In the city, a snowfall
is sometimes the only thing
that can teach us silence. The rush
of cars and busses disappears.
Footfalls, crow calls, the buzz
of streetlamps gone, quiet. Even
winter-hardened chickadees huddle,
beaks to breast as sunlight breaks.
A finger of luminous umber
stretches across the eastern skyline,
pointing you to your heart. You glance
left and right, no, it is for you. You clap
your mitts to dispel the unerving quiet.
Then your breathing comes to focus,
filling you with a sudden awareness
of yourself and a life-giving God
on the brink of a vast, wordless world
hanging by a thread of grace.
In the city, a snowfall
is sometimes the only thing
that teaches you silence
is not absence but a presence.
“It feels like midnight when I go to work! Then, I’m just getting my day started, and it’s going dark already. And this endless rain! I can’t even tell if I’m supposed to be getting up or going to bed. Vancouver in December has got to be the worst.” Sound familiar?
Anticipating Christmas, like most, I also await the cosmic forces to finish tilting our world away from the light before slowly bringing her around again on her laborious orbit into the light. I know we will eventually get there, and rejoice, because it happens as faithfully as Christmas every year. It’s the waiting that bothers us.
Then, after two weeks of a December rain, you may wake up with a start at light seeping through the curtains. What’s this strange brightness? It makes you want to take an early walk. You see, in the first light, snow-topped mountains you’d forgotten were there. You squint at the way the peaks glisten in the first monring rays. You notice other things you don’t seem to have seen before. A flower bed laid fallow, full of promise, a neighbor’s welcoming porch, a fence rail of hand-hewn timbers begging the touch of a warm hand. Across the park, you see steam rising off the sun-soaked sod as sunlight dances through the wispy vapors. It’s enough to make you weep.
Yes, you say, the darkest days of the year are the perfect time for Hanukkah and Christmas, and celebrate it with light we will! Candles are lit, homes are strung with light, streets sparkle in it, the city boasts various light shows. Light and starry nights abound in carols and on cards. The persuasion is brought home by considering the person of Christmas, Jesus, who one time announced, “I am the Light of the World.” Not just a light in one dark corner of a barn, but the light of the world. A staggering, scandalous claim!
What makes Jesus’ words even more remarkable is that they echo God’s very first words in the Christian narrative, the Bible, “Let there be light.” And with those words the creation of the world dawned. Since then, the creation story continues as God redeems and re-creates what has been marred or obliterated by darkness. This story, darkness to light, is a cycle, repeated and realized in a thousand ways and places, always commencing with Light. So says the story of Christmas.
Cosmic as the proposition of Christmas is, the Light shines in the particulars of everyday life. For a few shepherds trying to mind their own business, the Light came as a whole freaking midnight choir! The sheep must have gone crazy as they sang back. For some scholars in the Mideast, it was a particular, unusual star most others probably missed. For Mary, the Light came in an uninvited guest.
You may recall moments when someone showed up while you were in a dark place, and that person let the Light in. Maybe only for a moment before fading, but you’ll swear something glowed there, flipped a page on your calendar, and tilted your world toward the Light.
Recently, on a dark drizzly day in the park, I noticed an elderly couple on a bench wrapped up together against the chill. They had two garbage bags, loaded perhaps with cans they’d collected. They’d paused to have a sandwich. My dog ran up to them wagging his tail, his eyes on their sandwiches. The couple laughed, delighted for the dog’s company, talking to him in Chinese, and offered him a bite. I apologized, but the couple smiled, shook their heads, and laughed some more. No apology necessary.
The simplicity of the moment—a couple who didn’t seem to have much but each other sharing sandwiches on a bench, offering some to a strange dog. This was Light in the middle of that rain-soaked day. My gait became slower, more patient. I felt more grateful . . . for what? Everything, I think. For December, overcast skies, my family, for a poor couple on that first Christmas who birthed into being the Light of the World, which changed everything.
