After a recently rare and welcomed pleasurable
day, I bemoaned to a good friend: “Why can’t
the enjoyable things and people in our lives last
forever?” He kindly offered this corrective:
“You do have the here-and-now you know.”
He’s
right. We live in the three time frames of past,
present, and future. Past memories, pleasant and
painful, are a treasure. Planning for the future
builds hope. But we can, oh so easily, let those
two dimensions diminish the reality of the here-and-now.
A fellow chaplain shared the personal story of
his family’s trip to meet another family
for ice cream. Every few miles and minutes, his
young son asked the perennial question of impatience:
“Are we there yet?” Finally the exasperated
Dad curtly replied to his son: “Don’t
you understand we’ll never be ‘there.’
We’re always going to be ‘here.’
As soon as we arrive at ‘there’ we are
actually ‘here.’ His understandably
frustrated son then responded to this unwelcomed
sermonette: “You mean we’re not going
to get ice cream?”
The
ice cream was soon enjoyed. On the road, the son's
past experiences elicited joyful remembrances.
Anticipation of an additional pleasing consumption
followed. But Dad was right: we always, only,
have 'here'. Paradoxically, when we allow ourselves
to focus on 'here', our narrow perspectives broaden.
Being
fully in the here-and-now means acute awareness
of our inner voices. We calm our tumultuous thoughts
and emotions. We know beyond doubt we are part
of the God-created universe. We notice little
things that are easily overlooked as important:
the ability to breathe, move and think, the chirping
of a nature appreciating bird, the unmerited favor
of warm friendships and supportive family, the
sustenance of food and water, the crystalline
sounds of soul-stirring music.
I’m
at a place in my journey that cries out for these
calming moments. Four family members have died
within a two year span. That harsh reality shatters
my heretofore false sense that family would always
remain the same. No promise was
ever made that it would be so, yet I tended to
live with that presumptive myth.
Paula
D’Arcy strikingly realized that we have choices
in our spiritual journey either to cling to others
or to hold them. Her husband and daughter died
in a car wreck when Paula was three months pregnant.
Six months later, she desired but could not deliver
her baby naturally. At that point God helped her
understand her clutching psyche was desperately
preventing delivery. With this epiphany, she gave
birth to her daughter while being wheeled into
an operating room.
Reflectively
she states: As I look at my newborn, I see that
she is a girl. She is mine to hold, but not to
possess. It makes all the difference. You treat
a gift differently than you do a possession. (The
Gift of the Red Bird)
Lord
God, You made us complex, multi-dimensional beings.
With grateful hearts we journey with You, One
whose name is “I Am”-- God of the precious
present. Walk with us, Lord, as we seek to live,
really live, in the here-and-now You’ve provided.
Amen.
—Virgil
Fry
