Tag Archives: faith

The Fragrance of a Christmas Tree

              The holiday season can be full of sensory experiences that call forth memories and emotions.  I recently came into a room that had been decorated with an advent wreath, pine tree cuttings, and a live Christmas tree. The fragrance was inspiring, and I’ve been thinking about why.  Do any of these associations resonate with you?

  • It reminds me of childhood.  Going to a Christmas tree lot which smelled amazing.  Bringing the tree home and letting it fill our home with that aroma.  The odor became the olfactory backdrop for all the joy of the season.
  • It calls to mind being in a forest. It could be the Sierra Nevada, the Cascades, or any other forest — places many of us have gone for vacation and renewal.  The trees could be pine, fir, cedar, or redwood, but the association is the same: we have left our distracted lives and are now in a natural cathedral of quiet and timeless living beings.  
  • Smelling the fragrance calls forth the color green – always a sign of life.
  • The fragrance smells clean. Maybe it’s the association with being in nature. I don’t know why but that comes to mind.
  • And the more I thought about it, another word that comes to mind is pure.  The fragrance of a live Christmas tree is evocative on its own; it doesn’t need anything added.  But the aroma at this time of year complements the visual experience of gazing at lit candles in a darkened room or quiet sanctuary: they both suggest the mysterious source of life is with us, fresh and full of promise.  Our eyes behold a symbol of that truth, and the fragrance of a Christmas tree, wreaths and cuttings confirm it. Light and life arise in darkness and the darkness will never overcome it.

Our Frames of Mind

              In the fifth game of the World Series, Toronto pitcher Trey Yesavage — a young man who has only been pitching in the major leagues for a few months — faced the most feared hitter in baseball, Shohei Ohtani:

Ohtani led off the bottom of the first inning with a comebacker. Yesavage bobbled the ball and then dropped it, but he had what you might call veteran poise, picking up the ball and throwing what Toronto manager John Schneider called “kind of a shovel pass” to first base for the out.  “The fact that he kind of shoveled it the way he did and kind of had a little smile on his face,” Schneider said, “it actually gives you a little bit of confidence that he’s in the right frame of mind.” (October 30, LA Times)

              What is the “right frame of mind” in this situation? It seems it’s being in a high-pressure situation, making a mistake, not losing your cool, remembering your purpose, and accomplishing your task – with “a little smile.”  Doing that demonstrated “veteran poise.”  Yesavage maintained that poise, set World Series pitching performance records that night, and helped his team win the game.

              This has got me thinking about the term, “frame of mind.”

              A picture frame is a structure we use to hold something we want to see well.  We choose a particular frame to highlight the photo or painting it will border. A good frame focuses our attention on what is important. 

A “frame of mind” is an attitude we use that helps us focus on who we want to be and what we want to accomplish.

              I’ve been thinking about “frames of mind” I have seen in action.

              I worked with a church custodian who always displayed a positive attitude no matter what the challenge might be.  One time I asked him how he did that.  He said he used to be a person who often complained.  But then he visited a pediatric oncology ward and saw children being treated for life-threatening illness. That day he decided he would never again let himself complain about everyday problems.  The experience helped shaped his frame of mind every day.

              Some years ago, I attended a special installation service for a new Catholic bishop. In his remarks, he said he had had polio when he was young, and though he had largely recovered, he was still falling occasionally.  “If you are with me when that happens,” he said, “…don’t become anxious… just extend your hand to me, help me to my feet, and we will go on.  And if, as your bishop, I make a mistake, don’t become anxious – just extend your hand to me, help me back to where I should be, and we will go on.” 

              At a conference last year at Westmont College, a group of staff members were interviewed about their jobs.  They were asked if they had any favorite Scripture verses to guide them in their work. A long-time student advisor cited 2 Corinthians 4:18: “…for we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen, for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”  When she began working with a student, that verse helped her focus not on her initial impressions but on what the student’s deepest concerns and hopes might be.

