The Sunday Observer

I like that title up there.  I think it fits, and I think it’s a good warning.  Because every time I try to prepare one of these dang lessons on a day when I’m not allowed to go haring around doing the daily stuff, I start to think.  And then I have to write or talk or the loose ideas bang around in my head trying to line up right, and they drive me nuts.  So consider this a column, maybe?  Like an editorial?  Because even though I may have run out of pictures, I NEVER seem to run out of words.  When I die, the world will weigh TONS less.

Remember when you tried to teach your first kid (okay, I know some of you don’t have a first kid yet) how to share?  Like, the kids has something in his hands, something maybe he doesn’t even care about, but should a cousin want to play with it?  Loudly – no dice.  So you say something inane like, “Sharing is fun.  We love to share!!” with this idiotic look of happiness on your face.  Somehow, it is not in most of us to want to disengage from anything anybody else wants from us.  I suppose that’s survival mode.

So I’m preparing another lesson—this is turning into a pattern, actually, me having to do a lesson, you getting served up the musings.  And I’m thinking about this.  About how hard it is, when you actually have no control over anything, to give up the thing you hold in your hands.  When you feel like you have nothing, to share even information with somebody else.  And since we assume everybody else has exactly what it is we DON’T have, the reluctance is sometimes tinged with bitter resentment.

Does this resonate at all?

Here I am, driving down 8^th North, headed for town, and I see a cop, innocently sitting in a shady spot, aiming a speed gun – not necessarily at me, actually.  But at the traffic coming toward me.  Yes, he’s doing an important job, still – I’ve been caught that way before.  And yeah, yeah – I was grateful for the wake-up call, but not so grateful for the hefty fine.  So I think, I can give the wake-up call to these people myself, and maybe save them from the fine.  Thus, the moment I am slightly around the bend, just out of eyeshot (this doesn’t sound real honest, does it), I’m flashing my headlights at the people coming toward me: Caution. You’re about to be inconvenienced and it will cost you big time!”

And I like doing it.  I also delight in pulling out of a crowded parking lot because I’m leaving a hole.  Somebody’s going to be so excited and relieved to find it.  So, to some extent, I’ve learned to share.

Okay – imagine this: imagine you and all these people, including your family, or people you really love—you’re all stuck in this dark place.  You can make a life there.  You can make a life anywhere if you try hard enough.  But some lives are way better than others, and living stuck in a dark place is not one of the better ones.  And say you are the kind of person who can’t stay hunkered down and waiting for deliverance.  Say you hunger to get out of there, and you start to explore around.  And after a while, you learn your way through the hallways and levels, and finally—fresh air hits your face, and there’s a glow way down at the end of a corridor.  And finally, a door.  A door that can be opened.

Do you go through it, burst through into the wide open ocean of air and light?  Do you dance and run away, putting the suffocating dark confusion of that place behind you?  Or do you stop, amazed, and then look back over your shoulder, remembering all the folks still back there?  Do you go back, deeper and deeper in the dark, with the risk that you might forget the way back out?  Do you do that, just to bring them back to this point with you?

And if you do, why do you do it? 

Why?

To give joy?  Simple, but honest.  Because life isn’t life without those people in it?  Even the people you don’t know – but who may prove useful, even vital outside of that place?

Because your heart would be broken, just thinking about the suffering you could have broken?  Because you can’t stand to think of it?

I love to give gifts.  I didn’t used to.  I actually don’t like to get gifts at holidays anymore—I don’t need any more stuff.  Now, the gift comes down to the emotional thing: how well does my family know me?  Can they delight me, take me by surprise?  Know what I want when I don’t know it myself?  Can they give me anything near as wonderful as just being with them is?  Gifts are kind of scary.  You could find yourself disappointed, and dealing with that just costs too much.

So I prefer giving gifts. Yeah – especially when they are not expected.  Unexpected gifts are far less likely to require polite dissembling.

And what is the point here?  Well, for LDS people, this metaphor is all about missionary work.  This is what M is out there trying to do – flashing his lights, giving gifts, trying to share with others the things that have brought light and meaning and richness to his young life.

But I’m really thinking here of things like blogs.  People sharing with the a largely silent audience those things that give them joy.  Or warnings about things not generally seen or realized, but that loom and threaten.  I’m thinking about human interaction, and this internet that lets you cast so widely – your thoughts, your wisdom, your craziness – and even your poison.  We have more access to the world through other people’s eyes than anyone in the world ever dreamed was possible.  And our choices, our choices – with everything to choose from, we really do define ourselves by what things we finally choose to focus on.

My favorite things to read are the ones well written that celebrate the beauties the writer treasures – lives someone is building from the ground up.  Children.  Experiences.  Images of lovely things  – new colors for walls, pathways in gardens – hope, aesthetic inspiration, sympathetic craziness that gives me strength because I know I’m not the only one living in an ironic and difficult world.

I don’t enjoy the brave brags: like somebody is desperately writing about how great everything is, as if she were trying hard to convince herself that it’s all worth it.  I love instead the honest evaluations that include the pain and the joy both.  That admit failure, but evidence the courage to keep on.  Light and shadow.  Hurt and humor.  Discouragement in faith.  Without those contrasts, the story is flat, and not only am I not likely to learn from it; I am not likely to read.

Maybe I’m saying how I treasure the gift of possibilities – of being able to allow my life to be touched by lives across a globe.  And how important it is that we do not let the opportunity to share ourselves (not putting our children in danger) with that world, in hopes that there is something, some tiny thing, that will strengthen and relieve and comfort somebody else.

I guess that’s what I’m saying.