Uncle George
June 30, 2008
If I have told you these details about the
asteroid, and made a note of its number for
you, it is on account of the grown-ups and
their ways. When you tell them that you have
made a new friend, they never ask you any
questions about essential matters.
They never
say to you, "What does his voice sound like?
What games does he love best? Does he collect
butterflies?" Instead, they demand: "How old
is he? How many brothers has he? How much
does he weigh? How much money does his father
make?" Only from these figures do they think
they have learned anything about him.
The Little Prince
For where your treasure is, there will your
heart be also. Jesus
What is honored will be cultivated there.
Plato
Uncle George was demanding and difficult.
Looking after him was stressful, taxing and
thankless.
Driving to the funeral of Uncle George, the young man let loose with pent-up emotion.
"Thank God," he says to his wife. "I suppose I'm sorry he died, but I've got to tell you, I don't think I could have stood one more day with that annoying man. I've had enough. And I'm telling you that the only reason I gave so much time and energy to your Uncle George was because of my love for you!"
"My Uncle George," she says flabbergasted. "My Uncle George? I thought he was your Uncle George!"
We collect Uncle Georges. It is the perfect metaphor for any anxiety, worry, fret, apprehension or fear that is elevated to the level of urgent consternation. Uncle George consumes us. And he's not even our uncle.
"Martha, Martha! You worry and fuss about a lot of things." Gospel of Luke
Which means there is a shift: I am now worrying about stuff I can do nothing about. And I give my attention, energy and time to non-essential matters.
And yet. For all our objections to the contrary, we collect worries like we collect all our STUFF, there's always room for one more. It seems to take care of something. I know I like to use Uncle George to let you know how important, or busy, or indispensable I am. It's still about control.
But worry and fuss is a pickle, because it gums up the system. Stops the flow. Worry, from an Anglo-Saxon word "to strangle" or "to choke." As if literally cutting off the air supply that allows us to breathe emotionally and spiritually.
Preoccupied with Uncle George, I am quite literally, not myself. I am of two minds. I am exhausted, busy, pulled in many directions and numb, not really available for people I love. This is not to say that we can't have activities, or service, or work. But work that is fueled by a need to be needed, or need to prove value is too consuming, leaving no time for rejuvenation, or prayer, or the quiet work of the Spirit.
So. What to do? As if we don't feel bad enough, some opt for the willpower-on-steroids approach, "Just cut it out!" That lasts for a half hour or so, about the same amount of time I can give up serious dark chocolate.
Others opt for techno-cure. Our paper had an article promoting "Hot gadgets to chill on vacation." Who knew? To think I can't relax unless I have the proper equipment. (Although, maybe they have a devise to help me remember all the stuff I forgot to worry about.)
The bottom line? With Uncle George we lose focus. When this happened to Jesus' friends, ("because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat," Gospel of Mark), Jesus didn't preach or lecture or lead a prayer.
The story says, immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go ahead of Him to the other side, while He sent the crowds away. "Come with me by yourselves," Jesus told them, "to a quiet place and get some rest."
It's not about creating a life absent of stress.
It's about being present, even in the hectic.
In other words, it is in the rest, the refueling, the "be-ing," the Sabbath that we refocus on essential matters, and allows us to be present, even in the busy, the noise, the demands, the lists.
Today I am stressed. A large group is coming tomorrow to tour our garden. So I'm walking around my garden with a different point of view. It is not surprising that I no longer see surprises, or splendor in the unexpected, because now I am too focused on what is missing, and I see only defects, imperfections and blemishes. The very things I have come to love about my garden I now see as deficiencies. This worry is gumming up the system. It is choking my sense of awe. I've lost sight of essential matters.
We are sitting on our back deck with a long to-do list still to complete before the tour. "Okay," my wife says, "let's forget the other stuff and go listen to the music."
It is summer music festival Vashon style. Our small town time to let loose. Tonight it is the band Maya Soleil, and African fusion music from Zambia and Ghana satiates the air.
Ober Park is an expansive grass-covered-natural amphitheater, encircled by grassy hillsides. The music co-mingles with the sound of euphoric children playing, chasing, rolling, wrestling and laughing. Most of them are barefoot. Some of the boys, including Zach, are playing king-of-the-hill. Around the park, people, old and young, are dancing. I see a mother dancing and twirling with her small child in her arms.
I remember that feeling, from my childhood, playing well into a Michigan summer night. We would catch Fireflies, putting as many as we could into a mason jar, making our own lantern. "We don't have to go to bed now, do we?" we would plead, the warmth of well-being and contentment lingering in our tired bodies, fused with the sensation of grass stains itching on our arms and legs.
Here, the sunlight is still high in the sky. A sky permeated by joy, laughter and ease. Everyone is glad to be here. It is the first warm evening we've had in some time. Introducing the next song, the female lead singer says, "Everybody, get up and rejoice. I know there's a child in you."
I still have work to do. But it can wait. Right now, this is more important. It is the heart of Sabbath. The music washes over me. And I don't give any thought to Uncle George.
Driving to the funeral of Uncle George, the young man let loose with pent-up emotion.
