Maxing My Own Sax
In the post a few days ago about my friend Max and his sax, I spoke about how we use "stuff" to fill in spiritual holes that cannot be filled with "stuff". It struck me odd that Max's wisdom was haunting me, but I honored the impulse. God does not send images that strong for nothing. I have had a fair amount of positive response about that post, and so I wrote it off to thinking that the impulse must have been to touch someone else in their need. And that is wonderful.
Then I got in my car and drove to Massachusetts to deal with two things: the final disposition of my father's will -- which has been very troubling, and sorting through my Mother's antiques with an eye to their disposition.
STUFF CENTRAL.
Well, duh.
I was walking around today, having returned home last night, and thought -- "Wait, wait -- no matter how much or (in my case) how little ended up coming to me from my father via the woman who lived with him for a few years - no matter how much or how little -- it would never fill the place in me called "Healthy Paternal Love & Approval."
Let it go. Let it all go.
Stop going to the hardware store looking for an egg salad sandwich.
And my mother's antiques -- if I keep them or sell them -- she isn't coming back from the dead anytime soon. She isn't in them. They won't fill the spot in me that misses her, especially not in boxes in a storage room in Massachusetts. And no matter how many boxes there are, they do not fill the spot in me labeled "Has A Family".
If I try to ram things in those spaces that do not belong there, I deny myself the great gift of having those spaces touched by someone with love and compassion.
These are my open spaces -- the spaces for the Spirit of God to whistle through. These spaces help me see the people who have matching spaces -- help me comfort their wounds with the understanding behind my own. We are all the walking wounded, all shortchanged in some way, all betrayed in some fashion. We didn't get enough. We miss people who died. We dream of a wholeness we cannot obtain.
But our Holy Father kills the fatted calf anyway, and invites us in. Astonishingly, we are paid the same as all the laborers who came before us. We all get to stand in the open fields of God's love and let His grace pour down on us like warm summer rain. All -- the broken and the brave -- you and me and all the people we know -- all, all, all.
Then I got in my car and drove to Massachusetts to deal with two things: the final disposition of my father's will -- which has been very troubling, and sorting through my Mother's antiques with an eye to their disposition.
STUFF CENTRAL.
Well, duh.
I was walking around today, having returned home last night, and thought -- "Wait, wait -- no matter how much or (in my case) how little ended up coming to me from my father via the woman who lived with him for a few years - no matter how much or how little -- it would never fill the place in me called "Healthy Paternal Love & Approval."
Let it go. Let it all go.
Stop going to the hardware store looking for an egg salad sandwich.
And my mother's antiques -- if I keep them or sell them -- she isn't coming back from the dead anytime soon. She isn't in them. They won't fill the spot in me that misses her, especially not in boxes in a storage room in Massachusetts. And no matter how many boxes there are, they do not fill the spot in me labeled "Has A Family".
If I try to ram things in those spaces that do not belong there, I deny myself the great gift of having those spaces touched by someone with love and compassion.
These are my open spaces -- the spaces for the Spirit of God to whistle through. These spaces help me see the people who have matching spaces -- help me comfort their wounds with the understanding behind my own. We are all the walking wounded, all shortchanged in some way, all betrayed in some fashion. We didn't get enough. We miss people who died. We dream of a wholeness we cannot obtain.
But our Holy Father kills the fatted calf anyway, and invites us in. Astonishingly, we are paid the same as all the laborers who came before us. We all get to stand in the open fields of God's love and let His grace pour down on us like warm summer rain. All -- the broken and the brave -- you and me and all the people we know -- all, all, all.
posted by Mata H at Friday, July 14, 2006
3 Comments:
"We all get to stand in the open fields of God's love and let His grace pour down on us like warm summer rain. All -- the broken and the brave -- you and me and all the people we know -- all, all, all."
I just wanted to see that again. What a beautiful, vulnerable post. Reminds me of lyrics from a rather bland current song that offers this:
What is the measure of a life well-lived...
This is a song for the weaker, the poorer
And so-called failures
Little is much when God's in it
And no one can fathom the plans He holds...
Who feels tired and under-qualified
Who feels deserted, and hung out to dry
This is a song for the broken, the beat-up
And so-called losers...
I appreciate your life, Mata.
((((((((HUGS)))))))) to you friend... indeed, it's all only "stuff" and what matters is that we don't try to fill the holes so completely that our hearts don't have room to grow in other directions. Many blessings to you, as you teach others by sharing your journey.
I think your right there with that - we all have holes that can't be filled, and they can help others and others help us - at the end of this, can't help but think about community
I look forward to your thoughts and words - thank you, have a peaceful weekend, Katie
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