Phillip Berry | Orient Yourself

Each poke, each pull, each tear that dripped, I could only smile at him and breathe.

One of the great gifts, and great challenges, of grandparenthood is watching your own children’s parenthood. The soaring moments of profundity are only equaled by the difficulties that sometimes seem like slow-moving train wrecks happening on life’s moving screen in front of you. Our oldest daughter recently wrote about several weeks of household sickness culminating in an urgent care trip for stitches in her three year old’s chin. You can read her moving reflection here.

As we discussed little Fulton’s special gift of “taking it on the chin,” Sally reminded me of a stitches trip for our Kellen when he busted his knee open. Ironically, an incident involving Fulton’s mother. Curiously, she said little about the injury, number of stitches, or cause. Sally’s memory focused on “the most beautiful tears ever,” as she described the courageous, undramatic, way our son looked at her as they cleaned and stitched his knee. Sitting in the exam room with him, she leaned close, cupped his face, and looked into his eyes as his brave tears formed and dropped from their corners.

“Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted (and you yourself a sword will pierce) so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” So said Simeon to Mary as she presented Jesus at the Temple, described in Luke Chapter 2. Simeon’s prophecy has particular importance to the Christian faith but is also offers powerful insight into the beautiful vocation of motherhood. A call that will, at times, result in the piercing of every mother’s heart.

Motherhood is a journey of self-sacrifice. From the beautiful moment of conception, her life is no longer just about her. The morning sickness gives way to the outward changing of her body and its accompanying discomforts, then on to the painfully glorious delivery of her baby. And that’s just the ante to the game. Mom is baby’s first love and her life is forever entwined with that human being.

Now 55 years into her motherhood, my mom still tells stories of the exploits of her children. That bike wreck when I was 14? She regales it like it happened yesterday. The time I played with matches? Yep, she’s got a bag full of stories ready to roll. From the soul-crushing defeats to the moments of soaring glory, she recounts the joys and the pains beautifully, sharing them as mine…and as hers. All these years later, the wins can still bring a smile, just as the sword can still pierce.

In 2004’s Shall We Dance, Susan Sarandon’s character describes marriage with this: “you’re promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things… all of it, all of the time, every day. You’re saying ‘Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness’.” As I considered motherhood this morning, her quotation returned to me as a perfect description of the inspiring mothers in my life and the high call of motherhood.

Motherhood does not stop with the raising of our children, it is a lifelong vocation. Mommy turns to Mom, then to Mother, and then to Matriarch. The bandaged knees and tears of childhood turn to the emotional angst of youth, the difficulties of adulting, the transition to parent, and grand-parenthood, all amid life’s persistent joys and sorrows. Motherhood is nurturing, caring, feeding, leading, mentoring, accompanying, listening, and loving. Always loving.

Our mother must hold it all together, as we grow with her and beyond her. She sets our patterns on health and faith and food. Motherhood is active and passive: it is saying and doing, as well as leaving things unsaid and undone, in a way that only the feminine genius of the maternal seems able to master. Mother is justice and mercy, wisdom and patience. She is comfort and conviction, the model for how to love and live in a world that can be so painfully indifferent.

The high call remains until the mother’s final breath. She will always feel our losses acutely, and even in our most thankless moments, love us for who we are. She will follow as witness to our life and believer in our unique specialness…no matter the distance or indifference. Her instinct to self-sacrifice will never end, no matter how many times we ask her to stop. She can’t stop.

Considering the mothers in my own life, I see the beautiful design of the feminine and its unique aptitude for this most special vocation. From where does such capacity to love spring? I can only see it as Divine gift, a charism of spirit and heart that surpasses my understanding. Motherhood is a glorious mystery. From life bearing to love giving, it is an awesome call and a most beautiful vocation.

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!

Trying to make our dinner reservations last night, Sally and I found ourselves in a line of cars waiting for a train. Apparently we had chosen a restaurant near the main depot and clearly on the other side of the tracks. During our thirty minute wait, she shared a story from a novel she recently read in which the female protagonist had lost her husband after a long battle with cancer. Preparing for the funeral, this character made a conscious decision on how she would conduct herself and manage through the experience.

