Lionel Train Set
March 16, 2009
It may be that when we no longer know what
to do, we have come to our real work. And
when we no longer know which way to go, we
have begun our real journey. Wendell
Berry
I remember Garrison Keillor's Lake
Wobegon story about the young boy who
wanted a Lionel Train Set for Christmas.
The father, of a family of seven, was in the hospital and unable to work. The mother, worried about money did her best to prepare the children, "I'm sorry, but we won't be able to have much Christmas this year."
This news was not easy to swallow for the eldest boy, aged ten, who had been dropping hints since September about the Lionel train set, deluxe with the livestock loader. He even mentioned it frequently to God, reminding God that the train was on display in Lundgren's store window.
On Christmas morning, the boy opened his gifts, a pocketknife, wrapped homemade candies, and new pair of winter boots. There was no train. After Christmas dinner, the boy asked if he could go outside. He needed some place to nurse his sadness. As he tromped along in his new boots, he walked out on the iced-over lake, and let the tears flow.
After enough time passed, the boy turned to head back home. As he turned, with the sun nearly set, he saw the lights of the town shimmering before him. He squinted his eyes and could pick out his own house, on the left, not far from shore. It all looked, he realized, exactly like a town in a Lionel train layout, and if he squinted just right, the smoke rising from the chimney look like a steam engine.
Then he knew. The whole world is a Lionel Train set.
And he walked home with a lighter step, in his brand new Christmas boots.
I spent this past week at home.
On my island.
After a month of travel and speaking, I wanted down time.
More than anything else, I wanted to work in my garden.
Needless to say, the week did not cooperate.
So. Like the boy, I took a long walk to nurse my sadness.
If only, we say.
If only, we tell God.
If only. And when.
You know, when life really begins.
The Baptist preacher, an Episcopalian priest and a Jewish Rabbi were arguing about when life begins.
"When the egg and sperm touch," bellowed the Baptist.
"When there's viability in the womb," demurred the Episcopalian.
"No, no," said the Rabbi. "Life begins when your kid leaves home and your dog dies. That's when life begins."
It's hard to argue his point.
Even so, when it comes to life and expectations, we are like four-year-old children, five minutes out of the driveway on any family trip, "ARE WE THERE YET?"
"In technology you have this horizontal progress, where you must start at one point and move to another and then another," Thomas Merton once commented. "But that is not the way to build a life of prayer. In prayer we discover what we already have. You start where you are and you deepen what you already have, and you realize that you are already there. All we need is to experience what we already possess."
Sadly, we are not wired that way.
Merton goes on to say, "If we really want prayer, we must slow down to a human tempo and we'll begin to have time to listen. And as soon as we listen to what's going on, things will begin to take shape by themselves. The reason why we don't take time is a feeling that we have to keep moving. This is a real sickness. Today time is commodity, and for each one of us time is mortgaged. We experience time as unlimited indebtedness. We are sharecroppers of time. We are threatened by a chain reaction: overwork-overstimulation-overcompensation-overkill."
As I write this, snow falls. Actually, floats or drifts, is more accurate. Yes, snow. Yes, unexpected. Yes, inconvenient. My plans are shelved for another day. I feel the frustration rising.
You start where you are, says Merton. And then I realize that if I squint my eyes, my landscape becomes a gigantic snow globe, or some kind of a ticker-tape-parade, with parachutes of white-paper-scraps or pulled pieces of cotton candy.
I smile.
And I know.
My world too, is a Lionel Train Set.
Slowing down lets us see.
Seeing allows us to be amazed.
Amazement gives way to gratitude.
In gratitude we relinquish control, and embrace life.
This life. This exquisite
and inconvenient
and often untidy
and extraordinary life.
The father, of a family of seven, was in the hospital and unable to work. The mother, worried about money did her best to prepare the children, "I'm sorry, but we won't be able to have much Christmas this year."
