Author Archives: Steve Jacobsen

I worked for 43 years in the nonprofit and spiritual development fields....Executive Director of Hospice of Santa Barbara, Director of La Casa de Maria Retreat Center (before it closed in 2018 following the mud and debris flow event), and as a Presbyterian pastor in a variety of states and settings. I've been active in inter-spiritual work for 20 years, particularly with the Jewish, Muslim and Buddhist communities. I've served on several nonprofit boards and published a dozen articles. I enjoy baseball, classical music, listening to peoples' personal stories, politics, history and my family.

Appreciating What You Have Been Through

Several years ago, I attended a workshop led by a gifted poet, writer, teacher, friend and mentor, Marilyn McEntyre. Among her many books is Make A List: How A Simple Practice Can Change Our Lives And Open Our Hearts. Marilyn discovered that the value of making lists goes far beyond detailing what we need at the store – making lists can uncover important aspects of our inner life and creativity that may be hidden from us.

One exercise we did at the workshop really hit home for me, and I later put it to good use when my wife and I observed our 40^th wedding anniversary. I’m sharing it in this post and encouraging you to try it.

Let’s start with what we did at the workshop.

We were asked to make two lists of ten items each.

The first was to list difficult situations we’ve faced.

When we finished, she had us review what we’d written and share impressions. It was sobering to remember what it felt like to live through those challenges.

Then she asked us to make a second list: significant blessings we’ve experienced.

When finished, we again shared reactions. It was a revelation. I thought, “I’ve faced some hardships in my life,” I thought, “But look at all the graces I’ve received!”

By doing the list of hardships first, the list of blessings became much more than pleasant memories of just positive thoughts. Instead, it became a testimony to the fact that we can find blessings in the hardest of times.

A few months later I decided to adapt the idea for our 40^th anniversary and share them with our daughters at dinner. (The original list included specific details about our personal lives known to our family, which I’m omitting here.)

First, I listed 40 challenges my wife and I have lived through. Here’s a sampling:

Getting married when we were naïve and unprepared.
At one point realizing we didn’t have $74 for a dentist visit for our five-year old.
Experiencing my own depression at age 38 when I saw all my friends “getting ahead” – buying houses, vacationing in Hawaii, and going skiing when we could not afford any of that — and feeling I was a total failure.
Raising kids and you realizing you can’t save them from potential harm. The many sleepless nights and ardent prayers. And realizing it doesn’t end when they turn 18.
The sudden death of my mother and brothers.
Caring for our aging and dying parents.
🚴‍♂️Family medical emergencies that involved ambulances and times in the ICU when we felt helpless and afraid.
Several crises and conflicts in my career.
The tragic death of people we loved over the years, including young mothers and teenagers.
Watching our bodies age and how we could no longer do activities we had taken for granted.

Then I read my list of ”40 Graces.” Here’s a sample:

The amazing discovery of God in our lives.
The way we were embraced and supported by the Point Loma, Santa Paula, Wapato, and Goleta congregations through 30 years.
Looking into the eyes of each of our daughters when they were born and seeing them grow.
The excitement of moving to New Jersey for seminary, even though all we arrived with was a rocking chair and Hoover vacuum cleaner.
Moving to the Campbell Farm in rural Washington and discovering the richness of rural life.
The abiding friendships we’ve developed every place we lived.
The positive impact of the teen “Love Of God” program on each of our daughters.
Holding each of our three grandsons in our arms and seeing them grow.
The love and support we received from friends during emergencies and crises.
The care our parents received at nursing homes from nurses and aides.

Making a list like this is easier than you might think. I encourage you to do something similar for special events, or as a simple way to review your life. You can just start with lists of ten. Like I said, it’s a profound way to appreciate what you’ve gone through and the gifts you’ve received. And when you find yourself once again facing a serious challenge, it can be a reminder that grace is already close and waiting for you.