A profoundly interesting aspect of the character’s thought process was a simple question: what do those attending this funeral need from me? She chose to pull herself together, face the awkward comments of well-wishers, fumble through the uncomfortable conversations, and smile encouragingly, even as she felt staggering pain and loss inside. Her conscious decision was one of generosity, and fortitude; a choice to behave not as she was feeling but as she wanted to convey herself, and as a gift to others.

A unique gift separating humanity from animals is our self-awareness. We can place ourselves in the context of our surroundings and choose how we will respond. We can restrain, react, anticipate, run, negotiate, or fold. We have the power of self control and the ability to choose against our instincts of self-preservation. We can think ahead and manage our behaviors based on what we expect to happen. We can allow our passions to govern us or we can exert our will to contain them.

In a culture quick to surrender to its emotions, the heroine of Sally’s book seems positively old-school. Some might view her self-restraint as fake. Acting in a way inconsistent with what you’re feeling might seem like masking the truth. The word fake suggests manipulation: acting in such a way as to hide one’s true feelings with the intent to fool or mislead someone else. To be fake is to be insincere. I don’t think that character was being insincere. In fact, her self control was born of a deep sincerity.

Last night’s dinner was a birthday celebration for our oldest son, Kiefer. I wrote the Don Quixote quotation in his card. For thirty two years, I’ve been working at fatherhood. Sometimes intentionally, often instinctively, and always amid many mistakes. Cervantes quotation elegantly challenges us to not surrender to reality when we can choose to change it. Madness is sitting in the mistakes and accepting them as the final reality.

As he was transitioning to adulthood, the great George Washington worked consciously to comport himself as a stoic and a gentleman. He chose to behave and carry himself as the man he wanted to be. He wasn’t being false or deceptive. His choice was aspirational. Washington saw his life as it was and worked at becoming the man needed for life as he wanted it to be.

So often, we accept things as they are because to change is so very difficult. We surrender to emotions that buffet us in the face of life’s difficulties. We go with the flow of our reality, even if we don’t like it, because it is easier that way. The patterns that dictate our reactions are fixed points on the map, hardwired to reinforce our excuse: “it’s just the way I am.” Or, it’s just the way it is.

But will is one of the most powerful forces in the universe – truly a superpower. We are not owned by instinct and though the wounds that underly much of the fabric of our being are powerful drivers of our emotions and behavior, they are also subject to our choices. We may be constrained by the laws of physics, but the power of our will allows us to change much of everything else within the world around us.

In this frequently lunatic life, we get to choose. We can see it as it is and accept it, or, we can see it as it might be and work toward it. In his gallant quests against imaginary foes, was Don Quixote mad for fighting windmills or sane for not surrendering his dreams? We get to aspire to that which we dream. We get to choose how we show up for our own life. Madness would be to accept it for less than it might be.

Just because you didn’t put a name to something did not mean it wasn’t there.

Earlier this week, little 18 month old Blair pointed at me, smiled, and said “Pop.” It’s always a magic moment when your children or grandchildren first say your name. The recognition is powerful, reflecting both understanding and association: I know what “pop” is and you are him. I immediately thought of Forrest Gump first encountering his Jenny: “I don’t remember bein’ born. I don’t recall what I got for my first Christmas and I don’t know when I went on my first outdoor picnic. But I do remember the first time I heard the sweetest voice in the wide world.”

To be called by name elicits a powerful convergence of universal elements. It is to be seen. When we are called, we are known. It is a personal action – an individual summons. An intimate acknowledgment. To be called is also to be affirmed. Here I am…part of something. I belong. Even in the most cursory form, it points to value – my value. I matter enough for someone to call me by name. When the calling comes from one we love or respect, it carries a particular weight. I see you. I know you. You matter.

