Or perhaps a friend who would simply join in folding laundry on Christmas Eve. Oh, that we might choose to be that kind of friend.
But even if not a friend, that we would always choose to be a people that bring the presence of a kind word and tender heart to all those we encounter. To friends, loved ones and strangers alike.
For whatever reason, I have never felt I pass muster to receive indisputably bold signs from God as I hope and guess my way through life. No flashes of light, writing on the wall or booming voices. While this is treason to the very theology I subscribe to—that God might choose to guide even me in such a manner—it remains a reality of my own insecurity. So I am shy to look for them and lack the confidence to ask for them. Rather, I am glued to the notion of God taking care of me in my smallness through gentle words of encouragement, simple acts of kindness or the warmness of acceptance. Often from a friend, or loved one. But, too, surprisingly often from an acquaintance or even a complete stranger. Simply, thoughtful gestures and generous words received as gifts, regardless of the source. Much of my wellness, and all of my journey, has been the result of these. And so, if I was ever challenged to stake a claim on a single notion of who God might want me to be, or any of us to be—prolific champion of the faith and resounding voice of leadership versus lowly participant in godly goodness—I would absolutely chance erring on the side of the latter. More shepherd than king.
Throughout our unusual twenty-minute encounter, I was able to guess at but one more thing. Her missing lambs on Christmas Eve were likely a little girl and a little boy. For the final portion of her folding was what appeared to be a single set of little girl’s pajamas and a single set of little boy’s pajamas. Folded slowly and lovingly, with the boy’s pajamas placed on top of the pile. Tiny soft flannel pajamas imprinted with several images of a single familiar face. Perhaps a face that will always remind her little boy of being home, as he grows, as he ponders, wherever he might be. A friendly face I had come to know so well during my own little-boy years.
Fred Flintstone.
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REFLECTION AND DISCUSSION
The Value of a Quiet Presence
“I have no doubt that ultimately the best recipe for truly binding up the broken-hearted includes fewer words, slower movements and a quieter presence than most of us cook up.” We live in a hyper-public culture of “love flash mobs” and orchestrated events where we record and share in some of the most private, vulnerable and sacred of moments. In such a culture, there is tremendous value in choosing to be a quiet presence, gentle in our approach and quiet in our generosity and kindness. There is beauty in kindness for its own sake, especially when there is no audience, choosing simple, thoughtful acts of kindness for one rather than for the masses.
So often the best gift we can give is simply to be present with someone, coming alongside them, creating space for them, honouring them and their story. Whomever we encounter, wherever we encounter them, a kind word, a hand on the shoulder could mean so much more than we know.
Can you think of someone in your life who has made you feel truly seen and understood? Who has created space for you and honoured your story?
What was it about them and their way of being with you that made you feel seen, heard, understood, honoured? What was it they did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say?
The Space in Between
Like in a laundromat by an intersection on Christmas Eve, often the most meaningful opportunities to come alongside someone as a quiet presence are not part of our plans at all. Most often, these opportunities show up unscheduled in the space in between our own grand plans and ideas. They come as pure gifts.
These opportunities may be disguised as plain old ordinary life or even seem like distractions. They are, however, invitations for us to be present with someone on their journey. When such moments emerge, it is up to us to see them (which requires paying attention) and to say yes to them.
Can you think of any moments like this to which you said yes?
Ones that you ignored or later regretted having missed?
What might keep us from seeing such opportunities? From saying yes?
Imperfect Offerings
“An entire generation is having to put an unnatural courage at the centre of compassion, where previous generations were simply compelled by kind hearts, human instincts and godly moments.” Whether we fear rejection, failure, or legal liability, many of us must overcome some fear in order to step out and give of ourselves. Many of us wait (and wait and wait) on finding just the right thing to do, give or say. We wait until we’re just a bit closer to good or perfect. The trick is that we must come as we are, before we feel ready. Because no one needs our perfection; they need our presence.
At the heart of it, what holds us back from offering or receiving comfort from others?
What keeps us from being present with and for others? Present in our own lives?
Is there an area of your life where you’d like to step out, take a risk, serve others, but you feel afraid or unprepared? What would happen if you took a chance and stepped out before you felt ready?
“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”
—Leonard Cohen, “Anthem”
Chapter 2: Nearly There
Dainty Songs for Little Lads and Lasses.
I think it’s worth repeating.
Dainty Songs for Little Lads and Lasses.
Think of all the books you’ve spent money on. Think of all the books you’ve borrowed. Think of all the books you were required to read in school. Think of all the books you’ve thumbed through, implied you’ve read, and truly want to read. Think of all the books you’ve ever heard about.
Is Dainty Songs for Little Lads and Lasses on any of those lists?
I guessed not.
But don’t laugh. We might have all missed out on a treasure without it.
Dainty Songs for Little Lads and Lasses is a Lutheran Sunday school songbook that was published by James R. Murray in 1887. Massachusetts born Murray was an army musician in the American Civil War who later became a piano teacher and, later still, a music publisher. He was also the one person with the wherewithal to include the song “Away in a Manger” among a selection of dainty songs for little lads and lasses, ultimately casting it into the North American mainstream. Likewise, Murray was the composer of one of the two popular melodies that accompany the song to this day.
Four hundred years prior, Martin Luther was busy forging a legacy as one of the most influential figures in Christian history, with a resumé that included Augustinian monk, ordained priest, scholar, professor, Bible translator and Protestant reformer. With more than enough adoration and esteem attached to his not-so-dainty legacy, a great many wanted to continuously add to it. Murray was among the many who were convinced that Luther had written “Away in a Manger” and printed this note alongside the lyrics and the subtitle “Luther’s Cradle Song” in his Sunday school songbook: “Composed by Martin Luther for his children, and still sung by German mothers to their children.”
Whether Luther did or did not write the lyrics for stanzas one and two will forever remain an earthly mystery. What is certain is that he did not write the third, and I would suggest most touching, verse.
However, credit