loving the small rhythm of my days...

Father's Day is slow in our house - quiet and reflective - as our adult children are living fully into their own families and their own ways of marking this time. It was especially quiet this year as it fell right after our benefit concert on Saturday night. To be honest, I was totally wiped-out after this show. Delighted but exhausted and very pleased that we raised nearly $800 for our local homeless shelter. So it felt restorative to simply sit back and think over what being a father - and now a grandfather - has meant to me. My own dad has been gone four years now; we had a confusing love that was all too often combative or competitive. My affection for him abides always, albeit these days it feels bittersweet. 

Walking the field to place a small rock
that she has painted on his grave,
my daughter asks me if he knows
that he is dead. The rock is painted
with a butterfly, red lines for wings, small dots
for yellow eyes, blue strings for legs.
Before I have a chance to muster
an answer, Nina calls out, Happy Father's Day
to silent air. And we beat a path homeward
through dry, eye-scratching weeds.

("The Uncut Field" by Laura Foley)

Today, therefore, was given over to errands: shopping, cleaning, yard work, cooking, and a trip to the library. After the focus, demands and intensity of our recent rehearsals, I needed to "catch up" on the ordinary things. Sweeping the kitchen floor reminded me of how much I adore slow days set aside for quiet thoughts and simple tasks that fortify the equilibrium of living. 

While checking out two new/old mysteries, the librarian smiled at me as she said, "Man that hair is getting long!" We laughed a bit before she asked if I missed ministry now that I am so obviously retired. "Not a bit" I replied in a heart beat. She was startled - and for the next five minutes (there was no one else waiting in line to check anything out) we spoke of call and commitment, the movement of the spirit in our hearts, and how I discerned my time for engagement in the church was over. How did Jesus put it, "The Spirit/wind blows where it will...?" (John 3:8) I find that sacred conversations erupt all over the place when I take the time to listen and go slow. Before leaving, I added, "You know, I am still living into the love of Jesus these days. Doing music. L'Arche. Family. Tending the yard. Is all holy ground to me - is just moves at a slower and sustainable pace." 

She smiled wistfully. I wonder what was going through her heart? Maybe we'll pick all of this up again in two weeks when I get two more mysteries. Or it may just stand alone. I know that I thought about it while cutting the grass and whacking the weeds later in the afternoon. What do I miss? The clearly defined rhythm of the liturgical calendar shared in community is the big one. Singing hymns and sharing prayers together is right up there too. But I get to do that now both at the church my family attends in NYC as well as at L'Arche Ottawa.

Really there's nothing else that is different now except these days most people don't know me as clergy. I am James the musician. Or the sound guy at the poetry reading. Or that old guy with long hair who loves fresh herbs and garden flowers. The big difference for me is that I am living into my faith without the constraints of another's expectations. And it is liberating. It made me think of a line from Naomi Shihab Nye's poem, "Half and Half."

You can't be,
says a Palestinian Christian
on the first feast day after Ramadan.
So, half-and-half and half-and-half.
He sells glass. He knows about broken bits, chips.
If you love Jesus you can't love
anyone else. Says he.

At his stall of blue pitchers on the Via Dolorosa,
he's sweeping. The rubbed stones
feel holy. Dusting of powdered sugar
across faces of date-stuffed mamool.

This morning we lit the slim white candles
which bend over at the waist by noon.
For once the priests weren't fighting
in the church for the best spots to stand.
As a boy, my father listened to them fight.
This is partly why he prays in no language
but his own. Why I press my lips
to every exception.

A woman opens a window—here and here and here—
placing a vase of blue flowers
on an orange cloth. I follow her.
She is making a soup from what she had left
in the bowl, the shriveled garlic and bent bean.
She is leaving nothing out.

These days I, too pray in no language but my own right. But pray - and worship - and love the Lord I do, only now without title or influence. What a blessed gift!