Grinches

Maybe we’re all grinches by nature, not in our grouchiness, but in our discomfort with too much noise. Every December when I read Seuss’ book, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, I empathize with these lines about the Grinch: 

“ Oh the noise! Oh, the Noise! Noise! Noise! Noise! That’s one thing he hated! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!” 

For most of us, every day of the year is as noisy as Who Town’s Christmas. The majority of us now live in cities or suburbs where we constantly hear engines revving, people shouting into their phones, sirens wailing and electronics beeping. The decibel count for normal conversation is 60dB whereas trucks, power drills and rock concerts emit between 85 – 115dB, not to mention a baby’s loudest cries that can reach 120dB! Even during night’s relative quiet we may hear a rushing sound from the nearest highway and the hum of household appliances. 

Too much noise causes our body’s stress-reactor, cortisol, to flow at such excess that, for example, a friend had a breakdown at work the other day, yelling at a customer to “Shut that child up!” Her system simply couldn’t cope with trying to help people at a public information booth while her ears were being battered by a nearby child’s screaming. 

One of the benefits of my youth as a fundamentalist Christian was being urged to have a daily “Quiet Time”. In that context a “Quiet Time” meant reading the bible and praying, and unfortunately many of us felt burdened by the expectation, feeling guilty when we skipped the daily practice. The benefit, however, was the wise teaching that each day should include a time out from our daily responsibilities and addictive distractions (Twitter, TV, music). We need a chance to sit alone to collect our wits and think about life. Although it's impossible to escape all external sound, we can learn to quiet down our thoughts and emotions.

Despite post-modern Western culture’s widespread rejection of traditional Christian prayer, spiritual hunger has prompted a rediscovery of this ancient idea, via New Age beliefs and Buddhist tourism. Many have learned the value of silent meditation and prayer. In Toronto there are new public labyrinths in parks and hospitals where any passerby can take the opportunity to follow the circling path in silence. Some schools have introduced regular quiet moments for students to calm themselves, and most health practitioners now recommend non-medical techniques for stilling our minds and slowing our heartbeats. 

As with other life experiences, until you try a quiet time yourself it is hard to imagine the treasures that may manifest. I promise that if you close your mouth and sit or pace silently for long enough, you will be pleasantly surprised, perhaps by a memory of a friend you had forgotten, or a new activity to explore, or a sudden feeling of compassion for an annoying neighbour. If we include a willingness to connect with God, this too has happened for thousands during their solitary silences.

Maybe if we all start informing our bosses, clergy, and politicians that quiet times are beneficial, even productive, our whole world would edge closer to healing. I will if you will.

 “Be still and know that I am God...In quietness and trust is your strength” 

(Psalm 46 & Isaiah 3)

Incidental Joys

- When the amusement park kiddie-ride came to a stop a father lifted his little daughter out of the front seat and then noticed another pre-school girl sitting behind. The brown-skinned, black-bearded man with a turban reached his arms toward her. She gazed up at the stranger and they both hesitated for a split-second. The dad looked over his shoulder seeking for parents’ approval to go ahead and help their child. When I caught his eye, I nodded at him with a smile of appreciation and tiny, milky-skinned Amelia with curly blonde pigtails was kindly picked up and set on her feet to run to me. Ah, if all interracial, interfaith, and intercultural interactions were as sweet as this. 

- Flipping TV channels, I heard a movie character say,
"I don’t care if he’s a member of the god-damned Salvation Army”. I snorted at the incongruity; there’s a phrase you never expect to hear. Not exactly a joy but pretty funny.

- My house backs onto a large church building. From my lawn chair one day in June, I heard applause through the church basement‘s open windows. It was graduation day at nursery school. Over and over there were bursts of applause and camera flashes. I laughed out loud when I heard music begin and realized it was Elger’s “Pomp and Circumstance” the traditional processional piece at formal occasions. My heart warmed at such signs of appreciation for dear children.

- Losing any Buddhist pretensions to non-violence I killed a mosquito whose gut was already red with my arm’s blood. Seconds later, I noticed what must have been one of its legs on the page of my book. The black strand was about 2 centimetres long and as thin as a pen stroke. How can insects at that size and fragility survive long enough to reproduce by the millions? Itchy awe.

- In preparation for the national holiday, my neighbour draped a Maple Leaf flag over her garden bench. One morning a bright crimson cardinal landed beside the red and white flag, and posed for a moment like a cheerful Canadian dressed for the fireworks show. As I watched, he flew down to forage on the driveway and a female cardinal fluttered in to replace him on the bench. I remained still, a grin of joy on my face. If you want to see Nature’s wonders you have to linger. Lo and behold, the male flew back to the female and, beak-to-beak, presented her with a diamond ring...or maybe it was a juicy bug.

In Vino Veritas

Could anyone be drunk and at a doctor's appointment at 8:00 am? He arrived in the plastic surgeon’s office where I was waiting with five other patients.

Don’t get excited at the mention of plastic surgery. I was at the office because apparently plastic surgeons are the only doctors who can inject the palms of my hands with cortisone to unlock fingers that aren’t flexing normally. 