In his book, What To Do When It’s Your Turn (and it’s always your turn), Seth Godin writes that we spend much of our life waiting to be picked. We all want to matter enough that another will choose us. Picked for teams. Picked to answer a question. Picked for a relationship. Picked for a job. Picked to be a part of something. To be called by name is to be chosen – to be picked. When someone who matters to you picks you, a world of possibility emerges in an explosion of positive energy and joy.

Another aspect of being called by name centers on our notion of identity. What are we called? Mom? Dad? Pop? Our name singles us out, marks our role, and defines our place. It describes us as it assigns us to our proper position in the world. This is why it hurts when we are called derogatory names and why titles matter so much. To be named is to get to the heart of the self – the identity by which we are known and by which we know ourself. “Pop” is a status, a term of endearment. The fact that it is short for “Poppy” and that little Blair is mimicking her older brother only makes it more precious. Not only do I have a named identity, I have a nickname!

Who we are is so tightly intertwined with how we are known. Often, we find ourselves behaving as we are known or labeled. To be called can be convicting as we are marked as something and expected to be that thing. In 1994’s Lion King, Mufasa famously tells the young Simba to “remember who you are.” A great risk, and a great opportunity, is to see ourselves through the eyes of others or as we want them to see us. Identity can be slippery when mixed with the expectations, or desires, of others. And with our own. Underlying Mufasa’s words is a call to more: “remember who you are called to be.”

Curiously, being called by name is only half of this powerful equation. Every call is met by how we receive. To be called by name demands an answer. One of my favorite recurring themes in the Old Testament is the “call.” God shows up, calls Abraham, Jacob, Moses, Samuel, Isaiah, and Ananias. Each responds “Here I am.” How do we answer when we are called by name?  When little Blair calls my name, I respond: with a smile, with a hug or kiss, by picking her up, by waving, by asking what she needs. Our name has power, especially when spoken aloud.

Calling someone’s name invokes a response – a reaction. When we say “Here I Am,” we are indicating a readiness to respond. Receiving the call in this way is “showing up” for the other in an active, engaging fashion. “I hear you. I see you. You matter. I will respond.” When we acknowledge the call in this way, we in turn affirm the other. This is why deliberately ignoring someone or even unintentionally missing the call can be hurtful. It is a refusal to meet the “high five” and all of us feel it.

Today, you will be called by name. Will you be attentive enough to hear it? How will you respond? Today, you will call to another. Will you invoke the power of his or her name? I see you. I know you. You matter. These are powerful words and choosing them can change the world.

I am the good shepherd.
A good shepherd lays down his life
for the sheep.

Recently, we had a “spring cleanup” completed on our yard. The mulch is refreshed, the trees and bushes are trimmed, and green abounds in all corners. Admiring the work completed, our young grandson offered a compliment, “Nanny, I really like your lambscaping.” Oh, what a joy to share in the innocent wonder of the little lamb.

Curiously, today’s Gospel is the parable of the good shepherd and “lambscaping” seems a perfect word to characterize the notion of shepherding, or leading, a flock to fertile fields, life-giving water, and safe pastures. Little Cooper’s word evokes a sense of formation, helping in another’s becoming, whether through direct, hands-on effort, or through indirect example. Lambscaping is a beautifully simple metaphor for our responsibility, and opportunity, to guide, mentor, and participate in such formation.

Last week, I had the opportunity to present to a room of healthcare leaders on various market trends and the challenges and opportunities therein. Opening my talk, I commented, “Throughout today’s presentation, you’ll notice a theme around power and control. Any person or organization whose decisions affect the health and/or economics of individuals, organizations, and communities, is wielding power. Great power.”

The notion of power is problematic for most of us. As individuals, we frequently feel little power in our day-to-day existence. We are moved along by traffic signs, roads, jobs, laws, weather, and other people, which perpetually remind us how little power, and control, we really have. It’s easy to feel small in this big world. We view those with “power” as faceless, sitting somewhere else, and making decisions that affect us. We cast a suspicious eye on any who claim or exert power over us and resent any blatant application of such authority.