              I recently heard a presentation from a colleague who had been the chair of an academic department.  One of his responsibilities was to interview people being considered for teaching positions. He established a practice of meeting each candidate for breakfast at a particular restaurant.  While they were talking, he observed how the candidate treated the waiter and employees who came to the table: did the candidate demonstrate courtesy and respect, or did they act as if the employees didn’t matter?  He came to believe that this behavior would predict how the person would treat students and anyone of “lesser status.”  He would only recommend the people who showed respect. 

              Spiritual traditions and practices can remind us of how we can find deeper meaning in life and how we can best serve others, offering us “frames” for doing that well.

              What frame of mind we choose as we go through our day will shape how we experience each day and our effect on other people.  A good frame can help us keep our poise, perspective, and purpose. And when we make mistakes, it can empower us to maintain our composure and do our best to still get the job done – with a little smile.

Lead Image: “Person Carrying a Big Empty Frame Outdoors,” freepik.com

Are You an “Everyday Mystic?”

For centuries, a “mystic” was someone who had a rare and unique spiritual experience, different from what most of us would ever know.

This is reflected in the word itself: The term mystic is derived from the Greek noun “mystes,” which originally designated an initiate of a secret cult or mystery religion.   In Classical Greece and during the Hellenistic Age, the rites of the mystery religions were largely or wholly secret. The term” mystes” is itself derived from the verb “myein” (“to close,” especially the eyes or mouth) and signified a person who kept a secret.[i]

But in recent years, the term “everyday mystic” has come into use. Here’s one description:

An “everyday mystic” is someone who seeks or experiences spiritual depth and transcendence within ordinary daily life, rather than through withdrawal from the world or extreme ascetic practices.

The concept suggests that mystical experience—that sense of connection to something greater, moments of profound awareness, or spiritual insight—doesn’t require monasteries, retreats, or renouncing worldly responsibilities. Instead, everyday mystics find the sacred in mundane activities: washing dishes, walking to work, caring for children, or sitting in traffic.[ii]

I have known quite a few “everyday mystics.” They don’t try to be different or better than anyone else — they are simply doing something they feel called to do and, in the process, find a deep connection beyond and within themselves.  They don’t do it for money, or to prove their worth, or to puff up their ego. 

Some examples came to my mind:

  1. A physical therapist who told me there were times working with patients when his mind would become quiet and he would feel as if light was passing through him to the person he was treating.
  2. Farmers, gardeners and hikers who sense a silent and limitless bond with the earth and the mysterious processes which underly all life.
  3. Musicians who feel as if the music is playing through them.
  4. Grandparents when they behold their grandchildren.  They had loved their own children from the moment each child was born, but so much of parenting is about being a manager, behavior coach and the one person responsible for everything to do with the child. But then a grandchild appears and seeing them evokes a sense of pure wonder.
  5. Artists who get immersed in their process and end up creating something far beyond what they could have imagined when they started and don’t know how it happened.
  6. Mechanics who have an innate sense of what is wrong with a car and how to fix it with the least cost and effort, working in harmony with all the moving parts instead of simply using their will to fix something that is wrong.
  7. A young man who told me he was pitching for his college team and for a few innings the ball seemed to go exactly where he intended every time.  The experience passed and he never had it again.  He could not explain how it happened but has never forgotten what it felt like.
  8. Golfers who watch a ball rise and fall through the air with a grace and purpose that feels as if something more is present than a little ball being struck.
  9. Ocean swimmers who love the mystery of being on the surface of the limitless sea, and who feel deeply at home in salt water—perhaps sensing an unbroken thread of experience going back to our pre-human ancestors as well as our personal life as it began in the womb.
  10. People who know they are dying and “descend into the heart,” losing their fear and becoming open and observant towards everything around them.

Richard Rohr said, “For me, “mysticism” simply means experiential knowledge of spiritual things, as opposed to book knowledge, secondhand knowledge, or even church knowledge.”[iii]

Huston Smith said, “Most mystics do not want to read religious wisdom; they want to be it. A postcard of a beautiful lake is not a beautiful lake, and Sufis may be defined as those who dance in the lake.”[iv]

We can always be grateful when such moments come to us.