The intoxicated man didn’t take a chair. He moved from lounging across the reception counter to wandering the small space, full of good humour. When the clerk asked for his health card he responded, “I don’ need a health card – I’m not sick. Heh, heh.”

The rest of us, all women, couldn’t avoid hearing him as we carefully avoided eye contact. He searched the table of magazines and said jovially, 

“What am I supposed to read? No 'Playboys'? Heh, heh” 

The silence was heavy. 

“When we used to go to barbers for only men there’d be 'Playboy' magazines – guys would stay there for long time, eh? Heh, heh.” 

More silence.

“The good old days, when men were men and women were women, eh?”

My mind filled with scorn at his words and behaviour. Should I bother educating him about “the good old days” for women? Nah. He’s not worth it.

When the receptionist finally escorted me to a treatment room, she and I exchanged eye-rolls and I wished her luck in managing the troublemaker.

As I waited … and waited… for the doctor, I heard the man still trying to get a friendly laugh from somebody. He asked the receptionist, “So is the surgeon plastic?”  and tried to explain his joke, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the plastic surgeon was made out of plastic?”

Sitting alone in the other room, I realised that with no compassion at all I’d recoiled from this poor man. I’d seen him immediately as one of my “enemies” (drunk, sexist jerk) and then ignored, yet again, Christ’s revolutionary command to love every one. I could have appreciated his good mood. I could have been kinder instead of acting as if he didn’t exist. We weren't on a street corner; it wouldn’t have been dangerous or demanding to carry on a conversation with him when he was trying so hard to be congenial.

As I continued to pass time in the small examining room I gazed at the posters and available brochures. Ugh. Every single one in the rack or framed on a wall was advertising a drug corporation. Every single one showed a photo of a beautiful woman. Without words, they lied, “This could be you if you asked your doctor to use our products. You could have longer eye lashes, fewer wrinkles, perfect breasts and [according to one brochure] smaller labia [what?].”

Although I know that plastic surgeons do some admirable and essential work like reconstruction after accidents or disease and my own hand injections, it was creepy to see that the male doctor I was waiting for had chosen to decorate his examining room with examples of a cultural delusion. Female bodies are never good enough. Talk about making a deal with the devil. What do these drug companies give him in return?

Another question came to mind.

How much difference was there really between “Playboy” patient and the wealthy doctor who makes part of his income by re-sculpturing healthy female bodies for unhealthy reasons.

I saw some unconscious insight in the silly question, “And the surgeon? Is he real or made out of plastic?” 

P.S. Later, in my final proofread of this post, another thought popped up. If I’m thinking critical thoughts about sexist drunks and doctors, how much of my Christian faith is real and how much is plastic?

Things That Make You Go, "Mmm"

Standing outside, early on a fresh spring morning, sipping creamy coffee from a china mug decorated with gardening images. The mug was a thoughtful gift from a neighbour who shares my bemused headshaking over what thrives or doesn’t thrive in our side-by-side gardens.

The cheerful music of a sparrow grabs my attention. She's on the telephone wire that feeds my house, protecting her nest  inside the metal hood that covers the electrical joint box above my roof. Where would we be in the city without sparrow song?

Among the dying tulips, new buds appear on green coreopsis stems, preparing for the curtain to open on their faithful chorus of sunny yellow. Each summer, hundreds of their flowers mass in my front garden, blooming, dying, and blooming all season long.

I hear the chirps of children, two little girls on their way to school beside their tall father, dressed for the office. Each of them clutches a hand as he clenches his arms to lift them onto their tippy toes just for fun. 

The younger child wears shorts, tee-shirt and a wide-brimmed straw hat trimmed in black ribbon, its elegance a charming contrast to her play clothes. The older sister wears a peasant skirt and tee, topped by a baseball cap through which her ponytail pops. They each lug a back-pack half their size.

The threesome reach a neighbour’s driveway – a troublesome  mess of gravel which migrates willy-nilly onto the street’s macadam. Surprisingly, the father stops to kick some of the pebbles off of the road back to where it belongs. Both girls join in the play.  A parent on the way to work taking time for a game - Mmm.

He shifts his briefcase’s shoulder strap and grabs their hands again to head for the crosswalk. The smaller girl runs ahead to push the button for crossing. Behind her back the father pushes the button again to make sure the warning lights come on. He re-takes little hands for safe crossing. Near the school’s entrance the children spy something interesting beneath a hedge. They squat to look closely. The tall man stands still, apparently relaxed, waiting as if in respect of a scientific exploration. Oh, that we all could always parent so divinely. A minute later the three disappear into the school.

I breathe in lilac and lily-of-the valley.

Another May morning has broken. 

(Enjoy this favourite hymn, sung by Art Garfunkel and Diana Krall)

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8eKDouS2hA 

Well, Shut My Mouth

I LOVE laughing. I’d rather hang out with a funny person than almost any other type. 

Last night I tried to enjoy the start of YouTube’s Comedy Week. Grr. I had to turn it off when it had barely begun. Apparently few comics are creative enough to be funny without appealing to our most primitive selves, the selves that are intrigued by violence, bodily excretions and genitalia. Haw, haw, haw.
I expect my young grandchildren to be fascinated and amused by such references, but aren't we supposed to mature beyond that level?