Yet, we exist within this framework of power and control, accepting the necessity of laws to govern us and authority figures to enforce them. Politics and government are comprised of the necessary tension of power and limits, those who direct and manage us in our jobs are necessary cogs in the wheel of structure, and even our social ties fall within some version this pecking order of control as we respond to the pressure of influence and norms. We live under a “power law” that helps define and enforce levels of acceptability in our behaviors – the power structure holds the system together.

As I continued in my presentation to those healthcare leaders, my next statement was, “With great power comes great responsibility.” The more lives our decisions affect, the bigger the responsibility. We see this easily in things like laws that are made and then affect all of us. However, we need not wait for laws to feel the effects of others’ decisions. This is why we tend to pool together in social efforts to mitigate imbalances of power. We do this politically but the organizations to which we belong are also built around the power law – even the smallest company is in a persistent struggle to assert itself, and its interests, in a world constantly pressing upon it.

Great power and great responsibility. But responsibility to whom? Employees? Members? Investors? Communities? With competing interests, the great dance of power centers on living in the tension of it. Here, we find the imperfect place in which those interests find a way to compromise. However, if that balance is not maintained, those of us disadvantaged in the imbalance begin to blame the other. In a complex world, it is not always clear who is on what side of which line.

Enter the scapegoat – the sacrificial target of blame which may or may not be the actual problem or center of disagreement. In a media-driven world, narratives around scapegoats are easy to start and perpetuate. Politicians respond to them, organizations react, and the flock follows right along. Pushed to the edge of such tensions, we can’t help but choose our side and gird our loins for the fight. If we’re lucky enough to not be in the scapegoat camp, perhaps our interests can prevail.

Of course, the good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep. That’s one of the preciously counter-intuitive notions of leadership. Sometimes, I have to surrender my desires – ambition, self-interest, fame – for the good of the flock. The responsibility of the shepherd is safeguarding, leading, and ultimately, helping his flock flourish.

How does the good shepherd reconcile power, control, and goodness? By remembering his lambs. When we look at individuals, good stewardship becomes more obvious. Supporting the good of the person, embracing the dignity of the individual is pretty straightforward. Individual lambscaping seems good and right and proper. We seem to get into more trouble when we line up in our flocks.

To those wielding power today, I challenge you to begin with a bit of lambscaping in your flock. Good stewardship is a moral and economic call. The good shepherd thinks first of the well-being of the individuals counting on him. From there, the proper use of power becomes much more clear as it is used in the service of the other rather than for self-benefit.

“Mr. Kennedy likes to hear himself talk.” To wind down our Saturday night, Sally and I put a DVD in and watched an episode of “Little House on the Prairie.” Remember Charles and Carolyn Ingalls? Little Laura, Mary, and Carrie? We’ve recently found renewed interest in the simplicity and wholesomeness of some old TV series. Each episode told a story and shared numerous lessons of life. Little House on the Prairie conveyed a particularly beautiful moral innocence in the context of pretty heavy life struggles.

Last night’s episode centered on an argument among Walnut Grove residents over the addition of a bell to their little country church. As things heated up, the debate turned into a shouting match and created a rift in the community. The example was simple and really captured the essence of the breakdown in such disagreements as emotions escalate and the rational gives way to the hysterical. In Mr. Kennedy’s case, the authoritarian finality of “I’ve made my decision and that’s final” ended all dialogue.

“You sly dog! You got me monologuing!” So says Syndrome in 2004’s The Incredibles, an animated movie about former super-heroes relegated to the ordinary of domestic life suddenly pulled into the machinations of a self-made super villain. In this scene, Mr. Incredible, captured by Syndrome, delays his fate by getting the villain distracted in bragging about his brilliant plan to conquer the world.

We all get caught up in our own form of monologuing from time to time and we’ve got all sorts of idioms to capture its essence: getting on one’s soapbox, blowing hot air, blathering, preaching, pontificating, sermonizing, lecturing…you get the point. The monologue is a one way street with little or no room for listening. I’ve got a message and here it comes. Kind of like a blog post.