Photo credit: “Inspiration Point, Santa Barbara,” Brianne from Everyday Runaway

“A Big Unseen Current”

Dear Reader:

I didn’t prepare a personal blog post this week and figured I’d just take a pass. But this morning I came across a column by long-time New York resident Peggy Noonan and want to share a portion of it with you. She’s reflecting on 9/11 as a “Day of Grief and Human Glory” and towards the end writes:

…There was Welles Crowther. Remember him? A young guy, 24, just starting out, worked as a junior associate at an investment bank on the 104th floor of the south tower. He always carried in his back pocket a red bandanna, and they teased him. WHAT ARE YOU, A FARMER? He’d laugh and show bravado: WITH THIS BANDANA I’M GONNA CHANGE THE WORLD. And that day as the world exploded he did. He led people to safety, carried them down to lower floors. He kept going back for more. To protect from the smoke he put the bandanna over his face. He never came home from the towers that day or the day after, his parents were anguished, hoping against hope. Then one day, three days in, his mother was at her desk at home in Nyack, N.Y. Suddenly she felt a presence behind her. She didn’t look, didn’t move. She knew it was Welles. She knew he was saying goodbye. She said: “Thank you.” She knew now he was dead. Months of mourning, no word on how he’d died. And one day, Memorial Day weekend 2002, the New York Times had a story about the last minutes in the towers, and they mentioned survivors who spoke of a man in a red bandanna who’d saved them. And Welles’s mother thought she knew who that was. She got a picture of her son to the survivors and they said yes, that was the man who saved me. Some time later they found his remains, near the command post the firemen had set up in the South Tower. When his family opened his apartment they found an unfinished application to become a New York City fireman.

Just a few days before 9/11, on Labor Day weekend, Welles, visiting his parents, was unusually subdued. He told his mother he had a feeling he was going to be part of something big, had a role to play in it or a job to do.

Isn’t it funny how the mind works, how it knows things it does not know?

“Courage comes from love,” was my summation in 2016. “There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.”

I love this:

“Courage comes from love…There’s a big unseen current of love that hums through the world and some plug into it more than others, more deeply and surely.” It fills them with courage. It makes everything possible.

Steve

Source: https://www.wsj.com/articles/grief-glory-september-eleventh-9-11-firefighters-memories-twin-towers-terrorist-attack-11631224282

Photo Credit: New York Times

“Is Life All About How We ‘Finish?’”

On January 20, 2006, at age 78, she made history by being the first popular singer to have a solo concert at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She was a sensation on Broadway when she was younger, winning many awards including an Emmy for her role in the original The Music Man. She had the voice, looks, and acting skill of a star. But after years of success, her career faded. She withdrew from public performances as she struggled with alcohol, obesity, and depression. In time, a close friend and collaborator convinced her she still had a great gift to share with audiences. She began performing in public again, which led to that night at the Met.

When Barbara Cook walked on stage that night, she got a standing ovation.

The second song she sang was particularly poignant given what she’d been through. It was from a 1973 Broadway musical, “Seesaw:”

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish.

It’s not how you go, it’s how you land.

A hundred to one shot, they call him a klutz

Can out-run the favorite, all he needs is the guts.

Your final return will not diminish

And you can be the cream of the crop;

It’s not where you start, it’s where you finish,

And you’re gonna finish on top.

After reading a rave review of the concert album, I bought a copy and have grown to love this song. It has that spunky, sassy, celebratory spirit of so many Broadway songs, and she is amazing. “It’s Not Where You Start” begins playing in my head some days, and the spirit of it makes me smile and swagger.

Barbara Cook died in 2017, beloved by her colleagues and fans not only for her many gifts but also for her comeback. If life’s about “how you finish,” she finished her life “on top.”

But I’ve been reflecting on the theme of the song. I find myself thinking of all the people I’ve known over the years in my personal life, ministry, and hospice work, and ask myself: Is it always true? Is “where you finish” the most important measure of your life?

Bob was a member of the first congregation I served in Santa Paula. He was a big guy and full of life. He was a proud Marine who had been in some of the most intense battles in the Pacific and achieved the rank of captain. He’d then made a career in the fruit packing business and raised six children with his wife Jean. We rented a house just one door away from Bob and Jean, and grew to be close friends, often sharing wine, crackers and cheese on our front porches and vacationing together. He took delight in needling me. Sometimes when I’d call young people to come forward for a children’s sermon, he’d walk up with them and sit on the steps, staring at me with a deadpan gaze. After retirement he became a Hospice volunteer and told me it was the most meaningful thing he’d ever done. I loved the man.

After we left Santa Paula for Washington state in 1985, we stayed close. Moving back to Santa Barbara in 1992 meant we were only an hour away from Santa Paula, which enabled us to spend time together once again.

Bob became ill in 2005. In his last months he was in a nursing home with dementia. The dementia released some of the long-suppressed traumatic memories of the war, and Bob’s anger and confusion was a serious challenge for staff and guests. He died early in 2006.