“Hands Cradling a Child’s Head,” Kathe Kollwitz, 1920

[i] https://www.britannica.com/topic/mysticism

[ii] https://claude.ai/chat/468625b2-74aa-4984-ba6e-8eb7f17a257a

[iii] https://cac.org/daily-meditations/sidewalk-spirituality/

[iv] Huston Smith, Jeffery Paine (2012). “The Huston Smith Reader,” p.93, Univ of California Press

Lead Image: “Ocean Swimmer In Thick Fog Near Reykjaice,” storyblocks.com

Cat Stevens Went Away — and Came Back

“When he was a child in Catholic school in London, (he) asked a nun, Sister Anthony, what might have been his first existentialist question: “When do the angels start writing down your sins?”

After a pause, she told him the scorecard began when children turn 8, a relief since he was still a year or two away. 

“Religion constantly made me feel guilty about nice-looking things,” he writes in his book. “But balancing those kind of fearful images with what was going on outside the doors of the church after school, I felt the pull of the world mighty overpowering.”[i] 

The boy to whom Sister Anthony was speaking to was Steven Georgiou.  The call to find some beauty in the outside world led him to become a musician and a songwriter. He had gifts which he developed and shared. He changed his name to Cat Stevens.

I remember well the impact he made on my generation. In 1970 much of the music of the time reflected angst and outrage.  But then albums came out that carried with them a softer tone.  James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James was one.  Another was Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman, with songs like “Where Do the Children Play?” and “Wild World.” Then came his biggest selling album, “Teaser and the Firecat.”  We heard songs like “Moonshadow,” “Peace Train,” and the English hymn, “Morning Has Broken.” There was still social concern, but the mood was more poignant, reflective and hopeful.

Several years later, Cat Stevens disappeared.  Word came he had given up music and become a Muslim, taking the name Yusuf Islam.  Only recently has he seemed to resurface. In a recent interview in the New York Times, he shared highlights of his spiritual journey which includes three close encounters with death. 

The first came when he was a teenager.  He and some friends were jumping between rooftops when he slipped and one of his buddies saved him from falling at the last second.  The second came when he was 20 and discovered he had tuberculosis.  Then there was the third:

Late in 1975, soon after Islam turned 27, his career seemed to be flagging. While he waited for lunch with his manager and label boss in Malibu, Calif., he decided to swim in the Pacific. After 15 minutes in the cold water, he tried to head back, only to find that the current was sweeping him to sea.

“I thought I could swim well, but I could not fight or beat the ocean. I had only seconds left,” Islam, 77, said recently during a video interview from a rented London apartment. So he prayed, insisting that, if he lived, he would work for God. A wave pushed him forward. “When I realized my vulnerability, what else could I do? My body was disappearing. I had only my soul left.”[ii] He began an earnest spiritual journey which led to his conversion to Islam in 1977.

Recently I’ve been in group discussions where a key concept of Richard Rohr’s has kept surfacing.  According to Rohr, our spiritual journeys can often go through three phases: order, disorder, and reorder.  In the “order” stage, we have clear ideas about who we are and what we believe.  But times can come when it’s not making sense anymore – we experience things that challenge that clear sense of order.  We enter “disorder,” a kind of spiritual wilderness where we are not sure what we can trust and believe. But eventually, we can form a new sense of direction and place – our world has been reordered.  And the process can keep repeating.

Looking back on Cat Stevens’ life, it seems he went from the order of his Catholic upbringing, to the disorder of seeking a new identity “outside the doors of the church,” to finding a new reorder as a rock star, to finding that was not enough and entering a new time of disorder as a spiritual seeker.  Eventually he found a new reorder as a devout Muslim which included giving up music.  In recent years, he’s looked for yet a new reorder in his life, integrating his faith with his musical gifts.  He has gone away and come back more than once – something he needed to do to adapt to life while also honoring his soul.