The fight has gone out of summer. Burnt out, she’s throwing in the towel and bathing peacefully in luxurious colour. You see and hear signs everywhere: rest.
You hear voices calling for the economy to slow down and take a rest after years of frenetic, out of control spending. Low inventories with inflated costs have been unable to keep pace, forcing us to relax and do with less.
If that’s not enough, you reflect on the record high temperatures this year, how they've exacted a toll on human life. The climate is telling us the earth is exhausted and desperately needs a break from our rampant consumption of its resources. And then there are people killing each other everywhere while the world cries, “Stop! Give it a rest!”
On my walk, the dog is taking his time, and rather than pulling him along, I sit on a bench and take a deep breath. It feels good. Next to me on the bench, I find an abandoned footrest from someone’s wheelchair. (Even a rest is taking a rest.) I feel metal against my back--a plaque on the bench dedicated to a lost loved one with the familiar prayer that she rest in peace. The rattle of the leaves overhead recalls that life is short, so rest for a moment and take it in. The message is everywhere: Rest.
Rest can make us nervous. It takes a while to downshift and slow the heart rate. With rest, we also come face to face with an uncomfortable truth. Our appetite for more, our rabid pace, our fighting, have all come at a cost to millions of neglected and innocent people, who are restless simply because they do not have enough to live.
As I’m sitting with all this, I can’t help chewing over these words from Jesus: “Come to me all you who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest.” I imagine him speaking to a mixed crowd of haves and have nots, both the powerful and the powerless, while he audaciously presents himself as the answer to everyone’s deepest yearning to be unburdened and loved.
Then, in the same breath Jesus gives his remedy: “Take my yoke upon you and learn from me . . . and you will find rest for your souls.” Offering a yoke as rest—so counter-intuitive and scandalous. What I gather is he’s offering himself as a life-partner and mentor. A look at his life demonstrates this. He remained yoked with God, pulling together in the same direction, reliant on God to sustain him with all he needed. And, in turn, he offers himself in the same way to his audience. Friendship, true rest, relief from our anxious, frenzied lives. We can share our load and stop running. We are loved.
So amid all the restless voices, I hear this other gentle voice from another place with an invitation to ease the burden and anxieties of the day. As well, I hear a challenge to come alongside a restless traveler who needs to know they’re not alone. I'll take that.
Yom Kippur fresh in mind, a man in suit and
kippah strides with purpose across the park
to synagogue as the early sun pierces
in long streaks of gold and crimson
through the maple canopy. Rockets fall
on Israel, bullets riddle cars, infiltrators
invade homes and take children hostage,
hundreds on both sides lie dead.
Sit, face the rising sun, count the dew drops
sparking with fresh fire on each blade of grass.
Watch how the fires trickle down each stem
to penetrate the ground, God’s way, and chase
through rhizomes to feed green fields that
rise as a growing mass of worship. My God!
If you should evoke such love from fields of grass,
how much more from man as one to be so loved?
Backlit in a dew-dropped park,
geese browse among diamonds, unspent
bounty, before the outbound flight.
A walker bundled in a blanket texts
hello and good-bye while crows mock.
A yogi on her final downward dog
bows to a rising sun as willows sleep.
Sway, weep, sigh as seasons pass you by
(oh, the liminal unsubstantiality of it all!)
Taking leave in a sun-kissed mist.
Skirting her shore, her firs and a forest
green shawl drapes the island down to
red arbutus shins, the shoals her toes
dip in the squall-kissed sea. In the deep
crevice of her soul, a cove swarms with
minnows like memories through tangles of
kelp and weeds shifting with time. Starfish
cling still to stones like hope in the roil.
With each wave falling down her face
she exhales, casting off detritus gathered
from seasons of storms, then swills another
healing cordial from the inexorable swell.
I heard it again at my daughter’s graduation: “You can be whoever you want to be, do whatever you want to do. The sky is the limit.” Our culture’s superhero mantra is echoed at ceremonies across the country, chanted so often we seldom ask if it’s really true. Does a wise man know his limits, or does a brave man deny them? The above assertion would assume the latter.
