I call to God; God will help me.
At dusk, dawn, and noon I sigh deep sighs —
he hears, he rescues.
My life is well and whole, secure in the middle of danger
Even while thousands are lined up against me.
David, in Psalm 55
The Message
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The Gift of Presence (Or: How I Met Megan)
I’ve long forgotten the meal — the fruit and nuts of it, anyway. I know I savored every bite, and even cleaned my plate. It was that good.
But the company? It was even better.
Megan and I jostled through the serving line of Tim’s buffet at Laity Lodge together. We didn’t plan it that way. We just sort of wound up there at the same time. We’d seen each other around — online, and now off line, but for some reason our paths had not yet intersected.
She would change all that.
We reached the door to the dining room at about the same time, and Megan yielded. Being from South Dakota, I yielded back. That’s what we do at uncontrolled intersections — we keep waving the other on until someone gives in.
But she’s from Texas. She won’t play the perpetual yield game. She looked up at me and said, “Go sit down.” She can be matter-of-fact like that. “I don’t know you yet, so I’m going to sit with you today.”
And that was that.
I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone so quickly in all my life.
That may not have been the day that Tim served pho. But I remember it as the best meal I had all weekend.
Megan brings to every encounter the gift of her presence. Her attention. Her questions. Her careful listening. Her tender heart.
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I may be in big trouble before the day is through. (I’ll take a couple of friends down with me.) But I’m a big believer that forgiveness is easier to ask than permission. So, Megan, forgive me for this. But word on the street is it’s your birthday this weekend.
Permit the rest of us to celebrate a bit over you.
(Find my friend Megan – writer, tea drinker, failed liturgical dancer – at MeganWillome.com.)
The Shoe
I know how she died.
Her family relayed the details. Witnesses gave me statements.
I’ve been to the scene, read the official report, browsed the news accounts.
And now, I’m reading the coroner’s report. The days these papers skid across my desk are the ones I’d rather not show up for work. I’d like to tuck the report between the manila folds without a glance and just say it contained no helpful information.
Preparation Day: 148
Praise God from earth,
you sea dragons, you fathomless ocean deeps;
Fire and hail, snow and ice,
hurricanes obeying his orders;
Mountains and all hills,
apple orchards and cedar forests;
Wild beasts and herds of cattle,
snakes, and birds in flight;
Earth’s kings and all races,
leaders and important people,
Robust men and women in their prime,
and yes, graybeards and little children.Let them praise the name of God—
it’s the only Name worth praising.
His radiance exceeds anything in earth and sky;
he’s built a monument—his very own people!Praise from all who love God!
Israel’s children, intimate friends of God.
Hallelujah!
Company
I don’t realize that I stopped thinking during my time there alone in my seat. I listened, I watched, I recited when it was time. And when it grew silent I bowed. I don’t remember that God was saying anything. I don’t remember that I was saying anything. I think we were just there, together, enjoying each other’s company.
As I sat, bent over toward the front of the pew with my face in my hands, I felt the priest’s hand on my head and heard him murmur a blessing.
I hadn’t heard him approach. And I was not startled.
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MAKING HEADROOM chronicles a year (or so) of weekly trips to a monastery, where words are spoken slowly, as though the point is to hear them — not to see how many can fit into an already bustling space. It’s the kind of place where the next thing is glad to wait as long as it takes for an old man to shuffle across the room. I learn to meet him in the quiet so I can also meet him in the clamor.
The Conversation