All New People
Does anyone else have trouble with New Year's resolutions? I've never been very good at making them, much less keeping them. It's amazing how a shift in the calendar year can compel us to eat healthier, exercise more, spend less, and yearn for the re-start of meaningful work, travel, and change in our lives. I love the advent of a new year, because I love the optimism of looking around at the dust and cobwebs that have been accruing in the corners of my life and trying to sweep them aside so there's room for something new, or at least something revised, refreshed. But by the time March rolls around, the new seems as drab as the muddy ground outside my front door.
January 1 is really just a new day--the day after yesterday and the one before tomorrow. When I think about it this way. This is either cause for despair (How different can we become in just one day?) or cause for relief (I don't have to do anything all that different after all!). The thing I keep thinking about lately is the potential energy each new day holds. Every morning that we get to pick our sleepy heads off of the pillow and step forward into the morning is a chance to be new, even if we can't be better or perfect.
I don't mean the Jay Gatz transformed to the Great Gatsby outside-work-your-way-in kind of new. For even if you add lights and glitz and expensive cars and an entirely new past or even a new name, and even if you lose twenty pounds and highlight the grays and buy a new wardrobe, you still drag that everlasting bag of burdens behind you--the one that continually reminds of all you aren't, haven't, didn't, and can't. Some of us drag heavier weight than others. So it's not the Great Gatsby American Dream kind of new.
This new is inside-out new. The kind that happens while you're lost in thought, standing in the sleet on a gray Saturday morning waiting for the dog to do his business at the edge of a woods. And you look up for a minute into the swirling fog that winds its way around the trees and it's beautiful and a unsettled piece of your inner world clicks into place and a deep breath and a good look at what's in front of you is a very good way to start the day. Or the kind that happens when you're watching your kids play, which happens every day all day for some of us, and for a moment you see them, really see them in all their flawed and precious beauty. And it brings tears to your eyes.
One thing about blogging is that you might have a record of the kinds of small lightning-quick transformations into newness that are the sole gift of age and experience and even pain. Yesterday, after a sloshing jog through the January thaw with the pup, I stood at the edge of the woods for probably the thousandth time since we adopted that small guy into our lives. It was raining and I was waiting for Bodie to do his business and he seemed in no kind of hurry. My hand was bleeding from one of the many times on that jog he took me for a ride on his leash, and I just wanted to get inside to wash it. Then a song came on my Ipod that, for some reason, took me back to a day in April when I was dancing in my living room with an infant and two little girls. He makes beautiful things, he makes beautiful things out of the dust. He makes beautiful things, he makes beautiful things out of us. The day we danced I held my K so tight and I let the tears fall because I knew it was true and I knew it was happening. Whatever Down syndrome would mean in our lives was still a puzzle to be pieced together. And the uncertainty of that and the feeling of being under-equipped for it was both overwhelming and bittersweet and for some reason, so precious at the same time. I felt more like the dust-I-am back then. And the only response was to put one foot in front of the other and depend on a God with power beyond my limitations.
And then here I was, yesterday, fewer than three years later, thinking about that day and how lovely it was and how troubled my spirit was, and I felt new. Not perfect. Not pretty or fresh or cool. Just new. Like a good work had been done, must still be occurring. And I got to take a deep breath and stop worrying about my little boy starting preschool in a few weeks and about whether I'm doing right by all three of my kids and about whether I'm being the kind of spouse that serves more than she asks.
Mark reports that friends have been asking E why K looks different. "Because he has Down syndrome," she has told them. "It makes it a little harder for him to do things but eventually he can do whatever he wants!" This is a new phase of being K's sister, one I had hoped to postpone for as long as possible, and yet, I see now that as usual she has the better perspective. New.
There was the walk for Come Unity in December that E's class held to raise money to buy shoes for a group of first graders in Ethiopia who are lucky if they get one square meal in a day. Watching those six and seven year olds walk a half mile in their own shoes so that they could provide shoes for kids their age half way around the world was one of those experiences that made me feel new again. Each child held a picture of an Ethiopian friend, and as they walked, they prayed for that friend. One of the boys in E's class trailed behind by about 100 yards. "What's he doing?" I asked E's teacher.
"I don't know," she replied, "I'm trying to figure that out myself." As he drew closer to us, we both realized that what he was doing was praying. Two little feet, one in front of the other, two little hands clutching the picture of another child thousands of miles away, a child he only knew by name and by need. One little head bowed low, praying for mercy. Wow. New.
The second time they walked around the track, the kids linked arms and held hands in groups, chatting and laughing--a wall of solidarity. "We do this together," said their arms, their strides, their laughter. We never expected that walk to generate over 700.00 dollars for shoes, the exact amount required to purchase one solid pair for each child. Understand that there are only twenty-six kids in the first grade. Fifty-two feet that walked half a mile in their own shoes so that fifty-two other little feet can do the same--maybe for the first time ever. And the words my sister Kait wrote to them that day via email never rang truer, "Don't ever let anyone tell you you're too young to make a difference." New.
There is not always time to keep the work out schedule, the devotional schedule, the eating healthier schedule; there is not always self-discipline enough to keep the promise not to yell at your kids or mistreat your spouse or never show up late again. But there is always time for New. Take a deep breath. Lay aside the task, look around and taste and see. Grace is the only New that lasts. And it lives deep in the smallest things--a tiny flower pressing through snow to light, a child comforting another, a small act of mercy, a breeze, music and art and poetry... "because the Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings" (Hopkins).