I think of the life of my dear friend Bob, and ask: Is it always about how we “finish”?

My answer: No. Bob’s life was full of hard work, responsibilities, sacrifice, service, joy, and love. What he went through in the last few months does not define him or take away all he did.

I can think of many people I’ve known who have died in nursing homes and car accidents, from heart attacks and strokes. They did not have a chance to complete their journey as they would have liked. But their end doesn’t define their life.

We long for perfect, inspiring endings in movies, television series, musical pieces, novels, careers, and personal stories. But real life doesn’t always supply them.

I am going to keep on listening to Barbara Cook sing “It’s not how you start, it’s how you finish.” I will always be inspired by her story and legacy. I am also continually inspired by the life of my friend Bob.

I want to live with “guts” and “grit.” Yet I know I cannot be guaranteed an ideal conclusion to my life. What I do know is that I can trust the grace of God, which is far greater than my expectations.

Steve

Barbara Cook singing “It’s Not Where You Start” in Melbourne. The picture quality is grainy, but her spirit shines:

When I Fall

In 1990, I attended a ceremony installing Bishop Francis George as the new bishop of Yakima, Washington. It was a fancy event, but his personal remarks were brief.

“I would like you to know,” he said, “that when I was young, I had polio. As an adult, there are times when I lose my balance and fall. If that happens and you are near me, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on.”

He paused.

“And as your bishop, there will be times when I may make a mistake performing my duties. When that happens, don’t be alarmed. Simply lend me a hand so I can get up, and we will go on. Thank you.”

I’ve thought of this often.

I don’t know what it’s like to have had polio or any other challenges people face. I do know I’ve been absent minded since I was young; I’ve often said most of my life has been an out-of-body experience. I work at it. And I’ve made it a practice to tell co-workers that I may forget things. If they see me deciding on an action and wonder if I’ve failed to take something into account, I’ve asked them to let me know. I want to do things well and I can use the help.

In our current “gotcha” culture, people are quick to make judgments about those who make mistakes. To be sure, many times people need to be held accountable for their harmful actions; various politicians, sports figures, corporate executives, and entertainers quickly come to mind. But if we make an innocent error, what a gift it is to have someone close to us not be alarmed and, instead, smile and offer us a hand. We can recover and correct it. And we can go on together.

Art work: “Hands of Emperor Maximillian I,” Albrecht Durer, 1506

Is Your Intention to Cure or to Care?

In my years in ministry and hospice, one of the common tasks was caring for people. It sounds easy, but it can be challenging. A key theme is remembering the difference between curing and caring.

Imagine you are going to visit someone who’s dealing with a difficult event. Maybe they’ve lost a loved one or are facing a serious challenge with their health or family.

As you walk up to the door, what is your intention?

A common response would be, “I want to help this person feel better. I’ll do whatever I can to cheer them up. Maybe I can tell them something I went through that will help.”

If this is your intention, how is your body feeling? For most of us, it could be tense. It’s like we are stepping on stage for a performance, and the adrenalin is starting to flow.

One way to describe this intention is simple: we want to cure this person. Obviously, we can’t bring their loved one back or change what is happening. But maybe if we work hard enough, we can “cure” them of feeling anxious, lost, or depressed with some good advice and encouragement.

We go in and visit. We talk about different things, and whenever we can, insert an upbeat comment or personal story. If there is a pause in the conversation, we think of something to talk about so it’s not awkward.

The visit concludes. We exchange good wishes, step out and close the door.

What might we be thinking and feeling?

We may be glad to know we made the visit to show our concern, but we’re probably relieved the visit is over. It’s stressful to have to fix other people. We may also sense that, despite whatever well-intended words we said, our friend is not really “better.”

How might the person we visited be feeling?

They may have picked up on the dynamic created by our intention to “cure them.” They didn’t want us to feel bad, so they played along, forcing a smile when they could and in the end thanking us for coming. But they may also be relieved when the visit is over. They may feel guilty that their situation is creating stress and concern for others.

All this can flow when we try to cure people.

Let’s start with a different intention. Instead of trying to cure the person, we are simply going to care for them.

As we come up to their door, we pause to clarify that intention. We say to ourselves, “I’m not here to change how they are feeling. I am going to listen carefully to what their situation is really like for them. If they describe their pain or confusion, I’m not going to redirect them. I’m going to simply be with them, listening to them with a sense of genuine, restrained reverence.”