This news was not easy to swallow for the eldest boy, aged ten, who had been dropping hints since September about the Lionel train set, deluxe with the livestock loader. He even mentioned it frequently to God, reminding God that the train was on display in Lundgren's store window.
On Christmas morning, the boy opened his gifts, a pocketknife, wrapped homemade candies, and new pair of winter boots. There was no train. After Christmas dinner, the boy asked if he could go outside. He needed some place to nurse his sadness. As he tromped along in his new boots, he walked out on the iced-over lake, and let the tears flow.
After enough time passed, the boy turned to head back home. As he turned, with the sun nearly set, he saw the lights of the town shimmering before him. He squinted his eyes and could pick out his own house, on the left, not far from shore. It all looked, he realized, exactly like a town in a Lionel train layout, and if he squinted just right, the smoke rising from the chimney look like a steam engine.
Then he knew. The whole world is a Lionel Train set.
And he walked home with a lighter step, in his brand new Christmas boots.
I spent this past week at home.
On my island.
After a month of travel and speaking, I wanted down time.
More than anything else, I wanted to work in my garden.
Needless to say, the week did not cooperate.
So. Like the boy, I took a long walk to nurse my sadness.
If only, we say.
If only, we tell God.
If only. And when.
You know, when life really begins.
The Baptist preacher, an Episcopalian priest and a Jewish Rabbi were arguing about when life begins.
"When the egg and sperm touch," bellowed the Baptist.
"When there's viability in the womb," demurred the Episcopalian.
"No, no," said the Rabbi. "Life begins when your kid leaves home and your dog dies. That's when life begins."
It's hard to argue his point.
Even so, when it comes to life and expectations, we are like four-year-old children, five minutes out of the driveway on any family trip, "ARE WE THERE YET?"
"In technology you have this horizontal progress, where you must start at one point and move to another and then another," Thomas Merton once commented. "But that is not the way to build a life of prayer. In prayer we discover what we already have. You start where you are and you deepen what you already have, and you realize that you are already there. All we need is to experience what we already possess."
Sadly, we are not wired that way.
Merton goes on to say, "If we really want prayer, we must slow down to a human tempo and we'll begin to have time to listen. And as soon as we listen to what's going on, things will begin to take shape by themselves. The reason why we don't take time is a feeling that we have to keep moving. This is a real sickness. Today time is commodity, and for each one of us time is mortgaged. We experience time as unlimited indebtedness. We are sharecroppers of time. We are threatened by a chain reaction: overwork-overstimulation-overcompensation-overkill."
As I write this, snow falls. Actually, floats or drifts, is more accurate. Yes, snow. Yes, unexpected. Yes, inconvenient. My plans are shelved for another day. I feel the frustration rising.
You start where you are, says Merton. And then I realize that if I squint my eyes, my landscape becomes a gigantic snow globe, or some kind of a ticker-tape-parade, with parachutes of white-paper-scraps or pulled pieces of cotton candy.
I smile.
And I know.
My world too, is a Lionel Train Set.
Slowing down lets us see.
Seeing allows us to be amazed.
Amazement gives way to gratitude.
In gratitude we relinquish control, and embrace life.
This life. This exquisite
and inconvenient
and often untidy
and extraordinary life.
Poems / Prayers
Music to lift the spirits.
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New Terry Hershey videos
http://www.terryhershey.com
One Regret
One regret that I am determined not to have
When I am lying upon my
Death bed
Is that we did not kiss
Enough.
Hafiz (1320 -1389)
Rest in Prayer
The sun hears the fields talking about effort
And the sun smiles,
And whispers to me,
"Why don't the fields just rest, for
I am willing to do everything
To help them grow?"
Rest, my dears, in prayer.
St. Catherine of Siena (1347-1380)
May you have -
Walls for the wind
And a roof for the rain,
And drinks bedside the fire
Laughter to cheer you
And those you love near you,
And all that your heart may desire
Celtic Blessing
Peace,
Terry Hershey