There is, of course, a place for delivering a message, making a point, sharing an insight, or spurring thought. I, for one, am very grateful for those who bear with me each week in the pursuit of the profound, or the simply curious.

Looking around, it just feels like we’ve lost something.

Not so long ago, I found myself part of a contentious business conversation in which we were presented with the other party’s conclusions and asked a question. As we started to respond, I realized that the question was actually rhetorical – it was not meant to be answered but was actually an accusation. We were not in a conversation, we were in a negotiation.

A friend of mine likes to use the expression “nonversation” in his writing to describe much of the pointless monologuing happening across the headlines of our news cycles. His point: we’re recycling the same tired messaging and pointless positioning toward no particular end. I might also describe this as “megaphoning” but I think we’ve introduced enough word creations for one post. The point is that there is a lot of nonversation happening: in our headlines, in our meetings, and in our “conversations.”

I was recently approached to be a speaker at an event. Asked about topics, I shared a few ideas. “Looks like you’ve got some good content. However, I can’t tell by your titles what you’re advocating.”

And there is it is: what are you advocating? What’s your point and what’s lying behind it? The massive volume of headlines, posts, Tweets (do we call them X’s now?), videos, and podcasts makes it increasingly difficult to get the point. What are we advocating? We are consuming incredible volumes of content but so much still ends in the nonversation: pointless monologuing to no particular end. Are we intentionally trying to distract or have we lost the ability to articulate a clear thought, a moving argument, novel idea, or a prompt for a discussion?

Am I just monologuing or is there a point? What am I advocating? In our days of hyper-content, hyper-speed, and hyper-agendas, I think there is a message in the pace and simplicity of Little House on the Prairie. We can’t hear when we’re talking and no one is moved in a monologue, at least not for long. Hearts and minds are captured in the interaction. Souls are won in the sincerity. Things are changed through action, and big things are changed together.

Perhaps we can start by stopping. Let’s dial the monologues back and look for real conversation. Let’s shelve the rhetorical question for a bit, pause, and listen for a real answer. Let’s work to care enough that we might seek to understand and then to be understood. Let’s take a break from accusing long enough that we might be convicted of our own part in the disconnect, disagreement, dissatisfaction, disregard, and disrespect.

Here, we might find humility enough to see something other than our own point.

Randomly opening a journal this morning, I came across the poem above. I wrote it on January 7, 2018. Putting it in this post, on this particular day, available to each of you within a specific set of readers, sets something in motion. Wherever I was and whatever I originally felt and meant in its writing, will meet one of you exactly where he or she is and in the way it is needed today.

I find that fascinating. Maybe even miraculous.

Last night, flipping through an album with photos of last fall’s trip to Italy, my parents were transported back to moments remembered and some forgotten. Was that the Amalfi Coast? Oh yeah, remember Lucia? What was the name of that restaurant in Sorrento? Can you believe we stood among the ruins of Pompeii? Was St. Bonaventure born in Bagnoregio? Their eyes glittered in wonder at the moments past, the shared memories, and those particular recollections that belonged to each of them individually.

The wonder of it all strikes me this morning as I wander in my own sea of moments. There is literally a rooster crowing in the background – so common now, I rarely notice…except occasionally in the silence of the morning. He announces the day with clockwork consistency, his call an invitation to the routine…or the wonder of the moments ahead.

We spend so much time lost in nothing in particular. Moments cascading like a rushing waterfall, sometimes taking us over the edge, often falling over us, only to move on. Always on. A photo is a freeze frame on a moment. Our smartphones enable us to take so many that we hardly consider the magic of those captured moments. Quickly posting them, they are then lost in the eternal river of media pouring forth, and past, lost in the digital graveyard of files we’ll likely never bother with again.

Unless we pick up that photo album together.

Whether that strikes you as sad, curious, or doesn’t strike you at all, is actually quite fascinating. After all, why does it matter?

