On Turning Forty One Years and Three Hundred Sixty Four Days Old As a young boy, I would often set off for spaces where I would be alone, by instinct more than intention, especially when overwhelmed or upset. I would climb trees next to home, just to sit and watch, touching the bark, feeling the veins of the leaves in my hands. I would ride my bike to the edge of town, and then beyond, coming across quiet, left-alone places, like an old creek bridge on a little used gravel road or a tall mound of straw bales in an open field. I would stop in those places – gathering sticks, throwing rocks, looking up at the eternal prairie sky. Looking back, what marks this past year of my life perhaps more than anything else is the near complete absence of spaces of stopping, of gathering up, throwing out, and gazing upon the expanse of it all. The lectures and presentations, sermons and guided discussions. The new course preparations. Puppy classes and potty training. Administrative processes, procedures, meetings and decisions. The contestations and conflict. Speed reading in the gaps. The torn apart kitchen and bathrooms. Living with painters and electricians and contractors. Living in the basement. Living in a hotel room. Living with friends. The dust. 6 months of dust. 5th grade basketball. Soccer tournaments. Baseball games. Piano lessons and recitals. Doctor visits. Middle school. Kindergarten. Homework. Planes, buses, and automobiles to Ohio and back. The incessant emails. All this and so much more alongside a spouse whose work life is more demanding than my own. For one whose nature is grounded by solitude, by long stretches of silence, reflection, and listening, the pace is no doubt taking a toll. But this is all more observation than complaint (well, most days). I am settling into my life’s work. We are making a home. And our children, one of whom is already two-thirds of the way out of the house, are astonishing. In future years, I will likely write on this day, looking back, about the return of set apart spaces, of times and places in my life to sit still on the ground and touch the earth. For now, on the eve of forty-two, I give thanks to the Ground who, regardless the present rhythm or season of my life - and I believe this deep in my bones - is ever and always beneath, beyond, and wholly present within every iota of it all.
Posted on: Thu, 20 Nov 2014 23:06:40 +0000
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