Through Stained Glass: Thursday Thoughts on a Friday

 

                              It’s Thursday and, surprisingly, I don’t have many thoughts.

               I'm outside on my patio. My “Nashville” string lights are on, and Moths are flocking to them like children to their favorite Disney character at Disney World. Or so I assume. I’ve never been.

               The neighborhood is quiet. No events at the high school. No children outside enjoying this cool Fall evening. No Cicadas. Not even my wind chimes.

               Silence.

               And, well, Crickets, chirping away. Before the Sun tucked itself behind the Western horizon, the Cardinals were singing, as they always do.

               But now, it’s quiet.

               A neighbor pulls into their driveway across the street, and Brigid barks. She acts as the welcoming committee or feels it’s Her duty to inform the neighbors of any activity in the cul-de-sac.

               Just a few weeks ago it was still light at 7:58 p.m., and the neighbor kids were out playing, jumping on their trampoline and getting yelled at to “Come inside. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

               I don’t mind the silence out here. It’s a nice change of pace from what Summer was like toward the end. Whistles, cheers, sounds from the band, bright lights from the high school football and soccer field: students preparing for competition on the gridiron.

               The occasional loud engine disrupts the evening. But mostly, it’s still. It’s calm. I can feel Creation breathing.

               So I breathe. I’ve got a flannel on because my forearms were getting chilly. In the air, I smell a grill- rather, something being barbecued. My stomach grumbles. Did I have supper?

               On Sunday, we'll read a parable about two sons whom their father asked to work in the vineyard. One initially refuses but later changes his mind and does the work, while the other agrees but never follows through. We’ve all experienced this—intending to do something, but life happens. Soon, the dishes pile up in the sink, and the plant in the corner, with its brown leaves, seems to ask for water. We’ll get to those dishes, water the plant, and all will be well.

               Unless we don’t. And the dishes get grimy, one brown leaf turns to four, and we find ourselves working harder to make things right. But we do the work. We have time to reconsider our choices. We do what needs to be done, even if it isn’t our first choice.

               I’m not sure where this sermon will end up. Jesus' parable is working on me, as it's meant to. We are both the children in the parable. We’ve been both the former and the latter. It’s okay to be both. Being human, especially on days like today, is acceptable.   Yet, I can’t escape this silence.

               More cars. 121 is busy tonight. Where are these folxs rushing to? I hope everyone gets home safely.

               We need silence. We need these still moments to rest, to hear something other than the cacophony of voices clamoring for our attention. What are these Crickets going on about? How many more of these still, quiet nights will we have before the chilled air of the Northwest arrives?

               What is that line from the famous HBO show? Winter is coming.

               Woah, Adam. We are three days into Fall. Don’t rush it!

               I’m not. I’m simply paying attention.

               I’m now listening to the sound of the Amtrak whistle. That train horn always reminds me of Merton, who has this wonderful story about how our thoughts during meditation are like trains pulling into the station. When we're quietly praying or listening for God's gentle, still voice, distractions naturally come. When they do, try to see them as the train’s whistle—welcome them warmly, acknowledge their presence, and then gently send them on their way. This way, we turn interruptions into a peaceful part of our practice.

               I like to think that the first child who said ‘no’ and then did the work had a quiet moment when they heard the urgency in their parent’s request to act. It’s never too late to change our minds. It’s never too late to do the next right thing.

               The thing about being human, as I learn with each passing day, is that we aren’t static beings. Meaning we aren’t stuck in this life. We can change. We evolve. Admitting this and welcoming this reality frees us to choose the better parts of life. Even when we think we’ve missed the train.

               Again, I lean into Merton’s wisdom, who writes, “To be born again is not to become somebody else, but to become ourselves.” (Love and Living)

               The roads are busy with traffic. The noise interrupts this still night. I’m reminded that I’m not alone. There are the Crickets. There’s you. There’s always us.

               Ope, the neighbor's Dogs are out. Brigid assumes her position, alerting the neighborhood to the latest arrival. Tecumseh is in His corner, nose to the air, stealthily sniffing for what I can’t see.

               Ugh. It’s great, right? To know we aren’t alone. To remember we have each other. To proclaim our interdependence.

               I wonder if that’s what silence does.

               Let us hear the good news that God is here. And there. Everywhere.

To choose love.

Maybe that’s the next right thing.