Beckoned to a child-sized picnic table by my nearly sever year old grandson last night, my rush of preparations for a family dinner were freeze-framed in the imaginative bubble of a little boy’s Lego project. The child’s time is not our time, it is a universe unto itself. Always urgent, it is consumed with the present moment. Have you ever noticed that? Yesterday and tomorrow are never that important to a child. It is this moment that really matters. The innocent seem to intuit that now is our closest point to eternity.

Today, sunlight strikes across the dewey, frozen-edged grass, its countenance…fascinating. We so rarely notice such things. Maybe that’s just me.

But I don’t think so.

Looking back at the journal beside me, I flip through its pages, glancing at dates: March 30, 2024, March 31, 2023, May 23, 2020, June 24, 2017. Each day, a collection of words marking a moment. Those days are gone and only the words remain. Fascinating.

We exist within an incomprehensibly amazing universe, surrounded by people sharing moments with us. If one stops long enough, with enough silence, and an open heart, he begins to tap into just how incredible is that thought. The gift is beyond reckoning. The magnitude beyond comprehension. How many moments are we given? How lavish is such a gift? Yesterday would have been enough, but the moments keep coming…cascading upon us. So very fascinating.

The last randomly flipped page in that journal lies open with the date 6-24-2017 written at the top. The opening lines:

In the race to the next moment, life blurs unrecognizably, spent like an inexhaustible current. But the end comes, finally exhausted. In between is awe and wonder. The cascade is a glittering gift of amazing centered in the now. It is a lavish gift.

May we all keep feeling fascination with that gift. Wherever it meets us.

The power of love is a curious thing
Make a one man weep, make another man sing
Change a hawk to a little white dove
More than a feeling that’s the power of love

In the HBO Series, Game of Thrones, power struggles of biblical proportions are put on full display as various familes vie for control of Westeros amid direct and indirect machinations. A recurring theme in the ongoing struggle to dominate this imaginary world is the notion of “bending a knee,” a sign of one’s loyalty to a particular ruler and his/her “house.” Though varying degrees of faithfulness to these commitments are displayed throughout the series, the “bended knee” remains a central public indication of one’s intentions in a world where intentions mostly remain hidden.

In the movie, Return of the King, the hobbit Pippin pledges loyalty to the Steward of Gondor, Lord Denethor by bending his knee and swearing fealty and service to Gondor. Denethor responds by saying:

“And I shall not forget it. Nor fail to reward that which is given. Fealty with love, valor with honor, disloyalty with vengeance.”

Fealty is defined as intense fidelity or faithfulness and such an intense vow would be highly desirable for a ruler wanting to make sure his or her vassals were “all-in.” Denethor ups the ante by further defining Pippin’s pledge “Fealty with love, valor with honor, disloyalty with vengeance.” Love is a curious addition. He is saying, I don’t just want loyalty, I want something deeper, something more than an intellectual commitment. I want your heart.

For Pippin in Return of the King and the various players of the Game of Thrones, bending the knee is an action of alignment, saying in the most fundamental sense, “I serve something more than just my own interests.” The posture itself is a message of humility and submission.

An interesting paradox of such submission is that it yokes to the purposes of something greater, while simultaneously liberating from what was before. The basic message of the bended knee is the admission that my life is no longer just my own so I am freed to serve something more. Consider the young lover bending his knee to ask for his love’s hand in marriage. He is choosing to give up his former life, and any conflicting pursuits, in honor and service of a new commitment to their shared love. In it’s purest sense, it is submission and freedom.

Today is Easter Sunday, the Holy Day commemorating the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. In the Catholic Church, the end of the Lenten Season is marked in a three day celebration called the Triduum (literally, three days) beginning on the evening of Holy Thursday and ending this evening.

Thursday’s ceremony is the Mass of the Lord’s Supper, celebrating Jesus’ Last Supper with his Apostles. A key part of the evening is the “washing of feet,” a re-enactment of Jesus washing the feet of the twelve Apostles. Sitting in a pew on Thursday, I watched as twelve chairs were placed atop the steps to the altar and twelve men took their place in them, each removing his right shoe.