I understand the sentiment. We want our kids to excel, to be brave, to flourish in their gifts and talents, all good. But the assertion is both unrealistic and potentially injurious, perhaps one of our culture’s most basic falsehoods.
The truth is, only the fortunate few actually reach their most desired ultimate goals in life, usually with the help of a few miracles. And those who claim they have “achieved it all” quickly find out it doesn’t satisfy. Or they find themselves with far more problems than they had in the beginning.
A common problem with the “sky is the limit” creed is the stress and anxiety this belief instills, especially in children. They may easily feel their best is never good enough. They mark themselves on their mental report card and compare themselves to others and then wonder if they are really “the best they can be” since they’re not “the best in class.”
We assume the competition is “good for them.” It’s the way we grew up, after all. But do we really want them to be as messed up as we are? I wonder sometimes if the expectation we put on our children reflects how little we ourselves think we’ve achieved and is an attempt to save ourselves.
One big beef I have with our culture’s “limitless potential” ideal is its arrogance. Our world is finite. Our lives have obvious limits. A pandemic, recurring economic crises, the climate crisis, each of these should have taught us by now that our most noble goals can suddenly go up in flames or be washed out by a flood. Economic, social, mental, or physical limitations daily fly in the face of “you can be and do whatever you want.”
A child will eventually face the reality that they may never reach a certain ideal or goal. She won’t make the soccer team and will never be a professional because she’s not good enough. He will never get that girl because she’s just not into him. She continually gets low scores in school and does not have the academic chops to go to Stanford. A serious sickness may mean he will never run the Boston Marathon. Dad may lose his job and have to sell the house, and now you’re moving to a small apartment in a less privileged part of town.
At these moments, even to a child, “you can do anything you want” sounds as futile as watching a dog chasing crows and imagining one day he’ll catch one. But as difficult as it may sound, limitations are good for the soul. They teach us humility and reverence for things we have no control over. Our limitations remind us of our shared humanity and connect us to one another.
And what about kids who don’t know who they are or “who they want to be”? That was me right into early adulthood. I didn’t have a good idea of who I wanted to be, and I felt lost. My self-esteem deteriorated, and I was plagued with anxiety. I’m eclectic to this day. I like many things equally. But this does not mesh with a culture that values specialization and career driven individuals.
Consider this model. Rather than focusing our kids’ eyes on future goals and “the sky is the limit,” how about simply affirming and enjoying them for how God’s made them? Have we taken this first step? Have we let them know how proud we are of them regardless of their “achievements,” and how much we like them for who they are today and not for what they might become one day?
A more lasting basis for success and happiness includes values such as meaningful relationships, beauty, justice, truth, love, faith, and loyalty. Even a pandemic can’t take those from us. With this focus kids can live with not knowing what they want to be. They don’t have to keep chasing crows because they know they can succeed all their lives regardless of circumstances. They can better manage disappointments, failure, and limitations.
In my daughter’s final report before graduating her academic marks were so-so, but the report included this comment: “She is a positive force in our learning community, and kind. She consistently models patience, understanding, and compassion.” These qualities were not on her “sky is the limit, be whatever you want to be” list, but it was all I needed to hear.
Graduation addresses don’t normally. stick with me, but there is one from a friend of mine that does. He challenged graduates to think about what they know. He told them that, amid all they've learned or hope to learn, the most important thing they will ever know is that they are beloved, loved by another, loved by God. Does anything else really matter?
I woke at my usual time and sat up. Something was wrong. I blinked, covered each eye to check the other. I’d lost sight in my left eye. A black veil had been drawn, leaving only a small halo of light at the periphery, like the sun setting in the fog.
After a minute of panic, my rational side took over to try and make sense of it. From what I knew, cataracts impede night vision and cause halos but slowly over time. Macular degeneration also is not this sudden. Maybe it’s not macular but miraculous degeneration, I joked to ease my anxiety. Like Saul on the road to Damascus and God with a plan in his pocket, I imagined traveling and turning the world upside down, starting a snakes-can’t-hurt-me cult, and setting off a gender war about what women are allowed to do just because somebody misunderstood something I wrote.