I don’t know about you, but I don’t need any help with defaulting to an ugly perspective on life. I already tend toward cynicism and despair, so I long for humour that is clever and animating. Satire of human foibles can be hilarious and yet encouraging. Talented comics can crack us up just by imitating Everyman impatiently waiting for an elevator. Their witty insight sticks with us; from then on, every time we have to wait for an elevator we smile to, and at, ourselves (Thankyou, Ellen DeGeneres). 

When I came across the quote below, it made me wonder what daily life would be like if we followed its advice:

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen…. 

You mean that the smartest comment doesn’t win?

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice.

Even when somebody just dissed me?

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

But she was so mean!

Among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people. Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving.

What world are you living in, Prissy Boots?

Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise…

Oh, relax.

Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. 

Party Pooper.

Instead, be filled with (get drunk on) the Spirit, speaking to one another with psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit.

Weird. Really weird.

Sing and make music from your heart to God, always giving thanks for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

If we all followed this advice from Ephesians 4, what would it be like on the internet...or in politics...at home...at work...in schools and churches...in traffic?

Wha?

Who would think of making a plant that pokes above ground in a tightly curled spiral disc, and then slowly unfurls its “fiddlehead” like a lithe yogi changing poses, arching into a fern finale of feathery fronds?

What trickster had the idea of vines that sense the nearest vertical surface, grow their way toward it and produce sucker pads that cling like claws so that the ivy can cover whole buildings with coppery olive leaves?

Strange to imagine the hidden, underground root-tangle below Lilies of the Valley spiking up by the hundreds, on their way to becoming dark curved shelters for fragile strands of tiny white perfume cups.

How can acid-green moss, composed of thousands of miniscule hairs, become a soft cushy carpet, neither woven nor cultivated? 

What the hell-ebore was the idea, giving that lush, tropical- looking plant with smoky pink flowers the guts to bloom in the coldest early Spring, even before yellow daffodils?

Whose plan would include a three inch chipmunk, heart beating warmly beneath February’s ice and snow, so that a sweet stripy face hops out ready for play in May? 

Wasps that can drill perfectly round holes into wooden planks?

Birds who painlessly whack their small beaky heads into tree trunks, mining insects for food?

Crazy Creator.

Like a Weaned Child

I have fond memories of breastfeeding my babies, and now as a grandmother, I enjoy watching young mothers with their children. If I were a preacher, I’d craft a sermon about the family imagery in this bible verse:

But I have calmed and quieted myself.
I am like a weaned child with its mother.
Like a weaned child, I am content.  

Psalm 131

As a preacher, I would connect this psalm’s Old Testament (Hebrew Scriptures) example of faith to Jesus’ teaching about spiritual health. Christ told his disciples to respect children and to see them as models for the spiritual life. 

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.

Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 18 & 19

From the pulpit, I would then acknowledge that there are many opinions on the correct English translation of our verse in Psalm 131, as well as much commentary on exactly what it means. Referring to the New Testament (Christian Scriptures) verses, I would say that the strange term, “kingdom of heaven”, implies a state where life is lived the way its Creator designed it to be lived, under the rule of love, peace and merciful justice. 

With that said, I would offer the following meditation on the psalm's image of an older child leaning on its mother.

It seems that the more we mature as followers of Jesus, the less we will be like newborn babies. Newborns are utterly cherished by their moms and dads, as we all are by our divine parent. And yet, both they and we start out being infantile in our egoism, 

helpless,

blind to options and choices,

incapable of taking action,

at the mercy of others and of life’s circumstances,

spending the day either asleep, passively observing, or pitifully screaming until our immediate need is satisfied.

Christian belief, like atheism, rejects the idea that we are sucklings who must invent a mythical Super-Daddy/Mommy to get us though life. But Christianity is based on the good news that we are not alone in the universe, left to our own best devices for living life with meaning. 

Christianity teaches that God prioritizes relationship. The bible records many stories of a working partnership between ordinary people and the Ultimate Mystery we call God, a partnership that changes human life for the better. Such personal stories have continued throughout history. 

Healthy relationships, even between God and humans, do not foster infantilism. The compelling verse in Psalm 131 implies that as we grow in faith we become not like breast-fed babies, but like a weaned child, 

independent enough to explore life,

tasting different kinds of food, 

testing our muscles in risky adventures, 

doing our assigned chores even when we don’t feel like it,

braving encounters with strangers,

learning to say we’re sorry and learning to forgive,

strong enough to stand on our own two feet, to fall and still get up again, 

waving goodbye when we’re left at school, knowing Love will be waiting for us at the end of the day,

aware that all good that we see, and all good that we are, is given by God, our parent, without whom we wouldn’t exist at all. 

Unlike the maturity of independence from human parents, spiritual maturity includes depending on an eternal God (Elohim, Allah) beyond our understanding. No matter how “big” we get, when life knocks us into fear or despair, we can find quietness and rest in the One who birthed us. 

“Like a weaned child, I am content.”