Our Pastor removed his outer vestment and proceeded to bend his knee at the foot of each man, wash his foot, dry it, and then kiss it. I was struck by the humility and reverence in the ceremony. Whatever your place in life, there are likely few things more humbling than kneeling before another human being, washing his or her feet, drying them, and then kissing them. It is an act of humble love. I have bent my knee to you and I serve something greater than myself. “Thus, the last will be first, and the first will be last.” – MT 20:16

The next day was Good Friday and the celebration of the Lord’s Passion: the arrest, condemnation, and crucifixion of Christ. Back in the pew, I watched as our two priests, deacon, and twelve altar servers processed toward the altar. As they approached, they spread out in a line at the foot of the steps to the altar and proceeded to fully prostrate themselves, face-down. The incredibly beautiful display of submission reminded me that kneeling is not the greatest form of humility and there is incredible power in the liberating force of loving something greater than yourself.

Last night, we celebrated the Easter Vigil in the Mass of the Resurrection of the Lord. The Saturday evening ceremony is started after dark, fireside outside of the sanctuary, with a procession into the dark church where scriptures outlining salvation history are read while the congregation holds candles. As we walk from darkness into light, we re-enact the Jewish Exodus from Egypt, alternating kneeling and standing, as we remember through the readings.

A key part of the evening is the Baptism, Confirmation, and First Communion, for those who have elected to enter the Church after many months of preparation to receive the Sacraments. Kneeling, the Elect pledge fealty to Christ and His Church as they are received into full membership, full communion, with His Body. As we renewed our Baptismal vows, I was reminded of the call to something greater than myself and the liberating power of a commitment to living in such a way.

No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.

In our boldest, most honorable moments, we might imagine giving our life grandly for love of the other. But few of us will be called to such devotion. The bold, glorious flourish of a self-sacrificial moment is unlikely as our end. For most of us, the test comes in the long game. The relationships that endure, demand that we sacrifice self time and again out of love for the other. Time. And time. And time. And time again. Maybe seventy times seven times. If we’re fortunate, even more.

When it comes to love, most of us are pretty good sprinters – very loving over short, smooth, unobstructed distances. Our speed and endurance begin to fade with time and obstruction. The flourish of the moment gives way to the reality of a thousand moments that feel, sometimes literally, like a lifetime. This is the great steeplechase of life. The marathon that demands sustained effort and an abundance of resets to refocus, re-engage, and renew, the originating energy that sparked our start.

To love is to will the good of the other and to love greatly is to will it over time, will it at cost to self, will it with no self-interest, and will it even when it’s undeserved. Most especially, to will it when we don’t feel like it. Early in life, we learn that choices have consequences. Later in life, we begin to understand that all great choices will cost something. To love greatly, will cost greatly.  It has to or it is cheap, low value, meaningless. Love cannot be cheap or it isn’t love.

No greater love? To love greatly is to live as the lion and the lamb. It is to both protect it and submit to it. To respond fiercely at signs of danger, to show up courageously when the other falters, to challenge faithfully when love becomes wayward. Then the lamb, which bleats softly when lost or encouragingly when content. To lay down one’s self in service or deference to the other. To walk softly and humbly, docile to the circumstance and its particular needs.

Each of us has pledged fealty to something. We have all bent a knee in a particular direction, though we may not even recognize it. Is it something greater than ourselves? Is it worth our full devotion? There is great power in that bended knee – it commands our attention, our energy, our resources, and our heart. In our quest to find ourselves, fill the holes within, heal our wounds, or gratify our desires, we often fail to see that we are chasing the wrong things, for the wrong reasons, in all the wrong ways. We don’t see where we bended our knee in what we’ve chosen to serve.

I’d like to close with the words below from one of my favorite twisted mystics, George Michael. May this Easter find you kneeling in the right direction, feeling the liberating consolation of intense fidelity to your own call in this life.