I find many of us go through similar journeys.  We’ve gone through phases of being settled, then unsettled. Then settled again. Then unsettled.  We may not come close to drowning in the ocean like he did at age 27, but we experience our “vulnerability” as we deal with changes and challenges in our personal life, relationships and world; as years go on, we may even feel our bodies are slowly “disappearing.”  But the spiritual life is a pilgrimage in which we are constantly learning and adapting.  Along the way, it’s a beautiful thing to realize we will always have our “soul left.”  And we can be grateful for those who are sharing the journey with us.

For an old, grainy video of Cat Stevens singing “Moonshadow” in 1971 before an adoring crowd of long-haired fans, click on https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kGNxKnLmOH4

[i] “As Cat Stevens, He Knew That He Had to Go Away,” NYTimes, Sept 21, 2025

[ii] Ibid.

I Still Think About a List I Made a Long Time Ago

                  In the early 1980s we were living in Santa Paula, California where I was an Assistant Pastor. There was a new movement emerging in America – hospice.  I was asked to be on the local board of directors that was forming.  I had little personal experience with death, dying or grief but was honored to be asked and curious to learn what I could.  I said yes.

                  On a Saturday afternoon a small group of us participated in a training event.  At one point we were given a sheet of paper with a numbered list of twenty blank spaces.  Without much of an introduction, we were asked to write down 20 things we value in life.  I don’t have my copy anymore, but I think it looked something like this:

20 Things I Value in Life

  1. Being with my family.
  2. Being with friends.
  3. My spiritual beliefs and community.
  4. Swimming in the ocean.
  5. Eating good food (doesn’t have to be fancy).
  6. Going to musical concerts.
  7. Going to baseball games.
  8. Watching movies.
  9. Traveling to Europe (or anywhere I haven’t been).
  10. Reading good books about history.
  11. Playing sports like softball and pick-up basketball.
  12. Learning about other cultures.
  13. Meeting new people.
  14. Volunteering in the community.
  15. Advocating for peace and justice.
  16. Taking naps.
  17. Spending a day at the beach.
  18. Fresh, ripe fruit.
  19. Learning new skills.
  20. Hearing people recount how they got through hard times.

When we finished, we turned to another person and shared our list.  It felt good to realize so many things brought us joy and meaning.

The facilitator then said, “Now I want you to cross ten items off your list.”

That sounded easy but wasn’t.  I thought, “I don’t want to give up any of these.”  Then, “I don’t like this exercise.” 

When we finished, she said: “Now I want everyone to cross off five more.”  This was almost frightening.  I tried to imagine what five things I could give up.  My life was becoming very limited.

“Now cross out three so you have only two left.”

This was painful.  What is life about when you can’t do so many things you have learned to enjoy?

When the last person finished, she led a discussion.   She didn’t ask us what our last two items were.  She did ask, “What did that feel like?”

We all agreed it was difficult.

She said, “For most people, the two last things they hold on to are family and faith.”  Those were my last two.

She then told us this is what having a terminal illness can be like.  Your life gets smaller and smaller as you are able to do less and less.

That day I learned two lessons I have carried with me.

The first lesson is to have empathy for people for whom this is not an exercise but reality.  I won’t know what it’s like until I get there, but I try to imagine.  I want to be supportive of anyone I encounter who is on this journey.

The second lesson is to appreciate the things I value while I can.  At this point in my life, I can’t participate in rigorous sports anymore but feel fortunate to still enjoy most of the items on my original list.  I’m grateful for whatever time I have left.

What’s on your list?

When Scales Fall From Our Eyes

“The phrase “the scales fall from your eyes” means to suddenly understand the truth about something that was previously unclear or hidden. It often refers to a moment of realization or enlightenment.”[i]

A friend once confided to me about an experience she had at a niece’s wedding.  She had not seen the young woman for some time and was excited to travel across country for the celebration.  When she first saw the bride and groom, she was struck by how “generously built” both were and couldn’t get that thought out of her mind.  The time came for the bridal dance. As the couple stepped toward each other, they looked into each other’s eyes, and my friend said their faces were full of love and happiness.  She said she was ashamed she had initially noticed only their outward appearance while being blind to their inner beauty.

