From Michelle. November 22, 2012.
Dear friends and family,
My soul has lightened in recent days. I cannot explain why. Our circumstances have not changed, nor is there any particular movement on the horizon. Nevertheless, my soul looks up, expectant, like a small creature, perched on hind legs, sniffing the wind. Perhaps it knows something that I do not? Regardless, hope stirs against all reason, and moves in the air surrounding. It is a good place to be on Thanksgiving morning.
This Thanksgiving, I am giving thanks for limitations. There is blessing to be found in the non-movement, in the smallness, in embracing the ordinary. It takes a quiet spirit and a presence of mind to note the soul’s progress. Today we stop moving so much, and pause, away from the crowd. With little movement happening on the outside, there will be time to appreciate the movements of the inner life. Steve worked late two nights this week, already more than his body can handle. So we have said no to precious invitations for Thanksgiving feasts with friends, and we are hunkering down as a family.
We have often, over the last two years, pressed against the borders of our newfound limitations, trying to expand our territory. These past two months, we have done this to the point of exhaustion. The reality remains, however, that we have been called during this period to live smaller. As the boundaries of life have narrowed significantly through Steve’s condition, we are learning to look more closely at the seemingly insignificant, reading the small signs and the quiet signals. This evening we will practice that call by celebrating together, just the five of us. Today, we give thanks by embracing the boundaries, and looking closely at what has been given.
This practice, as yet so imperfectly observed by me, reminds me of Saint Therese of Lisieux, the little flower, whose frequent illnesses caused her to celebrate the smallest details of love and service to Christ with all simplicity. In contemplating her humble place in the order of things, she said: “The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.”
Perhaps some of my recent peace has been in appreciating the simple gifts. Lately, I have been delighting in my children, in delicious meals, in the fond looks that Steve showers on me daily. We all know these are the richest of gifts, but I, at least, am often too busy to notice them. A visitor from the United States has been appreciating the view from our lanai every morning, overlooking a small pool ringed by palm trees and tropical bushes, and with her eyes I see the simple beauty of our residential neighborhood with fresh eyes.
There is still much letting go to be done. I still cling to the idea that in order to fully live, life must be full. I say yes far too much. But reminders come fast and furious that for Steve, things simply take more time. If I want to walk beside him, I must also slow my pace. During a precious vacation in a remote part of the Philippines this month, Steve fell on some coral trying to catch Zephyr and cut his feet and wrist. Coral is alive and highly infectious, never an easy wound to heal. For Steve, however, it took three weeks and three rounds of strong oral antibiotics before the redness, swelling and puss even began to dissipate. Four weeks later, I am still watching the redness around his toes. While visiting someone in the hospital last week, we discovered the room was on the third floor and there were no elevators. By the time we had finished the visit and were standing in the hallway talking to a relative, Steve could barely stand, leaning against the wall for support. It has been a busy week, and yesterday Steve could barely climb the stairs in our house just once.
Limitations can be a gift. The proportions of our world are set right when we step off center stage. One is never indispensable. There is a transparency of spirit that occurs when we no longer force our own importance on a situation. When forced to acknowledge our smallness, there is room for God to be big. God is given room to show up, to provide. Others have an opportunity to shine. This gift of limitations is especially precious in the life of ministry, where the myth of one’s indispensability is especially treacherous.
This week, Steve’s body hurts more than usual. While there is much he cannot feel, eventually he knows when he has done too much. I am reminded again of the lessons of Dr. Paul Brand on the gift of pain. Without pain, his leprosy patients caused themselves enormous harm. Pain lets us know when something is wrong. It gives us appropriate and healthy boundaries for how we treat our bodies. It is a precious limitation. Without it, we press too hard, and injure ourselves. So instead of lamenting the pain, today we will welcome it as an invitation to rest, to lie down, to stop and look around.
Tonight, around the dinner table, I plan to slow down and look closely at the gift of my precious family. Zephyr will be cracking jokes and delighting the most in his own sense of humor. Jude will be zany and grateful, a fountain of energy, appreciation and affection. Aidan will be constant and kind, equal parts thoughtful and light, sensitive and observant of the dynamics around the table. As we do every night, we will each share what we are thankful for. As he does every night, Zephyr will insist on going first. And as it is every day, without fail, none of us will have any trouble finding things to be thankful for.
Whether or not a rainstorm is indeed gathering on the horizon, we will celebrate the common gifts, the violets and the daisies, enough food on our table, enough life and love to fill our hearts to overflowing. May your arms be equally full of gratitude today.
With love,
Michelle