All Saints' Day 2022: Seasons

To everything there is a season . . .

The familiar words are easy to hear when walking under a canopy of fall leaves, but more difficult when surrounded by other changing seasons. A sudden job change, a bad doctor’s prognosis, or the end of a relationship are much harder to celebrate than colorful leaves. One of the most difficult changes is the loss of a loved one. The words from Ecclesiastes can sound dismissive when used to explain the loss of those we love, the equivalent of a spiritual “Oh well,” but All Saints Day demands we look at the losses in our lives and see them with some spiritual understanding.

One of the ways I do this is to write the name of every person I’ve loved who has died. With each name, I pause and picture the person, remember specific things about him or her – the sound of their laugh, the way they moved - then remember moments we shared and what I loved most.

Although it takes time, my list of losses transforms into a list of gifts. I find myself thinking not of who I lost but who I was given. It also points me to those I still have, and reminds me of the time I have left. People, places, and things take on sacred meaning, which, of course, is how God wants it, and I leave All Saints Day grateful for those I’ve known and determined to appreciate the ones I still have.

Just

One of the important things when you are a writer is to ask for feedback. It’s easier to ask for than receive, but a trusted friend can show you things to which you are blind. That was the case recently. The final reader of my novel’s draft showed me how often I use the word “just.” He was just a parish priest … it was just something he felt he should say… the examples seemed endless, and I’ve been thinking about the word ever since.

“Just” is a filler, a way to put something into a sentence to downplay whatever it is describing. It reveals a timidity of heart. Rather than say something boldly, instead of saying some thing or some one is important, “just” keeps us from getting carried away and saying what we really mean.

While it will be a hard habit to break, the effort is worth it. I want to speak boldly and not discount the people who, and moments that, matter.

It wasn’t just a conversation with my son, it was a conversation that will change things forever.

It’s not just a (stream, wave, or beautiful sunset), it’s a reminder that we live in an incredible world filled with beauty.

She wasn’t just a teacher, she was a person who devoted her life to touching the lives of others.

It’s not just a book, it’s a song of a soul sung for others who might be stirred by its melody.

Stripping away the clutter of our language and the pillows surrounding our tender hearts reveals who we are and what we care about. No wonder so few do it.

Just a thought.

Terminal Uniqueness

I think I might have gotten it wrong. Thinking back to my days in the classroom, I can see how hard I worked as a teacher to get students to see their uniqueness. No matter who it was, I wanted him or her to see that there was no one with the same gifts and talents. I celebrated every time a student claimed their one-of-a-kind nature, but I now see I should have worked just as hard to teach them the opposite lesson: despite our uniqueness, we’re all alike.

I hang out with people who recognize they have the disease of “terminal uniqueness.” No matter the situation, we can make anything all about us. The results are sometimes as hilarious as they are tragic. The magic comes when we stand back and see how similar we are to one another. The fear I have is the same fear the person across the room has; the mistake a person made is just like the one we’ve all made. Slowly, we remove the cloaks of originality and hang them on the hooks by the door and bask in the things we have in common. Everybody’s got their “stuff” (not the word I want to use) but as singular as that stuff may seem, it’s not. Learning this changes everything.

In the bible, it says we are marvelously made, and we are. Out of the clay, each of us was created as a one-of-a-kind work of art, but we were made out of the same clay. We’ve lived lives that, on the surface, look different, but if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, we can learn that we are, beneath the surface, alike. In a world that only looks for what separates or divides us, finding what unites us seems refreshingly new. One might even say, divine.