Some years ago, I attended a five-day seminar in Berkeley with Marcus Borg, a prominent New Testament scholar.  Borg was a calm, gifted and insightful teacher who prized good thinking and careful reflection.  On the last day, one of the students asked him if he’d had any mystical experiences.  He acknowledged he had but was reluctant to share. The students pressed him, however, and he told us his story.

After spending time in Israel, he and his wife had boarded a plane home. He had settled in his seat and was quietly observing the other passengers as they boarded. One man caught his interest – Borg couldn’t help but note he was particularly awkward looking.  He also remembered looking at the back of the seat in front of him and thinking the vinyl upholstery seemed noticeably dull.  He settled in and the plane soon took off.

A little while later, Borg felt the presence of light growing in the cabin.  It seemed to illuminate everything around him with an unusual radiance; he was transfixed. He could tell no one else was seeing what he was seeing. The other passengers were immersed in this light, and each person seemed to be a wonder to behold; the gentleman who had looked awkward now seemed to bear a palpable dignity. Even the back of the seat in front of him now seemed fascinating.  Borg’s wife could tell something unusual was occurring to him and asked him if he was OK; he nodded to assure her he was, not wanting to break the spell.  

The mysterious light slowly began to dissipate, and soon everything in the cabin looked normal again.  But he could not forget how, in those moments, it seemed he was seeing “reality” as it “really is” – permeated with light.

(In the stories shared by hospice workers and volunteers, this is not an unusual experience as people come to the boundary of this life.)

The phrase “the scales fall from your eyes” means to suddenly understand the truth about something that was previously unclear or hidden. It often refers to a moment of realization or enlightenment.

We go along in life, living with routine assumptions about the people we see and believing we know what “reality” is like.  Then we have moments when “the scales fall from our eyes.”  Like my friend at the wedding, we may suddenly discover how easily we misjudge other people when we look only at their outward appearance and instead begin to appreciate them in new ways.  Like Professor Borg on the airplane, a sense of awe and wonder can come over us unexpectedly, suggesting there is a radiant presence within the everyday objects and people we encounter. 

It can be a shock to realize scales are falling from our eyes.  It can be liberating to discover what new truths are now revealed.

[i] Online version of the Cambridge Dictionary

Lead image: “Airplane window view with wing at sunrise;” Freepik.com

Romantic Fiction, Baseball Passions, and Spiritual Masterpieces

A high school friend once told me her mother had gotten a phone call from a neighbor:

“He died!” the neighbor said in tears, “He’s gone!  He’s really gone!”

My friend’s mother was shaken. “Who?? Who died?”

In between sobs, the friend named a character from her favorite television soap opera.  And continued to cry.

Why do we get invested in imaginary situations?

An anthropology professor I know once invited me to a day-long conference at UCSB focusing on the emerging field of evolutionary psychology.  Scholars were exploring how much human behavior could be explained by tracing it back to the adaptive needs of our ancestors.  While some of the presentations were over my head, one stuck with me. Many people spend a great deal of time reading “romance novels” and “pulp fiction”.  The presenter wondered: why would we be wired to spend our time this way?  It seems like such a waste. If life is all about survival, reading about fictional characters in melodramatic stories seems pointless – it doesn’t put any food on the table or make us physically stronger.  After exploring several alternatives, he concluded that this activity must be a way for us to exercise our capacity to understand and navigate our social relationships without any actual personal risk or vulnerability.  We human beings are social animals who live in groups and tribes: fiction allows us to explore how to do this in a way that doesn’t expose us to any real danger.

Puppies may romp, wrestle and bite each other but never actually hurt one another. Such play is a rehearsal and training for a time when, as adult dogs, they may encounter actual adversaries.   They’re safely rehearsing skills they may need in real life.

Which leads to a critical question someone asked me this week: “Why do you get so wrapped up following your baseball team?  It’s just a game, but you talk about it like its real life.”  I have been pondering this question. Why do I care so much about a made-up game?  When the season is over, nothing has changed in my life or the fate of the world.  I think being a sports fan is like reading compelling works of fiction: It’s a way to see how human beings behave under pressure over a long period of time.  In the process, we become emotionally and mentally invested in the drama and look for lessons to live by. Some examples…If you learn how to function well under high expectations and pressure, you will live a better life.  If you let one disappointing experience stay with you, your performance will suffer.  If you learn how to be a good teammate, you’ll go farther.

