Yesterday I posted a blog about an experience on a beach on Whidbey Island. I hoped that the image of a creation called ‘Tristan and Ryan’s House. There was a technical glitch…so here it is.

In the first and last analysis, we human beings are makers. From the beginning of time we have been tasked with the work of making. Making shelter. Making fire. Making food. Making art. Making other people. While animals also are makers…nests…hiding places…other animals…as humans we have a big job of being makers. I was reminded of this when I noticed the business card of a friend’s daughter who creates amazing statues and fanciful art inspired by her Australian heritage. Her business card did not read ‘artist’ or ‘painter’ or even ‘sculptor’. It boldly stated her name and then ‘Maker’. I have kept this card to not only remind me of her work but also of my own.
Last week my family and I meandered along a beach on Whidbey Island off the coast of Washington state. This particular beach is the recipient of all manner of washed up logs, branches, even whole trees stripped to a clean, near-whiteness by the ocean’s push and pull. These gifts from the Sound litter the sand for as far as the eye can see looking like skeletons of large sea-faring mammals that have met a treacherous demise, washed to land by a violent wind.

And yet…because we are at-heart makers, these abandoned ‘bones’ had been gathered by beach walkers of all ages to create something more, something whimsical and magical. Several places along the beach held the visible frame of a shelter for perhaps a small child to hide from the sun’s rays or the too eager eyes of a parent. The wood leaned in triangles and rectangles and structures resembling a Lincoln Log playhouse. The creations, now with no other maker in sight, begged for attention and the addition of one more log here…another right there. And so I obliged, adding my own twist of creativity that said ‘I was here.’

But the piece de resistance was one creation that took its inspiration from the many ships that sailed the nearby waters. Log upon log had been piled until a two story pirate like ship had been made. Towels hung on one of the walls, perhaps left behind by the architects, used to dry off after a cooling dip in the frigid waters near by. Looking up, I saw a long piece of flat wood with the words “Tristan and Ryan’s House”. I laughed and wondered who these lads were and how long it took them to be the makers of this remarkable creation.

With the beautiful work of Tristan and Ryan still swimming in my brain,that evening I came back to hear the news of the shootings in Orlando. Once again, what seems impossible had happened. Lives lost. Hearts broken. Families crushed. Possibilities cut short. Hatred and misunderstanding, fear and phobias littered a place that had once only held the sounds of laughter and the beat of music and dancing feet. Like most people, I felt the despair of yet another such tragedy.

And now in the aftermath of such destruction, such pain, here we are. Again. What to do? How to feel? What does it all mean? How can we stop it? There are calls for prayer and moments of silence. There are shouts for control of our nation’s fascination…love…of guns. Once again sides will be taken and lines will be drawn in the sand, political rhetoric will roll off tongues and fall on mostly deaf ears. We will say the names of these young people as we did the children of Sandy Hook and in all the other times in the hopes that this time might be different. And we will mean it and yet it know it is inadequate.

But perhaps this time will be different. Perhaps this will be the time when we remember that we are all born to be makers. Makers not of destruction but of shelters. Makers who take the raw materials of what gets washed up on our shores and who build something beautiful and filled with hope. Makers who stake a claim on a house we have built, a house built in understanding and kindness and goodness and the promise of a future. A house that welcomes all and refuses to allow hatred and fear to have the final say. We will put our name on this house and baptize ourselves in the cooling waters that flow outside its door. We will call this house, Love.

As a maker, this is my prayer.

In the first and last analysis, we human beings are makers. From the beginning of time we have been tasked with the work of making. Making shelter. Making fire. Making food. Making art. Making other people. While animals also are makers…nests…hiding places…other animals…as humans we have a big job of being makers. I was reminded of this when I noticed the business card of a friend’s daughter who creates amazing statues and fanciful art inspired by her Australian heritage. Her business card did not read ‘artist’ or ‘painter’ or even ‘sculptor’. It boldly stated her name and then ‘Maker’. I have kept this card to not only remind me of her work but also of my own.
Last week my family and I meandered along a beach on Whidbey Island off the coast of Washington state. This particular beach is the recipient of all manner of washed up logs, branches, even whole trees stripped to a clean, near-whiteness by the ocean’s push and pull. These gifts from the Sound litter the sand for as far as the eye can see looking like skeletons of large sea-faring mammals that have met a treacherous demise, washed to land by a violent wind.

