Progress Not Perfection

I recently visited my daughter and was touched to see one of my paintings on the wall of her apartment. I was embarrassed, too. It was painted a long time ago. I paint better than that now, I said to myself. As I drove home, I realized I needed to look at the painting in a different way. At the time, it was how I painted. Yes, I’ve made progress, but I should honor the earlier effort. If nothing else, it reminds me I’ve made progress.

The lesson is one I need to practice in other areas of my life. When I recall a moment from my past, I need to resist the temptation to judge such a “work of art.” Maybe I would write it better now, handle a situation at work differently, or be a husband or father in a new way if it happened today. The key is to be compassionate to the way I “painted” back then. If I’ve made progress, then that’s something to celebrate, too.

As people, we are works in progress. If  only we could believe that - not only with our lips but in the way we look at our lives - we would find a new freedom and a new happiness, the kind that surpasses all human understanding.

“I’m not who I want to be, I’m not who I’m going to be, but, thank God, I’m not who I used to be.”

An old AA Saying

Fourth of July 2022

(Sorry, I was away and couldn’t post this on the 4th)

This fourth of July, I awakened and sat on the bow of a catamaran on the waters of the coast of Belize. Sipping my coffee, I felt breeze caressing my face, let the sea air fill my lungs, and watched as Pelicans dove into the sea looking for breakfast. As the sun lifted, my thoughts turned toward the country I love, the country I’m worried about. Regardless of one’s political leanings, there is no doubt that our country is struggling. While I long to lift a sparkler and wave it with deep appreciation for all we have been given and all we have done as a nation, this morning my hand is as empty as my soul: What is going on? How will we ever get through this? Please, Lord, please be with us and guide us.

Taking a sip of coffee, I look down at the ropes attached to the mooring just as a gust of wind pushes our boat to one side. The mooring and ropes hold, but the boat shifts to one side and faces a new direction. Yes, I saw a sermon (or a brushstroke) in that! 

The winds are inevitable, but when attached to a mooring, the boat stays where it is. It will inevitably shift and face a new direction. As much as I may want the view to remain the same, there’s nothing I could do about the wind. My job is to appreciate the new direction I face. A solid mooring is the key. That, and strong ropes. Then, it’s possible to dance with the wind.

It’s hard when you’ve loved your old view. It’s scary when the boat shifts, and disconcerting to look in a new direction, but I guess that’s where faith comes in. 

Here’s to our nation’s birthday. Here’s to the glorious things we have achieved, the countless challenges we’ve faced. This morning I give thanks to the mooring that has held strong all these years, and to the ropes that have held us fast. This morning, I also give thanks for the wind and the new direction we now face. May it point us to another glorious sunrise.

Wendy

No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I know better, something deep within me still believes that bad things shouldn’t happen to good people. She was the kind of person I can only dream of being. She never judged anyone. She not only greeted everyone she met with kindness, but also genuine interest. I’m sure, like us all, she had her flaws, but I knew none of them. She was one of those people who made the world a better place, and the fact that cancer came and caused her to suffer before finally taking her seems cruel and utterly unfair.

I went to church today seeking solace, but the words sounded like empty platitudes, the music random chords. I tried to imagine what the early followers thought and felt when they looked at the tomb. Like me, they must have thought Christ’s death was cruel and utterly unfair. Of all the people, EVER, you would think God would have protected Jesus from all he went through, and yet there he was, behind the stone, with scars on his back and holes in his arms and legs. I just don’t get it. Neither did they.

I am wise enough to know the story did not end at the tomb, but sometimes that’s not enough. I want to stand up and scream, “Make the world fair, will you????” I believe God hears such cries, but doesn’t listen to them. A fair world is the last thing a person like me should desire. Instead, I should give thanks that God makes people like Wendy, that I was blessed to cross her path for an all-too-short period of time. I should use the example of her life as an inspiration for my own.

But, most of all, I need to close my eyes and see beyond the tomb and watch as Wendy is welcomed by the great cloud of witnesses, the saints beside whom she if fully qualified to stand. Such is the “deeper magic” of which C. S. Lewis wrote, and in which I so desperately believe.