Baseball is like a novel with 162 chapters – plus up to 22 bonus episodes if you make the playoffs.  All the while, human drama is unfolding.

When I was a kid, I was short. So was Maury Wills, the Dodger shortstop. He didn’t hit many home runs. But he figured out how to get on first and steal bases. He showed how you could adapt and thrive even if you weren’t the biggest and strongest guy out there.

Or take Sandy Koufax. The greatest pitcher of his time, he declined to pitch the opening game of the 1965 World Series because it fell on Yom Kippur, the sacred Jewish holiday.  He showed everyone what personal integrity looks like.  (As an example of divine favor, he pitched and won the final game that clinched the Series.)

We human beings are story tellers and game players. From these activities we learn crucial lessons.

Our spiritual traditions are full of invaluable stories.

Buddhism has an abundance of tales, parables, and koans that elegantly convey great insight.

Judaism has a remarkable abundance of brilliant stories, passed down over the centuries to help us reflect on our assumptions and values.

An expert once asked Jesus what he needed to do to inherit eternal life.  Jesus affirmed the two most important commandments: love God and love your neighbor. The expert asked him, “Who is my neighbor?”  And Jesus told the story of the Good Samaritan.[i]

When he wanted to teach about the loving and merciful nature of God, he didn’t give a lecture on ethics, but said, “A man once had two sons…” and told the story of the Prodigal Son.[ii]

Many of us have heard these two stories countless times. But they never lose their power.

Both stories are total fictions. They never really happened. Jesus made them up. But they tell us profound truths about who we are and who we can be in simple and unforgettable ways.

Years ago I taught a class in religious studies at Heritage College in rural Washington. One of the required books was Black Elk Speaks, an account of teachings attributed to Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux Medicine Man.  I always have appreciated this statement attributed to him:

“This they tell, and whether it happened so or not I do not know; but if you think about it, you can see that it is true.”[iii]

[i] Luke 10: 25-37

[ii] Luke 15: 11-32

[iii] “The Offering of the Pipe,” Black Elk Speaks, John G. Niehardt, 1932

Lead Image: Sitting Around The Campfire; ar.inspiredpencil.com

Who Let the Dogs In? The Genius of Rembrandt’s Spiritual Imagination

Over the years, I’ve done a variety of presentations exploring the way Rembrandt portrays Biblical scenes.  Time and again, I’ve been fascinated by the surprising ways he imagines and creates visual details.  One example is his apparent fondness for dogs.

We can start with “The Hundred Guilder Print.”   This work captures in one scene the various encounters Jesus has with a crowd of people as described in Matthew 19.  Here’s the print:

If we read the text carefully and study the scene, we see how he includes all the important characters: people who are hoping to be healed, scholars who like to debate fine points of law, mothers bringing children to receive his blessing, etc.  Near the bottom left, we find something not mentioned in the text:

When I’ve seen dogs positioned like this, it is usually because they have determined they are near a spot where food scraps are likely to fall.  This is certainly not mentioned in the story – it’s something Rembrandt decided to add.

Here is his portrayal of “The Good Samaritan:”

In the story, a Samaritan sees a stranger who has been beaten and robbed, and no one is stopping to help.  But the Samaritan binds his wounds, puts him on his horse, takes him to an inn, and arranges for the man’s lodging and care. All that is in the story.  But in the lower right corner, we see an unexpected sight:

Suffice it to say, when we see dogs in this posture, we can guess what they are doing.  This is not a detail noted in any translations I am familiar with.

He doesn’t limit canines to outdoor scenes. In “The Presentation in the Temple,” Joseph and Mary bring their 8-day old infant to be dedicated.  Two elders, Simeon and Anna, express joy upon seeing the child.  Divine light streams down from the upper left highlighting the sacred moment:

And there, in the bottom left corner, we see one of our four-legged friends:

This dog is scratching his left ear with his back foot.

