presence

Brother Lawrence, fifteenth century monk, is often mentioned from the pulpit to illustrate the principle of joyous living. Even in his own lifetime, his unflappable nature and perpetual joy created a buzz. In the same way that the Queen of Sheba journeyed to Israel to investigate Solomon's renowned wisdom, pilgrims sought out Brother Lawrence, poster child for joy. They had to see this legendary monk for themselves. "What's your secret, Brother?" they asked. "How do you do it?"
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Not being known as an exhibiter of joy myself (ha!), Brother Lawrence piqued my interest, but I put off buying his book because I thought I had him all figured out. I imagined him as a fairly simple guy. He had no family to live with, which eliminated at least half of life's common stressors. And his assignment at the monastery was running the kitchen. Not to diminish the importance of his job, but I had to ask myself, how hard could that be? Forgive me, Brother, but life as a monk in the fifteenth century had to be a lot less stressful than that of a working mother in the modern age.
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However. Alas. Recent events have proved that joy is my puzzle's missing piece. Christians should exhibit joy. I should exhibit joy. Often, I don't. This is not good for my witness, nor is it helpful in any of my relationships. It's a big problem. To remedy the issue, I finally ordered Brother L's book, The Practice of the Presence of God, and immediately kicked myself for having waited so long.
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Neither Brother Lawrence nor the mystery ingredient in his recipe for joy were what I expected. As it turns out, stress is relative. Like you and me, BL regularly had to face situations that made him uncomfortable. His secret? He doggedly refused to live outside the presence of God. Quite simply, moment by moment, no matter where he was or what he was doing, he purposefully put God right there with him. This was not easy for him. It required effort, and he often failed. He was, however, resolute, refusing to give up. He determined to live every moment with God—every moment, aware of his human inadequacies, but forgiven; every moment, in the presence of his loving Father. He knew, no matter the task at hand, God would enable him to carry it out. There was no need for worry, no need to be snappy. He exhibited peace even in the midst of a big busy kitchen, because God was right there with him. That's why he was unruffled. Mystery, solved.
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Deciding to follow Brother Lawrence's example, I spent this week living in the presence of God. Remembering to include Jesus in every moment of my life was not easy, but paid enormous dividends, right from the start. 
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Yesterday, making my way to a dreaded meeting, I squeezed my fingers into a tight fist, pretending to hold Jesus's hand. As we walked along, the two of us marveled at the beauty of the day. Together we regarded the historic brownstone rowhouses along Jones Street, framed by budding trees and flowers, dappled in sunlight and shadow. Happiness swelled in my heart. My fear was replaced by joy.
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Give your servant a happy life—I put myself in your hands. ~ Psalm 86:3, The Message
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e-mail, transformed

Until recently, I had an overwhelming fear of e-mail. My terror stemmed from actual experience with the dreaded stuff, so I wouldn't call it a phobia per se, although it rivaled my irrational fear of spiders. Spiders have never hurt me; E-mail ruined my day routinely and often, for years. Over time checking my inbox made me a little jumpy, like a postal inspector in a hazmat suit because of all the anthrax. Who could blame me?

E-mail was an annoying boss who must have been absent the day they studied "The Basics of Managing People" in business school. She brought me work, for which I was grateful, but her terse manner chipped away at my self-esteem. E-mail, why are you so uptight? And why all the last minute demands? E-mail was always ready to deliver directives, but was shy about coming around when I submitted commendable work. Sometimes I wasn't sure my clients received the art I completed for them at all; unless they were unhappy, E-mail hid behind a tree.

My relationship with E-mail changed seven or eight months ago when I launched a blog for Christian writers. For practical reasons, I use e-mail to manage the content of blog. Apparently, for writers, e-mail's "compose" window is just another blank canvas. Some of the e-mail messages I get from my authors are every bit as powerful as the essays they send as attachments, over which they have labored for weeks. Why? Because their e-mail messages are more personal, and less carefully edited. They are acoustic, unplugged. My inbox is stuffed with these gems. Let me just tell you, sweet people: I wish I could publish each and every one. For obvious reasons, I can't.

Sometimes, I see a germ of an idea in an e-mail from a writer friend that needs to be developed for the world to see. My friend Vikki wrote one such sentence about her childhood, almost as a throw-away comment in our back-and-forth e-mail messages. When she was a little girl, in the early morning hours, she would hear her parents typing down the hall. They wrote scripts for plays that aired on a local radio station. I begged her to expand this brilliant little seed into an entire post for the blog. She and our mutual friend Brett got to chatting about her assignment (via e-mail!); Brett surprised us by sharing a couple of amazing stories from his childhood.

All of this developed into a short series called Childhood Joys and Wonder: Vikki's essay (Part I) posted Wednesday; Brett's (Part II) goes live today. Both of their stories are wonderful, I hope you'll take the time to read them. It would be tragic, however, if no one outside our small circle was privy to the original e-mail from which the series sprang. Therefore, I attained permission to post this paragraph, written by my friend Brett Wilkes.

I was thinking about what stories I can tell from being seven years old...  

For some reason, the first one that came to mind was playing piano at church. I may have been nine or ten when this happened; it occurred a couple of times. I learned a long, involved song on the piano from my lessons and practice, and I would get to play it in church during the offering collection. Most weeks, it was my mom who played, as she was our organist. But a couple of times, I played a piece on the piano, and did well. I was proud of myself/relieved at not messing up/happy at having done a good job on a great-sounding song... and yet I felt this strange anger? bitterness? that not many people applauded when I stepped down from  the piano and into the pew. Actually, they couldn't see who was playing because of the way things were set up, and people told me after church they were so surprised when this short boy walked out from behind the piano rather than my mom or the other lady who played piano for church every Sunday; but they hadn't done a lot of clapping or whatever kind of recognizing. I brought this up to my mom—I was only nine, remember—and she had to tell me that playing a song in church wasn't for the purpose of being liked by the people who heard it. It was just to play for God as a gift/offering/worship. That message made sense to me, but for whatever reason—age? being human?—I didn't like that. I wanted that recognition. Years down the road now, I try to live with a healty balance of enjoying affirmation from others while not being dependent on recognition. I don't think the enjoyment of recognition is bad in itself. But I'm still learning where the differences are and how recognition and satisfaction work and interact. I'm also still learning what actually makes God enjoy something.

Brett voluntarily helps me edit every single post that we publish at baaaaa.com. He seems to think he's more of an editor than a writer, but I beg to differ. Thanks for everything, Brett.... and thank you writer friends, all of you, for taking the edge off that old biddy, E-mail.

Have no fear of sudden disaster or of the ruin that overtakes the wicked, for the LORD will be your confidence and will keep your foot from being snared. ~ Proverbs 3:25-26 

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