance, a three-year-old ran up to me, handed me a bottle of bubbles and said, "Open." I did, and he knew what to do: he pulled out the small, plastic wand and blew a stream of round, shiny, easily shattered planets into the wind. And then he chased them until he had popped every single one, giggling, shouting, "Look! Look! Look at the bubbles!"
Later, when I was walking the candlelit path and saw my mother's name, unassuming among the more artfully decorated luminaries, I thought to myself, "Look! Look!" As I walked, I prayed that I would be able to hold onto this new perspective, to live hopefully and fearlessly even in the face of the deepest darkness, to walk the path, to give attention to loss and survival in equal measure, to pay attention to the most subtle change in the sky's light, and after, to the morning.
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