I have not found any articles explaining why Rembrandt inserts oridnary dogs into scenes that portray profound spiritual experiences.  But my guess is he understood great spiritual moments in life don’t occur in situations where everything is perfectly staged, as if designed by Martha Stewart.  They happen in nitty-gritty, down-to-earth settings where ordinary human beings experience something profound.  And what is more down-to-earth than the presence of a dog in the midst of a human gathering doing what dogs do?

I have had memorable spiritual experiences in stunning cathedrals and in sanctuaries filled with glorious music.  But I have also had them in hospital rooms next to bedpans and beeping monitors, dusty home building sites in the barrios of Tijuana, and while changing irrigation lines in an alfalfa field. And, like many people, I have had experiences with a dog when I feel a deep bond of knowing and caring for each other in a way that’s hard to explain.  It’s all part of life, and there’s no limit to the ways and settings in which the Spirit can appear. Rembrandt shows us what that looks like.

Lead Image: “Sleeping Puppy,” Rembrandt, 1640; Victoria and Albert Museum

Learning From Each Other

Last week I shared my reflections after being diagnosed with a bacterial infection in my spine and spending five days in the hospital.  I appreciate the many good wishes that came my way and want everyone to know I am doing well. 

Knowing many people have similar stories to share – some challenges much more serious than mine – I asked people to share their own insights.  Here’s a sample of what I received:

  • “l have 2 takeaways from 4 days in the hospital last year for Covid/Pneumonia and dealing with subsequent complications for a couple of months after that. I find it’s a lot easier now to be present and stay in the moment and I no longer take anything for granted.”
  • “Steve so sorry to learn about your ordeal with those invasive organisms. We pray things will continue to go well with treatment. My favorite Psalm is P. 27:  The Lord is my light and salvation!”
  • “Crohn’s disease is a chronic illness, but I resonated with so much of what you shared.”
  • “Read your account of the nasty encounter with Streptococcus anginosus and so grateful that it’s treatable!  I also appreciated ‘What I’ve learned” because it echoes my experiences with my many joint replacements: such gratitude for the level of medical science that lets us walk back home with a good life waiting for us. I’ve been on the other side of the PICC line in the role your good wife has taken on when my sister had a wild ride with an abdominal surgery incision that took a long time to finally close and heal. A unique intimacy evolved in that process that deepened both of us.”  

These responses offer some wise guidelines for our day-to-day life.

  • “Be present in the moment and stay in the moment” — Many years ago, I visited a parishioner who was in the hospital for a heart condition.  I asked her how she was doing.  She said the pain was getting better and she would be released soon.  Then she said, “But there’s been an unexpected blessing about being here. From my bed, I can see the ocean and the harbor.” (Her room was on the 5th floor of the old hospital.)  “The last two mornings I woke up before dawn and watched the sun slowly rise over the ocean.  In all my years living in Santa Barbara, I had not done that. All I could do to simply watch it.  It was beautiful.  I’m going to miss it.”  Opportunities for wonder are all around us.  We don’t have to wait until we are confined to a hospital bed to discover them.
  • “No longer take anything for granted.” — We don’t know what the future holds, so it’s important to be aware of the blessings we experience every day.  Once a day we can take time to recall and name seven moments or events that occurred in the last 24 hours that we are thankful for.  This practice can help us pay attention to such moments as they appear.
  • Have a Scripture, prayer, spiritual teaching or song you can turn to in times of uncertainty.  These can help ground and center us when we find ourselves in unexpected situations.  Hymns and spiritual songs harness the power of music to allow us to transcend our limitations.
  • Find common ground with others who share similar challenges.  None of us may fully know what someone else is going through, but sharing our own vulnerabilities and hopes can dissolve the feeling we are completely alone.
  • Be grateful for medical science.  It won’t solve all our problems, cure all our ailments, or allow us to live forever, but it is remarkable how much it can do.
  • Know that caring for someone or being cared for can lead to a “unique empathy.”   “Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fishhooks or clay pots or grinding stones. But no. Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal. A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts, Mead said. We are at our best when we serve others.” (Ira Byock)

One way to think about life is to see it as a pilgrimage.  People on a pilgrimage are making the journey for their own personal reasons.  But they travel together.  They share stories and memories.  They enjoy each other.  They care for each other along the way.  Getting to the destination is important, but often it’s what they learned on the journey that is most valuable. 

