A Labyrinthine Journey: Soon Coming in 3-D

This Sacred Breath

Hard to keep track of which one this is: Number 379,399,423 maybe. I take over 800 an hour depending on what I’m doing. Each one though is important and sacred for each one brings me a few more moments of living.

Out of those almost 380 million, I’ve probably only paid attention to a hundred or so and even then just for a moment, then the next moment and the next breath comes to bring life.

All those past breaths can’t help me now. Their moment has come, but now I need to be in this present moment.

This sacred breath.

This breath has probably come from everywhere.: this tree, that blade of grass, the lake down the street, a couple oceans, maybe a glacier or three, the house in another town on another continent. Even with this breath being present in this moment it may have quite a history to it that connects this moment with many moments and many people.

This sacred breath.

Who has shared this breath with me? This breath might be part of some child’s first breath. Maybe a part of someone’s last breath. This breath has probably known laughter as well as wailing. What will this breath bring me in this moment.

This sacred breath.

This breath is helping my brain with oxygen to form words. This breath is bringing energy to muscles large and small to take the words and touch keys in the right order to increase our mindfulness of this sacred breath.

This sacred breath.

This breath joins billions upon billions of other breaths in this moment on this planet. Some breaths are becoming song. Some are sharing ecstasy and love. Some are spreading hate and fear. Some breaths are bringing healing sleep. Some breaths are sources of struggle.

This sacred breath.

This breath knows not the future, nor how many breaths will follow for me or for you. Yet, this breath holds within it all the infinite possibilities of living. So many choices that lead to greater living and joy. So many choices that lead to pain and less life.

This sacred breath.

This breath comes following that last one. And God willing there will be more to come. Over 800 an hour. Almost 22,000 in a day. As I consider this breath, I give thanks. I accept this moment as a gift.

This sacred breath.

What will I do with this breath? What will you do with yours?

Thinking about vulnerability. That sense of mortality that always lurks beneath every ache and pain. It is momentarily set aside with each good breath, but returns when the limitations of breathlessness and weariness come sneaking in.

Vulnerability: the reminder that life is fragile in the midst of being amazingly resilient. In this moment, we are able and strong, and in the next all can be turned around. Most people can live a lot of their lives without the reminders of our own vulnerability, but when us pastors go boldly into hospital and hospice rooms, it is harder to avoid. When we sit at a table with someone who is wondering if their wife or children will let them back into their life, our uncertainties arise. When we stand in front of a congregation of mourners and try to find words of hope in the shadows of their grief, mortality cannot be ignored.

None of us like to be vulnerable. We want to feel safe and secure. We are driven to prove our ability and strength. We will do almost anything to avoid being left alone or ignored. Usually when I find those feelings of mortality, I will try to find a way to shift the focus and distract myself from those depressing thoughts. Yet, I think I have only made things worse. And so in the long run, that sense of helplessness only increases under the surface until it is uncovered as an emotional pothole if I’m lucky, but more likely some sinkhole or crevasse suddenly grabs my soul.

In whitewashing my own sense of mortality and limitations, I have stored up an acid bath of the weakness I was trying to avoid.

In talking about vulnerability with someone the other day, we pursued a different path. We explored together the areas of weakness and mortality.

It wasn’t enjoyable, but in the end we agreed that it was healing, even as the feelings were still present. We saw two gifts: the first is gratitude. As we are mindful that life is fragile, we are more appreciative of the simple gifts that life gives us all the time. I have walked the path of depression and still know the power of those shadows in my life when everything loses color and texture and when everything I want to do becomes mystery and struggle. So when I catch sight of a small yellow flower in my yard, it becomes an invitation to appreciate life. When life just flows, I can be glad. When I have reason to laugh or at least be at peace, then I can give thanks.

The other gift is compassion. As I allow the illusions of superiority and immortality fade away, then I first see myself as more human and then I begin to see others as fellow humans. Mortality and vulnerability are a great equalizer. When I catch myself in an uncompassionate moment, it is usually because I have forgotten how easily I could be in that place. As someone who has been divorced and then remarried, I can see relationships and their challenges and graces with a clearer and more compassionate heart. It is easy to hold onto enemies, or to simply ignore people as long as we see them as less than us. Once we regain that sense of our humanness and once we start seeing others as people with the same hopes and dreams and fears that we have, even if they speak a different language or enjoy different music than we like, or worship in a different way, than we become infected with compassion for them. We can no longer push them away or refuse to see them.

I still can’t say I’m fond of that feeling of vulnerability. Yet, I hope that I will be more willing to learn from that voice of mortality within me.