It Doesn't Get Better Than That

This is the last of the papers written for my classics class.  It seems an appropriate post as we approach the Thanksgiving holiday.  There is beauty in becoming... in change... and in gratitude.

William, a man born with muscular dystrophy and several mental diseases, including schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, had been admitted into the state mental hospital.  One day, a visiting friend routinely asked how he was doing.  “I can breathe,” was William’s reply.   He paused, then added:  “And it doesn’t get any better than that.”

The friend was surprised.  He was not expecting such a response.  Here was a man living in a situation that to most people would be unthinkable, unbearable.  Yet William’s answer was steeped in powerful humility, profound understanding, and deep gratitude.    I can breathe – and it doesn’t get any better than that.  The friend would never forget those words… nor the lesson that they imparted.*

I wake up, almost afraid to listen for the sounds of children stirring overhead.  Stirring children mean arguing children – at least that’s the way it feels sometimes.  Yes, there it is: the sound of little sister yelling at big brother to leave her pink piggy alone.  It has become a familiar refrain.  Surely my life is more difficult than anyone realizes or appreciates, I think in a burst of self-pity.  A shriek – someone has stubbed a toe.  A splash – someone has knocked over their water cup.  “Mommy, I missed the potty!”  I sigh.  When is that purple heart going to be delivered?  Surely I have earned it by now.  Weariness, frustration, anger – the familiar emotions hover on the periphery, waiting to be invited to enter the scene.  They are, after all, familiar guests.  But today I wonder what would happen if, instead of inviting them in and ushering them to the front row, I pause and take time to breathe.  Not just inhaling and exhaling – but breathing like William breathes.  Breathing while inviting gratitude with each inhalation, and exuding joy and thanksgiving with each exhalation.  Purposeful breathing.  Deep breathing.  If I focused – just for a moment – on that, perhaps amidst the chaos I could say, “It doesn’t get any better than this” – and really mean it.

Perhaps.  But I’m too tired to be convinced.  The thought will not be entirely dismissed, however.  I begin to wonder what would happen if I took a moment to substitute some verbs into William’s phrase.  Hmmm.  What about see, hear, walk, run, jump?  I can do all of those things.  What else?  I can read, touch, feel, listen, smell, hug, kiss.  I can laugh, and smile, and cry.  I can do all of those things. And, when it comes right down to it, it doesn’t get any better than that, does it?  So why is it that on mornings like today, I find myself feeling, more often than not, like a martyr rather than a mother?

Another verb comes to mind: change.  Change.  “Yes,” I think. “I can change – and it doesn’t get better than that.”  I feel hope entering my heart.  I can change.  So even if I get to the end of today thinking, “Well, we all survived today.  I can be grateful for that” – it doesn’t mean that every day has to end that way.  Perhaps tomorrow will find me thinking, “I can breathe and it doesn’t get any better than that.”  Perhaps the next day will, too.  And maybe those days will become the rule, rather than the exception.  And then maybe, just maybe, I will get to the end of each day, and be able to say, in all honesty, “I can breathe.  I can see.  I can feel – and love and listen and touch and cry and laugh.  I am alive.  I am a mother.  And it doesn’t get better than that.”

*From a story cited in The Soft-Spoken Parent  by H. Wallace Goddard.

Image by Nicole

Eyes that See

Here is another paper that I am posting - mostly because I will know where to find it again some day.  But I do hope one day to become someone whose eyes truly see.

The eyes, they say, are the windows to the soul.  Are they also, then, the soul’s window to the world?  If so, just what is it that my soul is seeing?  Is it seeing things clearly – things as they really are?  Or is it seeing things darkly – as through a window that needs to be cleaned?

We know that we are composite beings.  We are not merely body or spirit.  We are both: body and spirit joined together; living souls.  We came to earth to continue a war which began in the premortal realms – a war of good and evil, light and darkness, truth and error, natural and divine.  Sometimes this war requires combat with external forces.  But often the war is an internal struggle, fought in the silent chambers of the heart and mind.  The war, for each of us, is largely a personal battle of the spiritual against the physical; of the man of God against the natural man.  Certainly it would seem that our eyes would be one of our greatest assets in this fight – for if we see danger we can avoid it.  Yet, just as our natures are dualistic, our vision can be, too.  We can look with natural eyes, or we can look with spiritual ones.  And the information sent to our soul from each kind of looking is very different. 

Natural eyes see flaws and search for weaknesses in others.  They see others as competitors or enemies.  They lead us to unrighteous judgment, materialism, pride, and poor self-image.  They are easily fixed on the superficial.  They see our beauty or lack thereof.  They see the size of our house, the size of our wallet, the size of our waist.  They see in labels: liberal, conservative, Jew, Gentile, gentry, peasant.  They see others more as objects than children of God.  They look at the short-term and temporary, focusing on wants rather than needs.  They see all that is wrong and unfair.  Natural eyes are eyes that seeing, see not. 