"Thank God," he says to his wife. "I suppose I'm sorry he died, but I've got to tell you, I don't think I could have stood one more day with that annoying man. I've had enough. And I'm telling you that the only reason I gave so much time and energy to your Uncle George was because of my love for you!"
"My Uncle George," she says flabbergasted. "My Uncle George? I thought he was your Uncle George!"
We collect Uncle Georges. It is the perfect metaphor for any anxiety, worry, fret, apprehension or fear that is elevated to the level of urgent consternation. Uncle George consumes us. And he's not even our uncle.
"Martha, Martha! You worry and fuss about a lot of things." Gospel of Luke
Which means there is a shift: I am now worrying about stuff I can do nothing about. And I give my attention, energy and time to non-essential matters.
And yet. For all our objections to the contrary, we collect worries like we collect all our STUFF, there's always room for one more. It seems to take care of something. I know I like to use Uncle George to let you know how important, or busy, or indispensable I am. It's still about control.
But worry and fuss is a pickle, because it gums up the system. Stops the flow. Worry, from an Anglo-Saxon word "to strangle" or "to choke." As if literally cutting off the air supply that allows us to breathe emotionally and spiritually.
Preoccupied with Uncle George, I am quite literally, not myself. I am of two minds. I am exhausted, busy, pulled in many directions and numb, not really available for people I love. This is not to say that we can't have activities, or service, or work. But work that is fueled by a need to be needed, or need to prove value is too consuming, leaving no time for rejuvenation, or prayer, or the quiet work of the Spirit.
So. What to do? As if we don't feel bad enough, some opt for the willpower-on-steroids approach, "Just cut it out!" That lasts for a half hour or so, about the same amount of time I can give up serious dark chocolate.
Others opt for techno-cure. Our paper had an article promoting "Hot gadgets to chill on vacation." Who knew? To think I can't relax unless I have the proper equipment. (Although, maybe they have a devise to help me remember all the stuff I forgot to worry about.)
The bottom line? With Uncle George we lose focus. When this happened to Jesus' friends, ("because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat," Gospel of Mark), Jesus didn't preach or lecture or lead a prayer.
The story says, immediately Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go ahead of Him to the other side, while He sent the crowds away. "Come with me by yourselves," Jesus told them, "to a quiet place and get some rest."
It's not about creating a life absent of stress.
It's about being present, even in the hectic.
In other words, it is in the rest, the refueling, the "be-ing," the Sabbath that we refocus on essential matters, and allows us to be present, even in the busy, the noise, the demands, the lists.
Today I am stressed. A large group is coming tomorrow to tour our garden. So I'm walking around my garden with a different point of view. It is not surprising that I no longer see surprises, or splendor in the unexpected, because now I am too focused on what is missing, and I see only defects, imperfections and blemishes. The very things I have come to love about my garden I now see as deficiencies. This worry is gumming up the system. It is choking my sense of awe. I've lost sight of essential matters.
We are sitting on our back deck with a long to-do list still to complete before the tour. "Okay," my wife says, "let's forget the other stuff and go listen to the music."
It is summer music festival Vashon style. Our small town time to let loose. Tonight it is the band Maya Soleil, and African fusion music from Zambia and Ghana satiates the air.
Ober Park is an expansive grass-covered-natural amphitheater, encircled by grassy hillsides. The music co-mingles with the sound of euphoric children playing, chasing, rolling, wrestling and laughing. Most of them are barefoot. Some of the boys, including Zach, are playing king-of-the-hill. Around the park, people, old and young, are dancing. I see a mother dancing and twirling with her small child in her arms.
I remember that feeling, from my childhood, playing well into a Michigan summer night. We would catch Fireflies, putting as many as we could into a mason jar, making our own lantern. "We don't have to go to bed now, do we?" we would plead, the warmth of well-being and contentment lingering in our tired bodies, fused with the sensation of grass stains itching on our arms and legs.
Here, the sunlight is still high in the sky. A sky permeated by joy, laughter and ease. Everyone is glad to be here. It is the first warm evening we've had in some time. Introducing the next song, the female lead singer says, "Everybody, get up and rejoice. I know there's a child in you."
I still have work to do. But it can wait. Right now, this is more important. It is the heart of Sabbath. The music washes over me. And I don't give any thought to Uncle George.
Poems / Prayers
Why I am Happy
Now has come, an easy time. I let it
roll. There is a lake somewhere
so blue and far nobody owns it.
A wind comes by and a willow listens
gracefully.
I hear all this, every summer. I laugh
and cry for every turn of the world,
its terribly cold, innocent spin.
That lake stays blue and free; it goes
on and on.
And I know where it is.
William Stafford
I am an old man
and have known
a great many
troubles,
but most of them
never happened.
Mark Twain
Dear Lord,
Help us to do our very best this day
and be content with today's troubles
so that we shall not borrow the troubles of tomorrow.
Save us from the sin of worrying,
lest stomach ulcers be the badge of our lack of faith.
Amen.
Peter Marshall
but most of them
never happened.
Mark Twain
Dear Lord,
Help us to do our very best this day
and be content with today's troubles
so that we shall not borrow the troubles of tomorrow.
Save us from the sin of worrying,
lest stomach ulcers be the badge of our lack of faith.
Amen.
Peter Marshall
Peace,
Terry Hershey