I appreciate the responses I received. They remind us that no matter what challenges we may face, we can always look for opportunities to grow in our appreciation for life and each other.

Photo: Pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago, https://www.ncregister.com

Life Among the Organisms

(Dear Reader: the following are my reflections on a recent personal experience. I know many of you have had similar and far more serious challenges in your journey — I would appreciate hearing your thoughts.)

What Happened

         On Tuesday, June 19, I woke up with a sore back.  The next day I was prescribed muscle relaxants which did not eliminate the problem.  Saturday I was running a fever and went to the ER at our nearby hospital.  Multiple tests confirmed something was amiss, but they were not sure what.  Monday, I went to the downtown hospital for an MRI, which revealed a bacterial infection in the area around my cervical spine; I was admitted to the hospital.  In the days that followed, ongoing blood tests and cultures identified the bacteria as Streptococcus anginosus which could be treated with daily injections of the antibiotic ceftriaxone. Friday,I had a PICC line inserted into my right arm and the treatment began. I was released to go home later that afternoon. Saturday a visiting nurse came to administer the medicine and teach my wife how to do it. We expect this to continue for six weeks. My energy is good, and I am not contagious.

What I Learned

         I have visited many people in hospitals and homes for more than 40 years.  I have seen countless situations more serious than what I experienced.  But in sleepless and idle moments, these personal reflections emerged. 

  1. Grateful for modern medicine and skilled doctors.  I asked what would have happened to me if I had this infection in the not-too distant past or was living in a Third World country. The doctor said the infection would spread to other parts of my body, probably my heart and brain, and eventually take my life.  I have a fresh appreciation for the medical training, experience and technology that has been focused on my diagnosis and recovery.
  2. It’s strange to be confined to one room for five days.  This was the first time in my adult life I was an inpatient more than one night.  At times it’s disorienting to be confined around the clock.  But I’m grateful I had a room in the old wing of the hospital that had a view of the mountains.  And I am also grateful I carry around with me a well-equipped inner sanctuary, where I go to recite prayers and meditations I have come to cherish over the years.  (My favorites are the 23rd Psalm and the Orthodox “Serene Light” prayer.[i])
  3. Renewed appreciation for everyday comforts at home.  My own bed with real sheets and pillows.  Our dog napping near me when I am resting. Coffee I can make anytime I want. Privacy. Freedom.
  4. Fresh appreciation for family caregivers.  My wife has had to track all that has happened and now is in the role of a nurse giving injections.  Caregivers carry a lot on their shoulders and in their mind.
  5. The bacteria and I are both biological organisms pursuing our own aims.  After the doctors described the bacteria to me, I tried to fathom the fact that this tiny organism had found a way to get into my blood stream and then decided to colonize the area around my cervical spine.  It seemed to me an insidious act – a personal affront! — and I felt anger.   But then I thought that this bacteria is just one more organism in the vast realm of living entities doing what they are designed to do: survive as best as best it can.  (The words from the Godfather came to mind: “It’s not personal, it’s strictly business.”)  But I also thought, “And I am an organism who wants to survive. And I’m going to do all I can to eradicate you from my body.  I’ve got lots of resources on my side.  We are going to get you.  It’s not personal, it’s strictly business.”
  6. Empathy for people whose challenges are far beyond mine.  My treatment may last as little as six weeks, and I am otherwise in good health. But I caught at least a glimpse of what something far more serious may be like.
  7. A new opportunity to appreciate the gift of life.  I have been around illness and mortality often.  I have often contemplated when and how my own life will end. But it’s one thing to think about mortality when we are healthy and another when our basic health is in question.  I’m grateful to be alive. 

[i] “Turning Towards the Serene Light”, PocketEpiphanies blog post, July 16, 2022