In opposition to natural eyes, spiritual eyes look beyond the superficial.  They are discerning and help us to avoid places where we will be left to ourselves, and, consequently, left vulnerable and weak.  They see suffering as an opportunity to help others.  They look through and into other’s eyes – into the portals of their soul.  They are eyes that seek to understand and empathize.  They are eyes that see through flaws and imperfections to the potential behind.  They are eyes that “look not on the outward appearance” but on the heart. They are eyes that recognize the beauties and blessings in everything.  They lead us to humility, gratitude, and love.  

In our daily battles, things are not always black or white.  We don’t usually see solely with natural eyes or purely with spiritual ones.  Each day, our eyes are waging war just as surely as our souls.  Our natural eyes fight to keep our focus on the milk that has been spilled, while our spiritual eyes try to direct us to the frightened little spirit looking up at us, hoping that they will be assured instead of reprimanded.  Each day, in all that we see, we are striving to subdue the tendencies of the natural man – to let it be mastered and tempered by the divinity within.  We are striving to see with our spiritual eyes - eyes that see with forgiveness and compassion; eyes that see the good; and, above all, eyes that seek to do God’s will.  Well might we plead with the poet that the Lord will “touch our eyes that we may see.”  For as we begin to see spiritually, our hearts and souls are purified.  As our hearts and souls are purified, we see more purely.  We are filled with light and begin to see as God sees. 

We read in the book of Matthew that the pure in heart are blessed, for they will see the face of God.  As we strive to see with spiritual eyes, we will find that this promise is not only the promise of some future day.  We will find that we can see the face of God every day – for we will see it in every face we encounter.  The light that radiates from us will color all we look upon with a beauty both eternal and divine.  We will see in others the seeds of Godhood – seeds which were always there, but seeds to which our eyes once were blind. 

Image by Riccardo Cuppini

Looking on the Heart

I thought I would include another paper written for my classics class - a paper on Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables" (oh, how I love that book!).  Not only will this make it easier for me to find these essays (organization is not my strong point!), but the piece also discusses one of the things I am working to become: a person who looks on the heart. 

“In the country near D—, there was a man who lived alone.  This man, to state the startling fact without preface, had been a member of the National Convention.  His name was G—.  The little circle of D— spoke of the conventionist with a certain sort of horror.  A conventionist, think of it…This man came very near being a monster.” 

So writes Victor Hugo, setting the stage for one of the most powerful and poignant scenes in his novel, Les Miserables.  The reader has already become acquainted with the Bishop Bienvenu-Myriel: his goodness, his compassion, his humility, his love.  He is the best of men – a saint.  Thus, when he journeys to visit G—, a man whom he views “as an outlaw, even beyond the law of charity,” there is no reason to suspect that the conventionist could be anything otherwise.  The scene unfolds.  The bishop – and the reader – come to realize that they have been mistaken.  And with this realization, a lesson of eternal import is taught:  men – all men, even the best of men – are subject to look upon the “outward appearance” only and to wrongfully judge others.  That is why it is not given to men to judge others; it is given to them instead to learn to love.

When the bishop arrives at the residence of G— it is with reluctance and revulsion.  He introduces himself coolly; his tone is one of accusation and austerity.  G— responds with unruffled dignity.  He does not excuse or justify, but he speaks of hidden things – his motives, his hopes, his ideals.  The bishop feels as if “something in him ha[s] been struck.”  Once so confident in his condemnation, he finds himself becoming uncomfortably unsure about his assessment of the man.  He learns that, at the root, the tree of this man’s feelings and desires is the same as his own.  The fruit may look different, but the root is of the same stock.  This “monster,” this “conventionist,” seeks what he, himself, is seeking:  succor for the weak and downtrodden, compassion for the poor and lowly, justice for the defenseless and abused.  Though his actions appear frightening and terrible, they stem from a love and courage and sense of duty both ennobling and sanctifying.  As G— passes on to the “selfhood of the infinite,” the bishop asks for his blessing and pardon, and is left astonished, humbled, and changed…and one step nearer “his approach to perfection.”

The reader is also left astonished and changed.  If such a man as the bishop could have been so mistaken in his assessment of another, how often do those less-near perfection make the same mistake?  Men go about their lives almost mechanically passing judgment on those around them.  They are usually confident that their estimations are accurate.  But, if the truth were known, would they find these assumptions had been based on the outward appearance alone?  Would the heart of the matter, if it could be discerned, reflect something entirely different?  These questions are forced upon the reader at the passing of G— .   They resurface throughout the novel.  And each time they do, they demand thoughtful reflection. Hugo seems to be pleading with man – every man – to relinquish the role of judge to the only one who has a legitimate claim to that title, and instead strive to understand and extend mercy.  He seems to join with the poet in his plea: 

Therefore look gently on men, and even more gently on women.

