I could not resist the opportunity to go to a 40^th year reunion. We had all graduated from college and had started a ministry to high school students together in the early 1970’s. We were young, idealistic and sometimes confused. Now we came together again after 40 years to look and to listen to one another. Amazingly, we are all essentially the same people. Many have had two or three careers, several children, traveled the world—and yet I could see in each person the spirit of their twenty-two year old self shining through those 60-year old faces. Linda was still an adorable extrovert, Don was still everyone’s best friend, Pete was still working the crowd and Lynn stood still and smiled at it all.

We think we are sophisticated post-middle-aged adults, but actually we possess an identifiable spirit which transcends all of that pretense. In spite of our best efforts, we remain as created. This is good news.

Can we relax deeply into our essential self and recognize the freedom in this radical acceptance of ourselves and of one another? Many times, in making a hairpin turn in our lives, we are invited to move toward our essential self—and leave our hard work at “being someone else” in the distance.

I walked down the hall with another person and asked rather casually “how has your day been thus far?” She replied: “falling apart.” When I asked “how so?” she told me that her boss had been transferred and that she was sure she was going to lose her job. She had been on the phone for several hours the previous night and all morning trying to find out what happened, and what might happen next. She was doing a lot of guessing. Then, right before the meeting began, she summarized: “All I want to do is hang on for two more years until retirement!”.

I understand the panic when there is change. I too, have a strong impulse to download the gory details about “what happened” in order to defend against some imagined future. I know I can waste time and energy anxiously predicting the future and totally missing right now. I wonder what might happen if I take some of that “guessing” energy about the future, and put it toward full engagement in my work and relationships this day? And I wonder what would happen if, during any change at work or home, we turned to one another and openly talked about what was happening?

Making a hairpin turn somehow involves a willingness to share information—even when in the middle of the turn.

A group of us had “taken the summer off” and were now gathering to talk about our future work together. Before discussing the tasks of this next year, we paused to “catch up” with one another. One woman’s health was better after a scarey bout of facial twitches and a new regimen of acupuncture. Another person in the group had moved and was dealing with new but “buckling” floors. Yet another member of our group shared about her mother’s death and asked us how long the grief stayed around. After three years of volunteering together, often we disagree about the task before us. Other times, we grumble about each other’s ways. Yet, when we focus on our mission (“What is best for the children?”) and engage our hearts (“How are you doing really?”), we seem to move into the future with commitment and connection. We can handle all the chaos of the work—and even of each other—when we are known and cared for by our vulnerable little team.

I set up the room to teach a class on Compassion. I was sorting through the handouts and a woman came into the building. I asked her if she was “looking for Compassion”? She said with enthusiasm: “Oh yes! Please!” I asked her name and noted she was not on the class roster. She said that she “had to talk to someone—a woman—and right now!” I realized she was not in the class. I told her I had 10 minutes before class began and then I had to go and teach a Compassion class. We went into another room and she began:  she was on a 30-day notice at work, she had blood in her urine, she was scared she was not going to have health insurance, and finally, she went to a male doctor and he was horrible to her. Nine minutes were gone and I stood up and gave her a phone number of a nurse to call. She asked—with raised eyebrows: “Can I take the Compassion class?” I replied: “No we are in week number four, maybe next term.” She said: “Oh, I have missed compassion?” And I said: “Yes, I believe you have missed compassion.”

When do we take action?  When do we stop everything and turn to the other and ask with an open heart “Say more”. How do we remain balanced, vital and healthy in the midst of it all?

The weekly meeting started, as always, with the person who had the most authority. He stated his issues in the same way as usual. People were looking at their calendars or writing another item on their “to do” list. Routine, ordinary, predictable. The evening before this meeting, a newsman described the financial situation with calmness as a screen flashed with a red jagged line which started in the upper left quadrant and bled to the lower right corner. Authority figures in our government walked into the picture and said they had a better idea. Other men nodded silently in the background. A woman at our staff meeting had red eyes, of anger perhaps, or of fear. She said we really needed to help others during this dangerous time. Her kleenex seemed to be full of her own need for help. Everyone looked away and stopped their writing. All nodded but nobody said anything. The man in charge went to the next item on the agenda. 

Another day while tutoring children, one of our African American teenagers said she loved John McCain and she hated black people. We inquired further but she remained silent and then grabbed a snack and left. One of the four-year olds ran down the hall and jumped into my arms. No words.

 When do we remain silent? When do we take action? When do we stop everything and turn to the other person and ask with an open heart “say more”. How do we remain balanced, vital and healthy in the midst of it all?

We had a scholarship program at our company for children-at-risk and we found out that a woman who received the funding was not using the money appropriately. After many phone calls, we finally met for breakfast so she could explain the situation. She came to the table already talking before she sat down about the troubles in her life. She was a new single mom. Her children were not adjusting to the separation, and they were doing poorly in school. She had migraine headaches. She said she “fully intended” to do what she promised in the grant, but at a later time—when she got her life in order. Then she burst into tears and said that she could not sleep at night. She finally blurted out that she was sorry for taking and spending the money on herself and not the children in her program. She had talked for fifteen minutes straight—first justifying her actions, and then confessing her guilt. I told her I suspected she would sleep better if she would simply take responsibility for her actions. We set up a plan for her to send a check directly to me each month for two years. If she was late once, we would have to press charges. Her checks came with hand-written notes each month for two years. She was sleeping better even though her kids were “up and down” and, in the last note, she thanked us and said her life was settling down. We all need second chances. How might we both give and receive second chances—so we can all sleep better?

We were trying to do the right thing, and yet each step got more and more complicated. The children, formerly homeless and all vulnerable, had the opportunity to go to overnight camp for one week. Communication with the camp officials had many twists and turns as our families could not afford 65% scholarships—they really needed 90%. And our families could not find their W-2s or past documentation to show their financial need. The required physicals took some coordination, and then we got the list of materials needed (sleeping bag, bathing suits, etc). Once again, we needed to figure out how to facilitate this for 13 children. Then finally, for a variety of reasons, some children “got to go” and others did not go. We volunteers struggle all the time with boundary issues. How can we be present to what is going on (often to the chaos in the lives of these dear children and families) in a way that makes sense? When do we step in and take action, and at what point do we let go? How do we hold, at the same time, the systemic issues of poverty and the broken heart of a little boy who wanted to go to camp but could not? On all of this we pitch a tent in our hearts and crawl in and wait for the call of love.

In the middle of my early morning walk, the rain came straight down in heavy plops of water. The sound of the drops on my baseball cap reminded me of being inside a tent with the tapping of the rain all around. I felt safe yet still aware that one small piece of cloth separated me from the outside forces. Inside the “tent”, I could actually talk to myself and get more and more frightened (“what if this thing leaks? What if the wind blows it away?”) or, I could talk to myself and feel more and more safe and grateful (“How amazing this sound is. . .and how lucky I am to have this tent.”) There is always a world around us just inches from our face—that can be interpreted as “dangerous” (“will we ever get along?…will our money get us through this downturn?”) or can be experienced as “delicious” (“this is beautiful”). We decide, and this alone turns our lives in new directions.