So, in we go. We do our best to truly listen to what they are saying. Our own mind may want to interject an opinion aimed at changing how they feel, but we let those thoughts dissipate. Whatever unfolds, we simply try to come alongside and truly appreciate what they are experiencing in all its complexity.

In a simple form, that’s caring instead of curing.

A leading grief counselor, Alan Wolfelt, has another word for caring: companioning. He believes grief is ultimately a journey of the soul that needs to be honored, not a psychological problem that needs to be fixed. Here’s a few of what he calls the essential tenets of companioning:

Tenet One: Companioning is about being present to another person’s pain; it is not about taking away the pain.

Tenet Two: Companioning is about going to the wilderness of the soul with another human being; it is not about thinking you are responsible for finding the way out.

Tenet Seven: Companioning is about discovering the gifts of sacred silence; it does not mean filling up every moment with words.

Tenet Nine: Companioning is about respecting disorder and confusion; it is not about imposing order and logic. (For a full list, go to https://www.centerforloss.com/2019/12/eleven-tenets-of-companioning)

As you can see, it’s very different from curing. The focus is fully on the other person, not my need to prove myself. To be truly “companioning” is not a performance that summons adrenalin, but a spiritual practice in which we seek to be calm, alert, and unafraid.

When I’m practicing being a “companion,” I’m not being passive. My mind, heart and body are active as they attune to the person’s experience. But I’m not going to grab the steering wheel and direct the conversation the first chance I get.

Some years ago, the agency I worked for received a request from a local retirement home to have one of our people visit a new resident. The woman’s children had initiated the move so they could be closer to her. But in the process, she had to give up a lifetime of relationships in the community back east where she’d lived all her life. Since moving in, she rarely came out of her apartment and the staff was concerned.

On the first visit, they simply became acquainted. But by the second visit, she sensed she could be open about the pain she was experiencing. She began sobbing intensely, which went on for 40 minutes. The counselor simply sat there with her. When he arrived for the next visit, she said, “It’s a beautiful day. Let’s take a walk outside,” and she showed him some of the beautiful flowers near her apartment. He visited her once more and they parted ways.

He didn’t cure her. But he honored and cared for her like a trusted companion, and a new chapter in her journey could begin.

Seeing People Through a Spiritual Lens

There is ample evidence from evolutionary psychology and brain science that we are wired to make quick assumptions about people based on our culture, perceptions, and experience. This can be particularly true in our current political climate.

The spiritual traditions have offered us alternative ways of seeing people, aimed at encouraging us to not judge by outer appearances, but assuming every person has inherent worth.

Quakers have held that every human has an “inner light” worthy of respect. This core belief led them to oppose slavery long before others in Europe and America.

In the eastern traditions, a common practice is to bow to others with hands pressed together near our heart and say “Namaste,” meaning we acknowledge the sacred presence in the other.

Fifteen centuries ago, St. Benedict created a book of precepts to guide the life of the monks. Rule 53:1 reads: “All guests who present themselves are to be welcomed as Christ, for he himself will say: I was a stranger and you welcomed me (Matt 25:35)” This rule is still followed at Benedictine monasteries and has been adopted by many in the Catholic tradition.

With this in mind, I appreciated the following piece by Mike Kerrigan, a lawyer in North Carolina. He has been distraught by the “rancor” that is characterizing our culture and sought out a mentor from his past who might help him approach others in a better way:

I reconnected recently with an old friend and Jesuit priest, Daniel Sweeney, with the intention of asking him.

In the 1980s, Father Sweeney taught world history at Georgetown Prep, the high school in North Bethesda, Md., where I was a student. He’s now an assistant professor of political science at the University of Scranton.

Surely my clerical companion, whether drawing on his priestly or academic vocation, could offer the customary good counsel to which I’d grown accustomed in adolescence. Still teaching by anecdote, Father Sweeney didn’t disappoint.

He recalled a time he’d repaired from the hurly-burly of instructing adolescent males to the tranquility of a faculty lounge. Seated beside him was another Jesuit faculty member, James A.P. Byrne, a priest known for saintly serenity and heroic patience.

Their peace was interrupted by an obscenely loud knock on the door. It was the kind of gratuitous pounding both men instantly knew had been delivered by the sort of student from whom they’d sought respite. Father Byrne got up, exchanged words with the impertinent young man, and returned to his seat.

“Who was at the door?” Father Sweeney asked. “It was just our Lord,” Father Byrne replied serenely, his Irish eyes twinkling, “in one of his most unrecognizable forms.” [1]

I hope to remember that description and use it when needed.