Although they may go a little wrong, do not condemn them.

Above all consider not merely what they have done, but why.

God alone has the power to look into a human heart,

To judge actions and motives and regrets.

He alone knows not only what one has done and why,

But what one has resisted doing and why–

Man's responsibility is to forgive:

Only God has the authority to judge.              --Robert Burns--

The bishop leaves the presence of G— with a determination to redouble “his tenderness and brotherly love for the weak and the suffering.”  He also seems to silently entreat each reader to remember the lesson he has learned: that only God has the authority to judge.  Man’s responsibility is to forgive, to pity, to minister, to succor, to lift, to heal, to love...

to look on the heart.

Image by Leland Francisco

Well, here we go...

This whole "blog" thing is entirely foreign to me.  I am about as "un"-tech savvy as you can get.  When the thought that I needed to start a blog entered my head, I quickly pushed it out again.  But the thought had this way of returning again and again.  And so I am "taking the plunge" - moving forward in faith, hoping that some good will come of these wanderings in spaces outside of my comfort zone.  

As I delved into the world of blogger - choosing layouts and creating headers - I thought, "Hey, this isn't so bad."  But the thought of actually posting something?  Well, that was a different kettle of fish.  It kind of turned my stomach.  So, in order to help myself ease into this sea of "blogging," I decided that I would use something for my first post that I had already written.  I did this little thought piece for a class I participated in with other homeschooling moms - a class where we read and discussed great classics of literature.  We had just finished Laddie by Gene Stratton-Porter, and this is the paper I wrote about it.  I titled it The Call of the Classic.

Though it was written well before any idea of a blog entered my universe, it does express what I am hoping to communicate through this little blog of mine - that God wants us to become the very best we can - to become like Him... and that we find our greatest joy in that process of becoming.

Image by Adarsh Antony

The Call of the Classic

I always felt that I was born at the wrong time.  Not the wrong time of day or even the wrong month.  I was pretty sure I was born in the wrong century.  I first suspected this when, as a child, I finished reading Little House in the Big Woods.  My suspicions grew after I completed Anne of Green Gables.  The night I stayed up till 2 am so I could get to the end of Jane Eyre, I was practically certain.  And when I finished Pride and Prejudice, there was no doubt left in my mind.  There had been some sort of mistake.  I should be living in Jane Austen’ England, or Laura Ingalls’ frontier America – I was sure of it.  I wasn’t sure how the gross error had come to pass – that was a matter entirely too complicated for my young mind.  But I knew there had, indeed, been an error.  Why else would I feel the way I felt when I finished those books?  Why would I experience a longing in my heart that was so powerful it was almost painful?  Why would I slowly close those books, hold them to my chest, enfold them in my arms, and try to somehow push myself into the stories?  Everything in those books spoke to my soul and touched some secret recess deep inside of me in a way that I could not verbalize – only feel.  Surely that meant I was supposed to be born back then, not now…

I hold Laddie, by Gene Stratton-Porter, in my hands.  I close the book and my eyes.  Slowly, I draw it to my chest and enfold it in my arms.  That now-so-familiar feeling fills my chest – that almost painful longing deep inside.  It has been years since I closed the cover on Little House in the Big Woods, but the feeling remains largely unchanged.  Could it really be that I was born at the wrong time?  Perhaps.  But the thought comes that this yearning might be something entirely different.  Perhaps it is a yearning for place rather than time – a place where there is, in fact, no time.  Perhaps this yearning is really an awareness that the timeless principles portrayed in the story are familiar to me; that they were part of those first lessons learned in a heavenly home now-forgotten.  Perhaps this yearning is a sense that I need to continue those lessons – to become more like the people I read about - in order to be ready to return to that home. Perhaps what I always thought was a longing to live in a time when I could roam through pristine meadows and orchards is really a longing to be more aware of and grateful for God’s magnificent creations.  Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live a hundred years ago is really a longing to be a woman who faces personal frontiers with courage and determination.  Perhaps what I thought was a longing to live in the days before the information age is really a longing to live with more purpose, more simplicity, and more focus on things of lasting value.  Perhaps the longing that I feel, and have always felt, is simply a reminder that I am a wanderer in a strange land.  My soul was born in another place, and it longs to be there again.  Perhaps the longing I feel is really an acknowledgement of the need to mirror in my life the lessons of light and truth I find in written pages so that I will become who I was meant to be.  Perhaps it is a longing for a day – not in the past – but a day yet to come, when I will return to my former home, having made of my life, not something merely classic, but something gloriously divine.

 Image by Abhi Sharma