God Talk and Tea

A desert experience may be uncomfortable

Summer is not my favorite time of year. It’s hot, and I don’t like hot. Being of Arabic descent, it would seem I should be comfortable in the heat, and the sand, too. When I make a rare appearance at the beach my husband will often quip, "Where’d you park the camel?"

Funny. But truly, when I wonder what it was like for my ancestors, it causes me to reflect, also, on what it was like for Jesus living in so hot and dusty a climate, traveling everywhere he went by foot or maybe donkey;

eating who knows what during the lengthy trips between cities, sleeping on the earth, and, likely, carrying a lot of the earth with him on his clothes and body, as well.

Imagining how uncomfortable such a journey could be may cause us to wonder why Jesus would purposely seclude himself in the desert, not just for a day but for a month or more. But a careful look at his words and his behavior reveal a man who often felt the need to separate himself from the world to spend time with God. There, in the wilderness, without comfort or adequate nourishment it is easier for the soul to "be still and know" its God and to remember that God is the source and sustenance of its existence.

It is likely that we will all have a desert experience in our lives, sometimes self-imposed once we realize its value for our spiritual growth, but just as often as a result of life’s challenges. No matter how we begin the journey, the discipline of the desert experience can deepen our relationship with God and heal our soul, and in the process allow us to discover the value of struggle. Then we will have truly entered into the life of Christ.

A joyful heart is the health of the body

"Laugh at yourself and at life. Not in the spirit of derision or whining self-pity, but as a remedy, a miracle drug, that will ease your pain, cure your depression, and help you to put in perspective that seemingly terrible defeat and worry with laughter at your predicaments, thus freeing your mind to think clearly toward the solution that is certain to come. Never take yourself too seriously." Og Mandingo

Working as part of a writing and editorial team means, of course, paying close attention to how things are worded. Our antennae are geared to catch mistakes. So, it is no surprise that we often find ourselves sharing the bloopers we’ve seen or heard during the week.

Last week, a co-worker shared some commentary he had heard during a news story.

The reporter, commenting on the scene of an accident, stated seriously, "The emergency crews have been here since they arrived."

Wearing our editor’s hats, we had a good laugh at someone not only stating the obvious but getting paid for it, as well. It immediately brought to mind the now famous sayings of Yogi Berra, whose classics include, "It's like deja-vu, all over again," or "If you ask me anything I don't know, I'm not going to answer."

Early the next morning, I had to drop some letters in the mail bin downstairs next to another co-worker’s desk. I asked her in all seriousness, "Do you think the post office will return this to me if I don’t put a return address on it?"

My co-worker looked at me with a dead pan expression and after a few seconds of well-pointed silence asked, "How would they send it back to you if you don’t put a return address on it?"

There it was, the big, "DUH!"; the dead quiet filled up with my own unspoken thought, "How could you say anything so stupid?!"

Feeling duly chastised, I remembered yesterday’s laugh fest after hearing the reporter’s comments. "Who’s laughing now?" I chided myself. But when I was done feeling stupid, following yet another lesson in humility, I joined my co-worker in a hearty laugh at my expense.

Laughter and a good sleep, said my Irish father, are the best cures for any ill. He was a wise man; one who taught me the value of laughter and the value of learning to laugh at one’s self when necessary. This skill, he said, encourages us to not take ourselves so seriously, which can result in our becoming so "full of ourselves" that there is little room for anything else.

As a student of life, my father’s antenna was raised to the incongruities inherent in being human, and he was fond of pointing out that no amount of education, authority or power will prevent a person from making a fool of him or herself at some point in time. And while he admitted sometimes appreciating being there to see it happen, he was careful not to gloat too obviously because he knew his time was coming. And when it did, he was always ready with a laugh.

When I think back on the most memorable times and people of my life there is always laughter involved. Sharing and making memories with family around the kitchen table, friends at work whose humor relieved stressful situations, laughter in a hospital room or even in a funeral parlor which, if even for a brief moment, eased the pain of loss and offered a glimmer of life’s hope, beauty and the promises of God. "A joyful heart is the health of the body," says the psalmist, and certainly that has been true in my own life.

But on those days when even a smile seems hard to muster, I try to remember the words of another wise, but unknown, author: "Even if there is nothing to laugh about, laugh on credit."

