the whole picture

     Recently, a friend did and said some things that hurt me and made me angry. I lived with the hurt and anger for a few weeks. Pretty soon, what he had done wrong started to look like the whole picture, but it wasn’t. Here’s how I found that out.

     One morning over coffee, I decided to take a short break from looking at what he had done wrong and instead spend a few minutes looking at what he had done right. I wasn’t trying to end-run the hurt or downplay it or to bury it under you-should-be-grateful. I was just agreeing to spend a few minutes saying “yes-and” – “yes, I have good reason to be hurt and angry, and he also has given me gifts.”

     I asked for help in remembering the gifts, and I started jotting them down – the people I have met through him and the trips I have taken because of him and the encouraging words and the visits and the wise counsel and the comfort when I was scared and lonely. The list went on and on. I’m still adding to it.

     Before I started the list, I could only see what he had done wrong. Now I can also see what he has done right. I can see the whole picture clearly.

“Then [her] eyes were opened, [her] sight was restored, and [she] could see everything clearly.” Mark 8:25

the voices inside

     There are a lot of voices inside, and they don’t always say the same thing. When that happens, my job is to decide which one wins.

     Just this morning, I read one line (about singing for joy), and it brought a little leap of excitement. A voice inside said, “You could do that today.” I enjoyed entertaining that possibility for a few minutes – until other voices chimed in with things like “Are you kidding? Do you remember how far behind you are at work?” and “That situation you’ve been worried about might really go south.” Pretty soon, the idea of singing for joy sounded silly, impossible, unrealistic and irresponsible.

     I’m going to try it anyway.

“With my whole being, body and soul, I will sing for joy to the living God.” Psalm 84:2

the music we make

      I will make music today. The only question is what kind of music I will make, and that is up to me. It isn’t dictated by what happens to me or by what my childhood was like or by what music the people around me are making. It is my choice.

     I will choose over and over again. I will give complaint, or I will give thanks. I will look for the bad, or I will look for the good. I will speak wounding words, or I will speak healing words. I will look down, or I will look up. Every small choice is another note.

     At the end of the day, it’s the music we make that counts.   

“As one old gentleman put it, ‘Son, I don’t care if you’re stark nekkid and wear a bone in your nose. If you kin fiddle, you’re all right with me. It’s the music we make that counts.” Robert Fulghum, All I really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

“Sing to God a brand-new song. . . . [S]trike up the band and make great music!” Psalm 149:1, 3

my powerful rightness

      Some weeks ago at a restaurant, I asked the waitress if the fried haddock sandwich could be broiled instead. She said yes. Later, she came back for our order. When the food arrived, I got a fried haddock sandwich.

     “This is fried,” I said to my friend. “I ordered broiled.”

     My friend said, “You ordered fried.”

     “No,” I said. “I ordered broiled. I never order fried.”

     “I know,” she said. “I was surprised when you ordered fried.”

     I was shocked by how much I wanted to be right – even about a fried haddock sandwich.

     Since then, I’ve been experimenting with “maybe you’re right.” I feel a lot lighter when I’m not carrying around my powerful rightness.

“Free me from . . . my powerful rightness.” A Benedictine prayer

“Set me free that I may give thanks. . . .” Psalm 142:7

making lists

     Lately, I’ve been doing something that feels a lot like kindergarten -- I’ve been making lists of things that I’m thankful for. I make lists on paper and on my laptop and on my phone. The more I write, the more I see. The more I see and write, the more I relax and enjoy my days. It is good.

     It protects me from self-pity. Just this morning, poor-me-I’m-feeling-sick became thank-You-for-so-many-healthy-days.

     It invites me to celebrate what I have instead of complaining about not having enough (time or energy or creative ideas or whatever).

     It helps me to enjoy the treasure in people (myself included) instead of finding fault.

     It gives me perspective in hard times. When there is seemingly-bad business news, I can say thank-You for yet another chance to let go of expectations and the illusion of control.

     It lets me appreciate what I accomplish in a day instead of haranguing myself about the things left undone.

     It teaches me to live eyes-wide-open and ears-wide-open and arms-wide-open.

     It is good.

“It is good to give thanks to the Lord. . . .” Psalm 92:1

simply saying

     A few days ago, I took the risk of telling a friend what’s really going on inside. When I finished, he looked me in the eye and said healing words. They were simple and clean and honest. He wasn’t trying to fix me or impress me or make me feel better or give me answers or nudge me in a different direction. He was simply saying that he understood.

     His words are four days old now. I carry them around with me. They put wind in my sails. I think they’ve just begun to live.

“A word is dead / When it is said / Some say. / I say it just / Begins to live / That day.” Emily Dickinson

“Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the body.” Proverbs 16:24