Image: “My Portrait Surrounded by Masks,” James Ensor, 1899

[1] “A Priest Finds Serenity in Humor,” by Mike. Kerrigan, WSJ, August 3, 2021

“The Patience of Ordinary Things”

I don’t read much poetry. But sometimes I find a poem that speaks to me. I recently came across this one in a handout from a writing class I took last winter:

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

I’ve reread it often in the last few days. It helps me pause and find a surprising appreciation for cups, chairs, floors, shoes, clothes, closets, soap, towels, and stairs. And windows.

I’m sitting at my desk looking out the window at our front yard and the street. This window has been here 28 years and I never paid attention to it. But now, if I tell my busy brain to pause for just a moment, I see the window as generous and patient. What a gift!

From where you are at this moment, what patient, ordinary things do you see?

Steve

Painting: Window of Vincens, by Henri Matisse

[i] From Another River: New and Selected Poems by Pat Schneider (Amherst Writers and Artists Press, 2005)

Claiming the Power of Serpents and Doves

Many Biblical quotes are presented as if they were created for a Hallmark card — pleasant, sunny words of advice that can help us be good people and do nice things. But not all of them. I’ve always been struck by the words Jesus gives to his disciples in Matthew 10:16:

“Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.”

Over the years, I’ve grown to love the audacity and practical wisdom in this saying. I believe it can have great value in our personal and professional lives. It presents two personal qualities that can seem, at first, mutually exclusive, and asks us to hold them together.

Let’s start with “wise as serpents.”

When hearing this, people will often say, “What a minute… ‘Be wise as a serpent?’… don’t snakes represent evil in the Biblical tradition?” That is a popular belief, going back to the writings of St. Paul in which the snake in the Garden of Eden story represents evil. But that’s not what the original story suggests, nor how I think Jesus intended the reference to be understood.

Genesis 3 begins “Now the serpent was more clever than any other wild animal that the Lord God had made…” Other translations use “subtle,” “shrewd,” “cunning” or “wise.” Traditional cultures sensed various animals had qualities that can be respected, admired, and emulated. Many sensed something particularly mysterious in snakes, and some even worshipped them. But in the original text, the serpent doesn’t have an evil intent; its role is to communicate possibilities in thinking that expanded the imagination of the human characters in the story. The dialogue between the serpent and Eve engages her curiosity and she begins to think for herself.

The way Genesis and Jesus portray it, the serpent can be respected for its cleverness and wisdom, and we can benefit from its example.

So, we are encouraged to be wise and creative. But that raises a question: to what purpose? Are we going to use creative thinking for our selfish agendas, which may be deceptive and manipulative? Or are we going to use our “smarts” for a greater good, something that serves, uplifts, and liberates others?

Jesus pairs “wise as serpents” with “innocent as doves.” Doves were seen as symbols of the divine spirit, a spirit which only works for the enhancement of life, not its exploitation. If we are to be “innocent as doves,” we will use our intelligence for the higher good.

When I think of people who have used natural intelligence for noble purposes, several come to mind.

When I was serving the Goleta congregation, we had an ambitious capital campaign. It began with the intention of creating a new, contemporary sanctuary. As it evolved, it included collaborating with the Cerebral Palsy Foundation to build 13 units of low-income, special needs housing, as well as the ecological restoration of the adjacent creek. People brought their “best game” to the project. One such person was Edith Newman, a retired businesswoman from Philadelphia. Edith loved getting the best return for any money entrusted to her, and she was our campaign treasurer. In the pre-internet era, every day she would check the CD rates at the local banks. If she found a better return somewhere, she’d get in her car and move our money from one bank to the next. Several years later, when our project was completed, one of the finance committee members looked over the records. “Do you know,” he said, “When I added it up, Edith’s account management earned us more than $100,000?” That was twenty years ago, and a lot of money for us. And it was because Edith was a wise money manager and used that gift for a higher purpose.

I recently watched Steven Spielberg’s film Lincoln for the fourth time. It shows how complicated issues of race were in that period, even for Lincoln himself. But it also shows how crafty and brilliant Lincoln was as a politician. Without those skills, the 14^th Amendment ending slavery would not have passed.