I made my way to the kitchen and reached for a water glass, knocking it over. My depth perception was off. Of course. I sat and did a Google search of my condition, leaning in with my right eye to read. Jumping off the screen were the words “retinal detachment.” That seemed to check all the boxes. Then I read, “Solutions: Seek care immediately. Surgery…” I didn’t read the rest.
I had Diane drop me off at ER, and within minutes they confirmed my suspicions of a retinal detachment. Surgery was scheduled in two days. While I waited, I studied up on the procedure—“vitrectomy.” It didn’t look pretty. Probes inserted through the sclera? Remove vitreous jelly? Inject gas bubble? Lasers? All under “local anesthetic.” Oh, that's comforting, thanks. You mean I won't be totally out for this? Not a fan of sticking sharp objects into my eye. It goes against everything we’re taught.
The doctor couldn’t guarantee surgery would be 100% effective. Do they ever? So what if it didn’t work? One of my greatest pleasures in life is exploring creation in all its details and diversity. And how would my reading and writing be affected? My little brother was born blind in one eye and has lived a full, happy life. I might have to talk to him. And people have lived completely blind and developed their other senses in amazing ways to be their “eyes.” So there's hope?
I studied the literature and diagrams of the human eye until a tranquil awe settled on me over the spectacular array of moving parts working together to allow for sight. The entrance of light through the lens, through the vitreous gel, to the intricate network of specialized cells and rods that make up the retina and receive images (all upside down, mind you) down the optic nerve to the brain, where the images are all turned upright. It was stunning how this complex tiny organ had held together at all over the years!
If there was ever evidence where the theory of original design flies in the face of evolution, the eyes have it. No way in my mine could this marvelously designed organ simply be a product of chance even given millions of years. There had to be a master intelligence, a God, who had designed and created it.
Being wheeled into surgery on a gurney, I asked the attendant if she was ever struck by the design of the eye like I was. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” she said wheeling me briskly into the operating room and leaving me there. I was just one in a long line of others having eye surgery that day. I was greeted by bright lights and several gowned and masked aliens. I saw a set of the promised sharp objects on a tray and what looked like night vision goggles. I didn’t see the laser gun anywhere.
Twenty minutes of eye-poking and many painful laser beams later, I was done and was whisked back out. I listened vaguely to perfunctory post-op instructions, like how to sleep and how to take the eye drops they prescribed.
It would take a few weeks before I could find out how much of my eyesight would return. The pain left after a couple of days, the gas bubble the doctor had injected into my eye disappeared after a week, and the fog began to lift. After three weeks, objects appeared clearer but a little distorted, wavy, like a funhouse mirror at the carnival.
Walking back home from my two-week checkup, I felt grateful. My sight was improving a lttle. I no longer saw people like trees walking. I noticed in a way I hadn't before the uniqueness of each person passing by. One person walked with short staccato steps, another with long out-toed strides with his lips in a permanent pucker. Some swung their arms, some walked stiffly, some were alone, others in pairs, talking animatedly about things they’d seen in the store. And all the eyes, they were beautiful, varying in color from dark to green to light blue, mostly dark, and in shapes from narrow to large, from deep-set to bug-eyed.
I’ve obviously had eyes on my mind. I thought about how the word itself, “eye,” resembled eyes—each “e” was an eye, complete with an eyelid, resting on either side of the nose, the “y.”
There’s a literary technique called “defamiliarization,” where a writer makes ordinary things seem different, causing the reader to see things in a new, fresh way, as if seeing them for what they truly are, which is why it is said that writers help us see. I think that’s what my retinal detachment did for me—helped me see the world anew.
