"If you want to change something in your life you have two possibilities open to you. You can try to will that change; you can try to redirect your life by acts of the will. I think most of us discover from our own experience that our wills are appallingly weak and shockingly inconsistent. There is another way: the other way of total openness of the whole person. It is not the way intention but the way of attention."
John Main, Silence and Stillness in Every Season, March 25 entry
Yesterday as the pianist and I settled into a particularly beautiful memory care home that is still new to us, I was concerned that few residents had been gathered at our appointed time. Even after almost 15 years in this ministry, I still have moments when I think that I am failing. That somehow there is something I should be doing to reach more people. Maybe if I sang better. Maybe if I were male. Maybe if I were an extrovert. Maybe it really is time to retire. The list of maybes could go on forever. They are inexhaustible. I, however, am not, so fortunately, I had read John Main's meditation just a few hours before, and the words had stayed with me. I decided to try just accepting who and what was before me. I first noticed with gratitude the work of the staff to make room for wheelchairs and gurneys. I then noticed one resident, a small woman in a gurney being brought to us. I felt gladness because I simply like her. She is usually silent, but her eyes reveal a knowing spirit. I went over to say hello, and she looked at me intently. I smiled, and simply waited. After some seconds, as she usually does, she gently reached out her thin hand. I then reached out as gently as I could. She is not quick to smile, but she does smile if I have the courage to wait.
I later noticed a staff member come and sit next to a frail resident. As we began the Lord's prayer, I saw that the elder was ever so quietly saying the prayer with him by her side. The movement of her lips was almost imperceptible, but I was able to match my pace with hers. Suddenly I heard all the voices, as if we were a choir.
Afterwards, a tall thin man walked by. He walks the entire time we are there. Up until yesterday I never saw him look left or right. I assumed he incessantly walks every day, but I was told he usually stays in his room. Yesterday, as he passed through, he looked at us, nodded his head, and raised his hand and arm in what I believe was a wave. I was sitting down then so the pianist could simply enjoy playing a piece of her choice on their beautiful piano. I was able to see him stop and stand behind her for maybe 30 seconds or so before journeying on.
I later met that staff member who joined us and learned he is the executive director of the community. I thought how wonderful it was that he would take about 20 minutes of his day and come and worship with those he served. He said he was not usually there on Fridays so our time together felt particularly meaningful.
So that sacred space that at first seemed sparsely populated, now appeared to be overflowing with music, gratitude, and love. I was reminded for the umpteenth time that we are always held in Christ. As I said my good-byes, the first resident I saw reached out her hand once more and quietly asked if we would come again. In this, there really is no maybe, unless life takes a decidedly different turn. "Oh, yes," I replied as I reached out once more. She smiled, and I like to think she gave thanks. Even if she did not, I did. And that is enough.
image: San Leandro, March 2022. I am imagining myself to be that small white flower.
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