As a sports fan, it’s always exciting to see someone use creative and strategic intelligence in a game. A favorite memory involves the Hall of Fame pitcher Greg Maddux. In 2008, he was 42 years old and far beyond his best years. The Dodgers signed him, and he played a total of 7 games for them that year. He’d been a crafty pitcher, but a poor hitter and runner. I was watching one game when, much to the surprise of everyone, he got on first base. When he got there, he was chatting with the first baseman, and they seemed to be joking about the fact he’d made it that far. Everyone, including the first baseman, expected him to stay put at first base. But Maddux sensed the other team’s guard was down. Suddenly he took off for second base and arrived safely before the other team realized what was happening. He stood there smiling. What he’d done was fair play and he did it to help his team. I still smile every time I think about it.

A core value in spiritual life is to cultivate a purity of purpose – to be “innocent as doves.” But that doesn’t mean we should be satisfied with a lazy, passive, or naive mind. The world will be a better place if we take some of the smarts we have and get the job done.

Watching the River Flow

“When we spend time in nature, our ego realizes it has no audience to perform for and it slowly quiets down.” (David Brooks). We’ve been in the Sierras for a week. As my wife and I were fishing along Rush Creek, we came to this spot. We stopped fishing and sat there for an hour and a half. We were the only people there. I’m grateful for that moment in time, and for knowing the river flows on and I have been, at most, a witness.

Practicing or Performing?

As you go through your day, do you feel like you are on stage every minute, striving to give a stellar performance?

I once heard an engaging talk by a theology professor, Tom Boyd. He noted how we may hear someone is “a practicing Christian” or “a practicing Buddhist.” He then explored the difference between the words “performance” and “practice.”

Think about playing the piano. If we are performing a piece and make a mistake, we may be embarrassed and frustrated. But if we are practicing the same piece and miss a note, we don’t worry about it; “I’m just practicing,” we tell ourselves. Performing can make us tense, afraid and nervous. But if we are practicing, we are relaxed, open and curious.

He went on to say some people make their spiritual life a performance, rather than a true practice. They feel great internal pressure to always do the right thing and think the right thoughts, and to appear blameless before anyone who may be watching. That’s a lot of work, a lot of pressure.

I remember fondly a professor in seminary, Chris Becker. He grew up in Holland and had lived through World War 2. Seeing so much suffering led him to become a Biblical scholar. He was brilliant and flamboyant. He smoked a cigarette using a cigarette holder, something I’d only seen in movies. He often had a stylish scarf tossed around his neck. He was known to never turn down an invitation to have a beer with a student. He was popular not only because he was brilliant but because he was deeply passionate about life.

One day a student asked him a question about how a clergy person should live. It touched something in Chris. He took a long pause as he searched for a response. He looked at the student, then all of us earnest seminarians. “Please,” he said with heart-felt concern, “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

I’ve been an ordained for 40 years, and I’ve never forgotten his plea: “Don’t let your life become an ordeal of piety.”

If we are living our life as an “ordeal of piety,” it may be because we see it as a performance, not a practice. Our spiritual journeys are meant to make us aware of the choices we make as we go through the day. But hopefully we are centered in a sense of gratitude for what we’ve been given and the path we are on. This should put us more at ease. From an inner awareness of blessing, we don’t have to prove anything; we don’t have to perform. We can practice responding to grace as best we can.

The same perspective can be useful in other areas of our life.

If you are in a relationship, how are you approaching it? is it a performance in which you must do everything right? Or is it a daily practice where you are always learning how to live with and love each other?

How about parenting – is it a performance you’re being graded on by someone, especially yourself? Or is it a practice in which you are constantly learning while trying to do your best in new and challenging situations?

Clearly there are times to “perform.” I know if I’m “performing” a wedding, I want to do my very best. And if you are a musician, actor or athlete, there is a special excitement in doing as well as you possibly can when you perform. But it’s helpful to remember most of the time, we can simply practice doing whatever we are doing.

I’ve been playing golf since I retired. Recently I ruptured the bicep tendon in my right arm. After tests and consultations, I began physical therapy. When I asked the therapist about playing golf, he said I could try it and see how it felt – but be careful not to try to do too much.

After a month I decided to see how it felt to play just 9 holes. In my mind I said, “Take it easy. Don’t push it. You’re just practicing.”

On the second hole, my drive took one bounce and disappeared into the hole. It was my very first hole in one. I was shocked. I played well the rest of the day.

A week later I came out again, convinced I could build on my success. My expectations were higher, and I began pressing. It was a disaster. I played poorly all day.

We can bear in mind the distinction between performing and practicing and choose which approach we want to use in different situations. Who wants life to be an “ordeal of piety?”