Pine Trees

The four tall pine trees had been looming over our house for years. Given they sat at the top of the steep hill behind our house, their presence was imposing. Every storm reminded me that we needed to remove them before they fell, but then the storms passed, and I put the work off. Recently, we hired someone to remove them, and, today as I sit looking out the window at the trees swaying in the outer bands of hurricane Helene, I’m so glad we did the work.

I can’t help but think of the important life lesson this has given me. It makes me think about a speech a friend of mine once gave about the pain of discipline. He pointed out that making the decision to do something, while painful or inconvenient, is often far less that what awaits you if you don’t.

I felt convicted as I listened to him. I could name many instances when I knew what I needed to do (or stop doing) but chose not to. The pine trees behind our house could well have been on that list this morning, but they’re not. It makes me not only grateful to have done the work before this storm, but also makes me wonder what other “pines” are out there that I need to address.

In twelve step recovery circles, they speak of “doing the next right thing.” It comes from people who have rarely, or never, done the right thing and now find themselves in deep holes of their own making. Doing the next right thing is their way of climbing out of the holes, one step at a time. It’s not pleasant work and always takes longer than anyone wants, but it’s the best way to new life.

Whether it’s a hole, a tree looming, or an ignored situation or relationship, doing the work when we’d rather not often leads to less work and pain if we don’t. “A stitch in time saves nine,” I’ve heard. Now I’m trying to listen.

"My Church"

“Even though we had some standing as Christ’s apostles, we never threw our weight around or tried to come across as important, with you or anyone else.” I Thessalonians 2:6

“It’s my church,” said the frustrated rector speaking to a group of parishioners. There was a sudden moment of silence when the church members looked at one another as if to say, “Did I just hear what I think I heard?” I wish it was an uncommon mistake born out of exasperation, but it is more common (in word and action) than one might think.

When we are at our best, we are all imperfect people doing the best we can with the help of God’s grace in the company of others. Yes, there are leaders within the community of faith who help us on our way, but when ego and insecurity fester, the trappings of the church become a quick fix to low self-esteem.  Whether as clergy or church members, we cling to roles, years of our membership, or the number of 0’s in our annual pledge. It happens everywhere, but when it’s found in the church it’s more tragic.

There was a time when I was wrapped up in my role and feasted on the respect that came with the position. It pains me now to admit it, but it also makes me understand how this minister could make such an outlandish claim. The church, our jobs, bank accounts, homes, partners, and children are gifts given. When we receive them as such, God’s grace has breathing room. When we cling tight as if they’re our possessions, grace and gratitude suffocate.

Paul understood this when writing to the early church, and we would do well to listen to him 2000 years later.

Trophies

My grandmother’s dining room was once filled with countless trophies. They lined the room on a shelf and gave witness to a remarkable sailing career. Although I never thought much about them, I knew, even as a child, it was an impressive collection. Returning to the home this weekend, I noticed the shelf had been taken down and all the trophies were gone. In town for my aunt’s funeral, the last of her generation, I couldn’t help but think about the passage of time and the trophies of life.

I was taught at an early age that the goal of life was to make a difference, to leave a mark, a legacy. I remember my striving for my high school diploma. I joked about how I would frame it in gold and hang it where everyone could see it. I remember wanting a particular college award that came with a brass pin. I said I’d never take it off if I got it. When I started working in schools, I was determined to make a name for myself. I wanted my children to think about me the way I thought about my father.

I’m embarrassed to admit, I have no idea where to find my high school diploma, in the drawer of my dresser the brass pin sits tarnished, and my children think very little about what their father once did. What I once thought was important, what I needed to define me, no longer matters. Like my grandmother’s trophies, the achievements I valued have been taken down and put away.  

I can’t help but wonder what really matters, what really lasts? Life chasing trophies is exhausting. I still believe we’re called to make a difference, to leave a mark, but maybe we do so in the wrong way.

My aunt’s funeral was a reminder that each of us comes with an expiration date and none of us knows how much time we have. A wise man pointed out that people on their deathbed never ask to see their financial portfolio, the name plate on their office door, or any award given. And yet, that’s what we spend most of our lives striving for and talking about. I have a feeling all those who have come to the end of their lives would tell us to stop the striving and start the living for what really matters.

With all the striving that surrounds us and all the shiny trophies waiting, it’s easy to get caught up in what doesn’t last. There’s a more excellent way, and it’s high time I find it, for where my treasure is, there my heart will be also.