And yet…because we are at-heart makers, these abandoned ‘bones’ had been gathered by beach walkers of all ages to create something more, something whimsical and magical. Several places along the beach held the visible frame of a shelter for perhaps a small child to hide from the sun’s rays or the too eager eyes of a parent. The wood leaned in triangles and rectangles and structures resembling a Lincoln Log playhouse. The creations, now with no other maker in sight, begged for attention and the addition of one more log here…another right there. And so I obliged, adding my own twist of creativity that said ‘I was here.’

But the piece de resistance was one creation that took its inspiration from the many ships that sailed the nearby waters. Log upon log had been piled until a two story pirate like ship had been made. Towels hung on one of the walls, perhaps left behind by the architects, used to dry off after a cooling dip in the frigid waters near by. Looking up, I saw a long piece of flat wood with the words “Tristan and Ryan’s House”. I laughed and wondered who these lads were and how long it took them to be the makers of this remarkable creation.

With the beautiful work of Tristan and Ryan still swimming in my brain,that evening I came back to hear the news of the shootings in Orlando. Once again, what seems impossible had happened. Lives lost. Hearts broken. Families crushed. Possibilities cut short. Hatred and misunderstanding, fear and phobias littered a place that had once only held the sounds of laughter and the beat of music and dancing feet. Like most people, I felt the despair of yet another such tragedy.

And now in the aftermath of such destruction, such pain, here we are. Again. What to do? How to feel? What does it all mean? How can we stop it? There are calls for prayer and moments of silence. There are shouts for control of our nation’s fascination…love…of guns. Once again sides will be taken and lines will be drawn in the sand, political rhetoric will roll off tongues and fall on mostly deaf ears. We will say the names of these young people as we did the children of Sandy Hook and in all the other times in the hopes that this time might be different. And we will mean it and yet it know it is inadequate.

But perhaps this time will be different. Perhaps this will be the time when we remember that we are all born to be makers. Makers not of destruction but of shelters. Makers who take the raw materials of what gets washed up on our shores and who build something beautiful and filled with hope. Makers who stake a claim on a house we have built, a house built in understanding and kindness and goodness and the promise of a future. A house that welcomes all and refuses to allow hatred and fear to have the final say. We will put our name on this house and baptize ourselves in the cooling waters that flow outside its door. We will call this house, Love.

As a maker, this is my prayer.

?

A week ago, I sat in a meeting with our bishop as we grappled together with the action and the inaction of the every-four-year gathering of the people called United Methodists. This event happened in Portland, Oregon and brought with it what now seems like its quadrennial dose of angst and hand-wringing. It is not an easy task to be human. To be the church. To be a church dedicated to living in a global way with people whose life experiences and understanding of the Holy are so very different. A kind of difference that most often draws lines in the sand rather than compelling hands to reach out. 
As the bishop gave his opening remarks that would set the stage for what we hope would be healthy, helpful conversations, he said something, two words really, that grabbed me and have not let me go. It may have been a throw away two words for him. I don’t know. Maybe they were specifically chosen for their impact. All I do know is that after he said them I was unable to really listen to the next few minutes of what he was saying. Instead, my thoughts, hung on this statement: “It is my heart-hope…” 

It is my heart-hope. I thought of what it means to have ‘heart-hope’. This is not the hope that can be grounded on what sends a person to thinking…to believing..all things done with mind-hope. In my way of seeing, I can hope in all kinds of ways. Mind-hope is often based in knowledge, in angling with statistical probability. “Given what I know and the odds in this situation, I hope this will…turn out well…will solve the problem…will prove I am right. ” This hope stays floating someplace above the shoulders in a foggy, cloudy presence waiting to land on whatever will receive it.

Heart-hope is also not an experience that finds its roots in what can be defined by creed or doctrine or even good old common sense. The right words rarely feed heart-hope and do not give it wings to fly. Saying whatever seem to be right words, even multiple times and for years, also do not give birth to heat-hope. With heart-hope, it is never a recipe of do A, then B and, hopefully, C will inevitably happen.

No. The kind of deep longing we can call heart-hope finds its home in the very depths of who we are. It finds its home in the muscle that sits in our chest and throbs with our very lives. It is moved by passion and love. Yes, it gets broken over and over again and yet we work like anything to mend it, one beloved breath at a time. Heart-hope is fueled by faith, however we name that, and is the stuff of miracles…those acts that confound us and have us looking over our shoulder for the More who must have shown up without our seeing, without our knowing.Heart-hope is the riskiest of business because, in it, we have the most to lose.

