the gift of presence

"Then I sit quietly for a while, appreciating the beauty of the place, looking at or handling sacred objects on my table. Mostly what I keep are small gifts from people, things that remind me that my presence has mattered, that I have touched people, that I am connected, that I am so incredibly blessed."

 - Sabbath, Wayne Muller

Over the last 10 years, I have been diligent to keep the Sabbath. That is to say, I set aside 24 hours each week to rest - no practicing, no homework, no to-do-lists, no technology.  I am quite convinced that this practice has kept me alive, healthy, sane. 

And in the last few weeks, I have been learning the importance of Sabbath seasons.  I haven't had one in at least 4 years, maybe longer.  I was talking with a friend this week, a member of my former small group - the same group that walked with me as I attempted to work full time AND apply to graduate school simultaneously (this involved starting my practice time at 6AM every day).  "You haven't rested in a long time" - and she should know...she watched me struggle to keep my eyes open each week during small group.

I picked up a new book on the Sabbath last month, and I have enjoyed exploring different perspectives and Sabbath traditions. This morning's nugget seemed to leap off the page.  The author was describing the Sabbath practices of a friend of his (named Mary, no less). The above quote describes a portion of her Sabbath morning ritual.

One phrase resonated deeply with me: things that remind me that my presence has mattered.

I find it interesting that she says her "presence."  Not what she's done.  Not what she's given.  Not even what she's spoken.  Just simply her existence. The fact that she showed up. The fact that she shared a space with others, breathed the same air.

Isn't this what we all want to know?  Not even that we are wonderful or amazing, but simply that we matter. That something is lost if we are not present.  That there is intrinsic value in us that is involuntary, independent of our actions.  That our presence has had an effect, whether we intended it or not. That we are connected, in ways that cannot be put into words.  We are each made in the image of God, and when we rub shoulders, we cannot help but pass on a little bit of the divine.

As I have sorted through my belongings during my moving process, I have come across boxes of letters, cards, messages scrawled on scratch paper.  The written word has always been the most powerful love language in my life - and this collection of notes speaks of my need to know that my presence is needed - necessary.  So I hold tightly to them, to remind myself that I have mattered - and to fuel my hope that I can matter again.

And as I reflect on those who have affirmed my value, I am suddenly aware of the power we hold over others.  It doesn't take much to affirm someone's value.  A squeeze of the hand.  An arm around the shoulders.  A held gaze.  A simple sentence:   "I'm glad you're here."  "I've missed you."

It doesn't take much.  But the effects are far-reaching.

And it's made me think about the souls that will be present in my classroom this fall.  I was a bit overwhelmed to learn this week that there could be as many as 50 of them.  I will be studying my picture roster every night, attempting to learn names.  They will come and they will go - and I may not know all their stories by the end of the semester.  But I hope and pray that in some small way, I can communicate to them that they matter - not just their work or their opinions or their contribution to class discussion or their grades. Just their presence.

a fresh start

It’s been two years since I started a blog. It was my intent to use it to describe my journey eastward, as the title would suggest (Mary Goes to Maryland). I wanted to be able to share my experiences in graduate school with friends at home – the people who had helped to get me there.

And in the process, I came to a deeper realization of something I already knew: I love to write. I have been a faithful journaler since at least jr. high, if not before. There is something so centering about putting pen to paper. Somehow, as I scrawl out my jumble of thoughts in the form of sentences and paragraphs, I begin to make sense of them. And in recent years, while I have learned to process verbally (with the help with some very wonderful and extremely verbal roommates - and you know who you are...), my introverted soul still finds sweet solace in the lined, spiral-bound pages of my journal.

These last 2 years have brought me a newfound joy in getting to share my writing with others. There is something beautifully freeing about taking a thought - a small part of my heart...condensing it, refining it - finding the exact combination of words to express it....and then releasing it - sending it off into this mysterious web of a world. 

But the fact of the matter is: I am no longer in Maryland.

Hence, the new blog.

I spent yesterday afternoon trying to come up with a title, as I sat on my patio, looking out at acres and acres of fir trees. There are many phrases I could use to describe this season of my life, the state my heart is in, my hopes for the future.

After awhile, I gave up and went about the rest of my evening, busying myself with other things. I did the dishes. Continued with the seemingly-endless task of unpacking and settling. Attempted to take pictures of myself so I can renew my passport (if someone had only videoed the entire process…you would have had a great many laughs).

It wasn’t until I poured myself a glass of wine and sat to watch the sunset that it came to me (as things are prone to do when there is wine involved…and a sunset, for that matter).

cultivating the invisible.

It’s a phrase I have come back to time and time again in the 5+ years it has percolated in me. It stems from a book that continues to change my life, “Reaching for the Invisible God” by Philip Yancey. The original quote reads this way:

“The visible world forces itself on me without invitation;
I must consciously cultivate the invisible.”

It is a principle by which I attempt to live. And it works itself out in a myriad of ways: in my commitment to taking a Sabbath – to laying the work aside and resting. In my choice to pursue music – to express the things that are beyond words. In my desire to prioritize relationships - to seek out the divine spark that only comes in human interaction.

I don’t pretend to have mastered this skill of conscious cultivation. But in a world where we are constantly in a state of sensory overload, bombarded by advertisements, technology, the temptation for more, I have found myself growing ever hungrier for the things that cannot be seen. There is beauty to be found in the stillness, in the small and ordinary, in the crooks and crannies few bother to give a second glance to. And I, for one, don't want to miss it.

So, here's to a new season.   Here's to whatever surprises it may bring.     Here's to a new blog (and whatever shape it decides to take).     Here's to the intangible, the immeasurable, the invisible.