Let me tell you a secret
Put it in your heart and keep it
Something that I want you to know
Do something for me
Listen to my simple story
And maybe we’ll have something to show

How can I help you?
Please let me try to
I can heal the pain
That you’re feeling inside
Whenever you want me
You know that I will be
Waiting for the day
That you say you’ll be mine

And Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother,
“Behold, this child is destined
for the fall and rise of many in Israel,
and to be a sign that will be contradicted
—and you yourself a sword will pierce—
so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.”

Many years ago, I began to notice that the great movements within my life, the inflection points, were preceded by indicators hinting at the road ahead. I began to see a correlation between these “signs” and the flow of the decisions I made. I found that the more I followed the signs, the better things tended to work out. Often, the “working out” wasn’t how I expected, what I thought I wanted, or even “good” in traditional terms of success. It was more of a flow, a symmetry among movements, that often culminated in the new, the profound, and the unexpected.

If you’ve followed these posts for any period of time, you’ve likely caught many direct and indirect references to “following the signs.” The notion has become one of the four guiding principles of my life and of our company. Following the signs isn’t about looking for “omens,” reading tea leaves, or trying to manipulate events to a desired outcome. Nor is it about surrendering to a preset “destiny.” Ultimately, it is about obedience to who you are called to be and trust in something greater than yourself.

One might argue that things always “work out” to some end. However, there is a huge difference between letting the river take us where it will and choosing to put our paddle in and move with intention. Following the signs is moving intentionally with the flow rather than fighting to get upstream. Sometimes that choice will take us into the rapids. Sometime it will take us to shore. And sometimes, it will take us to that crystal clear lake we never expected. Rarely is it about comfort or success (at least how success might typically be defined), but it is always about growth and forward motion – our own becoming.

Recently, a series of signs led me to a decision that seemed pretty obvious. A process had dragged-on, there was ongoing resistance in a particular direction, and numerous indicators affirmed my sense that we needed to shift directions, or at least bring this particular line of thinking to a close. The decision made, we moved on. However, over the following weeks, a variety of dynamics kept reoccurring, causing me to re-evaluate my original decision. Did I miss something?

From my perspective, nothing had changed. The basis for the original decision was still valid and there was no compelling reason to revisit it. Yet, the signs were there. There was a whisper, a prod, a poke. In a moment of clarity one morning, I finally realized that those on the other side of my decision were following their own signs…a realization that cast my own signs into a completely new light.

The wild thing about the infinite game we’re all playing is that it isn’t our game. Sure, we want to put ourselves at the center of our own little universe and command like kings or queens, but life reminds us time and time again that it’s really not about us. We desperately want it to revolve around us, and even in our most magnanimous moments, we struggle to see ourselves as anything other than the hero of the story. Yes, we have purpose. Yes, we have value. Yes, we are called to greatness.

And so is everyone else around us.

Here we find a great mystery of life. A world in which our special purpose rides parallel, perpendicular, or opposite to the special purposes of those around us. We are all getting our signs, making our own decisions, and being pressed up against one another amid it all. Sometimes, our sign will be contradicted and we will have to navigate those ramifications. Sometimes, our call is the priority and we must push through against resistance. Sometimes it will be clear, and easy to be obedient. And sometimes, we are playing a part in someone else’s story.

We will never see the whole game board. At least not in this life. Our vision will continue to be restricted to momentary glimpses and the signs will come and go, hidden in the fog or highlighted in the sunshine. Our choices will be thrown into the tossed salad of everyone else’s, and life will roll on. Through it all, we will default to the necessities of our self-centric, and self-protective, world views. The signs will always filter first through that lens.

However, we are playing a part in a much greater drama than our individual story. When we pause for a moment, look and listen, we begin to see the signs, the indications that guide or call to our best direction. Beside it all, run the signs of those we encounter. Will we see our part in their story as well?

My sign or yours? His sign or hers? Look again and you just might see it.