What are your heart-hopes? I have heart-hopes, deep, enormous heart-hopes. Many of them surround my children and those I love fiercely. Other heat-hopes are directed toward injustices I witness in this world…those that bump up against the lives of other people’s children, young and old alike. Still other hear-hopes are held for our nation, the world, this beloved planet and even this church to which I chose to hitch my star. So many heart-hopes.

The desert monk and wise one, Abba Poemen, gently warned those wrestling with their own ancient heart-hope: “Do not give your heart to that which does not satisfy your heart.” As I continue to hear the bishop’s words ringing in my ears, I pray that I may have the courage to allow these deep hopes to settle into that place of Wisdom that travels with each of us if we have presence of heart to listen.i pray that his heart-hopes lie gentle in his chest as he offers his work and his very life to this church he visibly loves. I pray that I may allow the heart-hope that beats deep within to be true and authentic and that I honor that in each person I meet even if our respective heart-hopes do not seem to want to dance with one another. Perhaps when we each hold our heart-hopes as sacred we might move to a place of satisfying the Heart of All.

“Do you have the patience to wait till the mud settles and the water is clear?

Can you remain unmoving till the right action arises by itself?”

~ Lao Tzu

I am a pool swimmer. This does not fit well in my once-adopted, now-home state that boasts more than 10,000 lakes. When I moved here I was not prepared to be expected to jump into any body of water without notice…or fear…of what lurks below the surface. I am not given to want to swim with anything that doesn’t also walk upright. For years, I avoided this confession and tried as best I could to get into the water and remove my mind from the fish, the turtles, the weeds…all the things ‘I could not see.’ I tried not to pass this dislike of lake swimming onto my children and the fact that I succeeded pleases me. 

This week I saw this quote from the Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu, and began to think about the notion that maybe my aversion to swimming in lakes may go deeper than the recreational pursuit of swimming. This week I read these words of the founder of Taosim as both real and metaphor. Do I have the patience to wait until the mud settles and the water is clear? Do I have the patience and the courage to move when I do not have the ability to see what also moves around me? Do you?

Like most people, I want to believe that I am more flexible than I probably am. I like to have things neatly decided, following a path I have carefully constructed based on good sense, desire, hope,set goals and a large dose of optimism. All that works out well when that path is nicely marked by both light and a long view of what is ahead. It is when the path twists and turns or when the shadows fall across the way that I get antsy. It is then that control is threatened and rigidity rears its ugly head. It is when the waters are muddy that I want to pull inward and protect myself and those I love at all costs. And at times like these, my initial reaction is to begin flailing against the muddiness, doing anything possible to clear the water and the path of any obstructions. Which, of course, only makes things worse…and more muddy.

The wisdom of Lao Tzu is to stand still. To practice the art of patience. And patience is an art, make no mistake about it. To stand still and wait for the particles of whatever is creating the inability to see the clear way ahead to settle, until the ‘right action arises by itself’. Patience. Waiting. Stillness. Hope. The arrival of right action. An action that has a wisdom of its own and will arise out of the mud if we have the ability or the sheer will to await its coming.

There are so many places in the world right now that seem steeped in mud. The very air seems full of particles that prevent us from seeing clearly. Mostly it seems we are all doing a lot of stirring up rather than standing still. We are creatures given to action, after all, and sometimes to our own detriment. I see this in our nation, in our world and in our organizations and institutions. The muddiness makes us so fearful and causes us to feel so out of control that we use our words and our actions to make something happen…anything happen. And this often only makes us unable to see clearly.

I wonder if these are days calling us instead to stand still, to have the patience to wait for the mud to settle. St. Augustine said “Patience is the companion of wisdom.” And above all, it seems as if wisdom is what is called for most in the living of these days. Don’t you think? 

So, today, at least for this day, I am going to try to be still enough to wait for the mud to settle. I am going to have faith in the Inner Wisdom of all that lives and breathes believing that right action has the power to give rise from where is lies hidden in the weeds. I will swim with all I cannot see and have courage. If you, too, are swimming in places that seem unfamiliar or unwelcome, I invite you to join me in this prayerful patient, waiting.