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

Dancing with seagulls is good for the soul

Being caretaker for aging and ill parents is commonplace today, but the physical and emotional challenges it presents can over overwhelm the caretaker. I share this column in support of those who are in such a position. It was written about 14 years ago as I strove to be caretaker for my terminally ill mother, after the sudden death of my father, while raising six sons and working full time.

 

"Bear one another's burdens, and so you will fulfill the law of Christ." (Gal. 6:2)

Well, here I am once again, standing at the ocean's edge as another hurricane rapidly approaches. Choir members have taken to calling me Typhoon Mary, asking that I notify them of my scheduled vacations so they can make sure to stay home.

There is something mystical and mesmerizing about the ocean. For me it has become a place of peace and tranquility in a life that daily seems to become increasingly complicated. In spite of the impending storm, I have no desire to leave here. Walking on the beach at 7 a.m., leaving my family asleep in the motel, I experience a solitude long missing from my life—a solitude we all need occasionally to maintain our mental health.

Looking out over the churning waves and pounding surf, I would not be surprised to see mighty Neptune rising out of the foam, trident in hand, head thrown back in macabre laughter at the power he exerts over humankind. In the same instance, I am grateful to know only the one God who created all of this out of love for us. Sometimes, when I consider the things that brought me to this place, I marvel at his unending generosity to children who are so often inclined to be willful, disobedient, judgemental and hurtful.

Though feelings of meloncholy sweep over me at the thought of returning home, I can not help but smile at the array of birds who seem to be performing for my pleasure. I am amazed at how each group has developed its own unique repertoire.

Obviously secure in its aged wisdom, the grandaddy of seagulls undertakes an ornithological tapdance, churning up delicacies from beneath the watery sand, while delicate troupes of sand pipers, moving blithely across the shore like synchronized ice skaters, rely on speed to secure their morning meal. Nearby a staunch pelican sits squarely on the tilting post of the pier, eyeing his breakfast carefully before making a graceful swoop across the water.

In a way I suppose we are like those birds, each of us tap dancing, skating or swooping our way through life, meeting the challenges put before us in our own unique style.

The difference is that birds don't judge each other because they fail to dance the same dance.

When I was 10 years old, my father gave me a beautiful dream catcher woven with colorful beads and silky feathers. In the center, burned into a piece of leather were the words "Don't judge another until you've walked a mile in their moccasins." I've seen similar sentiments expressed in a dozen ways and in as many languages since then, but for me, it's no less meaningful now. Maybe it's even more so as I struggle to meet the challenges of being a caretaker for a sick parent—a challenge more and more people seem to face with each year.

I am fortunate, blessed really, with a family which supports my decision to keep my mother home with me— with a husband who never complains about fast food meals or a laundry room that seems to grow dirty clothes as fast as the mold on that mystery "food" in the refrigerator, with children who never complain about having to stay home with "Nanny" while I work and who give her snacks and call me if they think they should put her bed down a little, or young adult children (sons no less) who will take on the responsibility of caring for their grandmother overnight so I can have a much needed respite away, being careful to give her the medication she needs, prepare her meals or change her position.

I will not apologize for letting my children share in the responsibility, or for needing time away from home, nor do I ever regret standing my ground when I disagree with the doctors or nurses. And if there should come a time when I must place my mother in someone else's care, I will do so free of heart because these decisions are part of how I meet the challenge put before me.

For my wonderful fellow caretakers, who daily make difficult decisions about the care of a loved one, whether in home or in a nursing facility, I will share the advice my father gave me after he spent three long years caring for his wife: "As much as possible, live a normal life. Make time for yourself and your family and never feel guilty for the decisions you make. Trust in God and in your own wisdom."

For outsiders who seem to find fault or feel the need to pass judgment, whether family members, friends or professionals, I will share another bit of wisdom. "The surest way down the road of understanding is in another person's shoes."

Our woundedness makes us a gift to others

Each spring my backyard becomes home to a host of critters who are a continual source of delight to ,  me. For the past two years my favorite has been the hyperactive squirrel who seemed to rejoice, in his own squirrel way, in being alive.

He had a penchant for sliding across canvas awnings, swinging in the neighbor’s hanging planters, and jumping up on my patio table to join me for coffee when I was least expecting it. This season there is a different squirrel, one that doesn’t do much sliding or swinging. And when he does run, it’s with the characteristic of a crab, always stage right. Obviously, he is wounded.

I noticed him one morning, picking up a peanut from under my lawn chair. He seemed to be listing, like he was drunk. Occasionally he would lose his balance and hit the frame of the chair. I thought he was just having a bad day.