A toast to being all new people all of the time.
January 1 is really just a new day--the day after yesterday and the one before tomorrow. When I think about it this way. This is either cause for despair (How different can we become in just one day?) or cause for relief (I don't have to do anything all that different after all!). The thing I keep thinking about lately is the potential energy each new day holds. Every morning that we get to pick our sleepy heads off of the pillow and step forward into the morning is a chance to be new, even if we can't be better or perfect.
I don't mean the Jay Gatz transformed to the Great Gatsby outside-work-your-way-in kind of new. For even if you add lights and glitz and expensive cars and an entirely new past or even a new name, and even if you lose twenty pounds and highlight the grays and buy a new wardrobe, you still drag that everlasting bag of burdens behind you--the one that continually reminds of all you aren't, haven't, didn't, and can't. Some of us drag heavier weight than others. So it's not the Great Gatsby American Dream kind of new.
This new is inside-out new. The kind that happens while you're lost in thought, standing in the sleet on a gray Saturday morning waiting for the dog to do his business at the edge of a woods. And you look up for a minute into the swirling fog that winds its way around the trees and it's beautiful and a unsettled piece of your inner world clicks into place and a deep breath and a good look at what's in front of you is a very good way to start the day. Or the kind that happens when you're watching your kids play, which happens every day all day for some of us, and for a moment you see them, really see them in all their flawed and precious beauty. And it brings tears to your eyes.
One thing about blogging is that you might have a record of the kinds of small lightning-quick transformations into newness that are the sole gift of age and experience and even pain. Yesterday, after a sloshing jog through the January thaw with the pup, I stood at the edge of the woods for probably the thousandth time since we adopted that small guy into our lives. It was raining and I was waiting for Bodie to do his business and he seemed in no kind of hurry. My hand was bleeding from one of the many times on that jog he took me for a ride on his leash, and I just wanted to get inside to wash it. Then a song came on my Ipod that, for some reason, took me back to a day in April when I was dancing in my living room with an infant and two little girls. He makes beautiful things, he makes beautiful things out of the dust. He makes beautiful things, he makes beautiful things out of us. The day we danced I held my K so tight and I let the tears fall because I knew it was true and I knew it was happening. Whatever Down syndrome would mean in our lives was still a puzzle to be pieced together. And the uncertainty of that and the feeling of being under-equipped for it was both overwhelming and bittersweet and for some reason, so precious at the same time. I felt more like the dust-I-am back then. And the only response was to put one foot in front of the other and depend on a God with power beyond my limitations.
And then here I was, yesterday, fewer than three years later, thinking about that day and how lovely it was and how troubled my spirit was, and I felt new. Not perfect. Not pretty or fresh or cool. Just new. Like a good work had been done, must still be occurring. And I got to take a deep breath and stop worrying about my little boy starting preschool in a few weeks and about whether I'm doing right by all three of my kids and about whether I'm being the kind of spouse that serves more than she asks.
Mark reports that friends have been asking E why K looks different. "Because he has Down syndrome," she has told them. "It makes it a little harder for him to do things but eventually he can do whatever he wants!" This is a new phase of being K's sister, one I had hoped to postpone for as long as possible, and yet, I see now that as usual she has the better perspective. New.
There was the walk for Come Unity in December that E's class held to raise money to buy shoes for a group of first graders in Ethiopia who are lucky if they get one square meal in a day. Watching those six and seven year olds walk a half mile in their own shoes so that they could provide shoes for kids their age half way around the world was one of those experiences that made me feel new again. Each child held a picture of an Ethiopian friend, and as they walked, they prayed for that friend. One of the boys in E's class trailed behind by about 100 yards. "What's he doing?" I asked E's teacher.
"I don't know," she replied, "I'm trying to figure that out myself." As he drew closer to us, we both realized that what he was doing was praying. Two little feet, one in front of the other, two little hands clutching the picture of another child thousands of miles away, a child he only knew by name and by need. One little head bowed low, praying for mercy. Wow. New.
The second time they walked around the track, the kids linked arms and held hands in groups, chatting and laughing--a wall of solidarity. "We do this together," said their arms, their strides, their laughter. We never expected that walk to generate over 700.00 dollars for shoes, the exact amount required to purchase one solid pair for each child. Understand that there are only twenty-six kids in the first grade. Fifty-two feet that walked half a mile in their own shoes so that fifty-two other little feet can do the same--maybe for the first time ever. And the words my sister Kait wrote to them that day via email never rang truer, "Don't ever let anyone tell you you're too young to make a difference." New.
There is not always time to keep the work out schedule, the devotional schedule, the eating healthier schedule; there is not always self-discipline enough to keep the promise not to yell at your kids or mistreat your spouse or never show up late again. But there is always time for New. Take a deep breath. Lay aside the task, look around and taste and see. Grace is the only New that lasts. And it lives deep in the smallest things--a tiny flower pressing through snow to light, a child comforting another, a small act of mercy, a breeze, music and art and poetry... "because the Holy Ghost over the bent / World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings" (Hopkins).
A toast to being all new people all of the time.
| Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918. |
| God’s Grandeur |
| THE WORLD is charged with the grandeur of God. | |
| It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; | |
| It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil | |
| Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? | |
| Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; | 5 |
| And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; | |
| And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil | |
| Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. | |
| And for all this, nature is never spent; | |
| There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; | 10 |
| And though the last lights off the black West went | |
| Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— | |
| Because the Holy Ghost over the bent | |
| World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. |
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