Today, three weeks after my eye surgery, while I wait to see how my eyesight will evolve, I feel a bit like I'm seeing the world for the first time, like a child. Jesus said the eye is the “lamp of the body” and “if our eyes are healthy, our whole body will be full of light.” I want to perceive the world as it truly is and for my body to be full of light. But maybe I first needed to become blind.
I walk the dog around 7 am. Typically I use this as thinking time, also prayer time, though who’s to say it isn’t all prayer time since God hears everything anyway—my thoughts and mumblings as well as my petitions—the good, bad, and in between. It’s all a good reason to have a dog. I let Bernie off leash so we can each be undistracted in our thoughts, which means I’ve probably missed picking up one or two of his do dos.
As I pass over the cracks in the sidewalk, I tick off the things I have to do for the day and what I can put off so I can do what I’d like to do instead. I think about the kids and how they’re feeling, how they’re doing in school, whether I’m giving them enough of my time, whether they should get off their iPads and read more. I think about a person I’ve been avoiding making amends with. I pray Diane’s knee holds up for another day of work at the Cancer Agency. I worry about the financial sustainability of my family and about the sustainability of the planet, detecting the sepia glow in the sky brought on by smoke from another forest fire. I pray for responsible human behavior, my own included.
It’s usually quiet with few others out and about this early. Then I hear Bernie barking furiously at the base of a tree, looking up with his front paws on the trunk.
A squirrel has scurried about sixty feet up into the seventh heaven into the interlacing branches. It whisks along the network of highways from tree to tree, chasing another traveler of his clan along the way. Then a third one picks up the game, a fascinating convoy. They could nearly circle the entire park on their leafy thoroughfare.
Until this moment, I’ve been walking with my head down, gazing in thought at the pavement and have missed what was going on in another world high above me. I carry on, trying to take in what else is happening way up there. I see bird pairs, large nests, a balloon snagged in the labyrinth of a thousand bridges and interchanges. What a contrast to the world below with its carefully bordered parcels of land, evenly clipped lawns, and straight pathways. The complexity and randomness above are astonishingly beautiful!
This seemingly insignificant change in the orientation of vision changes everything. Looking down at the pavement, I’m focused anxiously on the issues I have to tend to. Looking up, I’m lost in a world that eases my mind. My perspective suddenly broadens. The things I’m concerned about haven’t gone away, but they’ve lost the weight of their urgency and importance. They feel more manageable.
Seeing a couple of crows in the higher branches, I think of what Jesus says about worry and trust. “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” Through the trees and beyond, I catch a glimpse of the mountains to the north. Snow is still on the peaks—vibrant, fresh, clean, like grace itself. I think immediately of how the Psalms poet says, “I lift my eyes to the mountains. Where does my help come from? From the Maker of heaven and earth.”
I thank Bernie for getting my attention. I’ll be lifting my eyes more often on my dog walks. The prayer I need might be right up there in the trees.
She tip-toes over the park, pauses, her nose
to the earth for some scent of the ancestral path
that runs far below along underground currents.
She heard traces of it whispered among the pack.
Her mind races to imagine a draw, a willowed creek.
The ancient path, like the old stories, lies beneath
the park’s short-cropped lawn. She traverses its length,
spread as habitat for mothers with strollers, swings,
baseball and cricket, canine cousins on leashes.
Coyote sniffs the air, seeking heaven’s aid,
her breath a vapor in the chill autumn dusk.
She saunters forward, holding in the sinew
of her agile limbs the memory of past hunters--
mice scurrying scared in the brush, a deer
taken down by the pack, so deft, the carcass left
half-eaten, spent salmon easy prey in the shallows,
rabbits crying in a thicket, pups at mothers’ teats.
She feels the ancestral stories of woodsmen too,
axes chewing, felling trees to be shaped into dens
for the two-legged intruders, or the logs dragged
by horses to the bay and on to other lands.
The stories are fading—an ancient path,
a willowed creek drained and tilled--
their telling quelled by the interment.
Tales of new hunters today replace old,
and Coyote has only dreams running cold
like still water far beneath her feet.