this is what our lives are- what we are made up of. we all are story. and we have stories.
i look around me. little rosie clogs, judes camo- croc, a lollipop wrapper, a fallen flower, the tree in front of me that held kids yesterday afternoon. red and purple and yellow flowers, orange ones and every shape of leaf. a breeze. the sound of 5 different types of birds. distant thunder. moving branches. the washing machine in spin cycle.
this is just one slice. one paragraph. the setting. the backdrop of that moment. what is and what isn't. it is full and empty because there is presence and there is absence.
the absence of children's voices who are in school. how quiet my story would be with out them.
both my readings today were about story- the celtic book of prayer, and buechner. about story and song and how they reach the heart- how they connect us- because we share them. how really it is the only way to communicate- to reach each other. Jesus told stories- pretty much all the time- because he knew that is how we get it. how we get, as buechner says, the hiddenness and the utterance that are both present in a story- and both present in Gods truth.
we are becoming. evolving. changing - our lives, our stories. we weave together- we are each others characters and context. we live beside each other, entering and exiting. we share themes and plots and places. we share in love and suffering. we share in longing. we share in joy and loss. we live great stories- full of the same things but wearing different colors and countries. some pages are so dyingly beautiful and some are excruciatingly painful and most are just a bit boring- except.
except that when we pause and listen to our lives- even those moments on the porch amidst the bird and spin cycle- we hear the mystery. the absolute mystery, and that is perhaps, what our story is all about.
i look around me. little rosie clogs, judes camo- croc, a lollipop wrapper, a fallen flower, the tree in front of me that held kids yesterday afternoon. red and purple and yellow flowers, orange ones and every shape of leaf. a breeze. the sound of 5 different types of birds. distant thunder. moving branches. the washing machine in spin cycle.
this is just one slice. one paragraph. the setting. the backdrop of that moment. what is and what isn't. it is full and empty because there is presence and there is absence.
the absence of children's voices who are in school. how quiet my story would be with out them.
both my readings today were about story- the celtic book of prayer, and buechner. about story and song and how they reach the heart- how they connect us- because we share them. how really it is the only way to communicate- to reach each other. Jesus told stories- pretty much all the time- because he knew that is how we get it. how we get, as buechner says, the hiddenness and the utterance that are both present in a story- and both present in Gods truth.
we are becoming. evolving. changing - our lives, our stories. we weave together- we are each others characters and context. we live beside each other, entering and exiting. we share themes and plots and places. we share in love and suffering. we share in longing. we share in joy and loss. we live great stories- full of the same things but wearing different colors and countries. some pages are so dyingly beautiful and some are excruciatingly painful and most are just a bit boring- except.
except that when we pause and listen to our lives- even those moments on the porch amidst the bird and spin cycle- we hear the mystery. the absolute mystery, and that is perhaps, what our story is all about.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.