But later, as I watched him try to sit on his hind legs to eat another peanut, he fell over sideways, a tiny version of Arte Johnson on Laugh In when he used to fall over with that little tricycle. It was funny, but worrisome. I went outside to see if he was OK, and then I realized that, though he was lying on his side, he was still eating the peanut. When he was done, he got up, found another peanut and promptly fell over sideways again.

Some mornings I would open the door and find him just lying on his side very still. I would worry that he had finally succumb to his wounds. But always on closer inspection I would see him nibbling away on a peanut, almost as if he had mastered the art of reclining at table.

I looked at this little creature of God with admiration, considering how I have not always been able to adapt to my wounds and just get on with life, which in his case meant making sure he had enough nourishment every day.

As human beings we are often sidetracked by any number of wounds. Our lives may come to a grinding halt. Our work and relationships suffer, our growth stops, our compass for self-nurturing no longer points north.

Sometimes we deny the wound because we feel shame or anger. Sometimes we allow the wound to become who we are, identifying always with the pain rather than the possibilities. When this happens, fear of becoming someone new prevents us from simply becoming, and healing never happens.

When I was suffering with depression, I eventually felt called to share my journey publicly because I had discovered how many people suffer needlessly in silence, without support or professional help because they are ashamed to acknowledge their disease.

I was worried that my admission would jeopardize my job, and was letting fear make my decision for me. My spiritual director reminded me that no one had to experience more shame than Jesus, hanging naked on the cross, perceived by almost all who knew him as a failure. I should embrace this Jesus as my strength. So I did.

Henri Nouwen wrote: "Nobody escapes being wounded. We all are wounded people, whether physically, emotionally, mentally, or spiritually. The main question is not ‘How can we hide our wounds?’ so we don’t have to be embarrassed, but ‘How can we put our woundedness in the service of others?’ When our wounds cease to be a source of shame, and become a source of healing, we have become wounded healers."

Each day I am grateful for the lessons my Father provides, especially through the smallest of his creatures, who teach me not only what is, but what should be. In spending some time each morning with my wounded furry friend I am reminded that once our wounds have been healed, it is not enough for us to simply gather our own supply of peanuts each day. We are called to share the bounty; to love others as we love ourselves, wounds and all.

 Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

They say it's your birthday

Today is my birthday. At 6 am, after a long night of trying to complete some assignments, I wasn’t feeling celebratory. The economy has hit us hard, and my head was spinning from the roller coaster of robbing Peter to pay Paul.

On top of that, by 8 am this morning, I had received at least seven birthday greetings from a variety of website services, a phone call Happy Birthday! from the car dealership, and at least a half-dozen birthday postcards from my physical therapist, favorite restaurant, dentist, and a number of other companies that have somehow accessed my personal information. It seems the marketing power of birthdays has made new inroads. The significance of birthdays has been tainted! I was starting to feel like Eeyore: “After all, what are birthdays? Here today and gone tomorrow.”

Then a volley of Facebook greetings from honest-to-goodness real friends, and family members, began to pop up in my email. These were sincere greetings. I could hear the smiles in their words. They changed my mood.

But the best greeting, so far, came from my youngest son. He left a funny card on my keyboard. Inside was a $20 bill. You know things are bad when your sons start giving you spending money! But somehow, the gesture just made my day.

I’m ready to take Peter and Paul out to celebrate, as long as they pick up the check.

Death is a teacher of time and treasure

"Dear angel guide my feet, I come each moment closer to the brink, it may be I am nearer home today, dear angel, than I think"    Carved on an old headstone in an English cemetery

The headstone found in an old English cemetery relayed an incomplete story of a family struck by tragedy—the dad, James, died in 1929; his wife, Margaret, died a year later and his daughter, Mary, age 22, died the following year. One may imagine any number of stories to fill in the gaps of this family’s losses and it wouldn’t be hard to imagine a young girl of 22 years succumbing to the pain of a broken heart after losing both her parents so close to one another. She, herself, died just days before the second year anniversary of her father’s death.

It seems this story comes to mind for me most often as we approach the date of my own father’s June birthday. In some way, I suppose, I have projected on this young English girl my once seemingly unbearable pain at his death, followed closely by the death of my mother, so many years ago. It was a desolate time, one that taught me the cost of loving.

Surely, for those who remain behind, death is the cruelest blow. But it is only so because of the human heart’s desire and capacity to love, and in that truth we have evidence of our maker.

Who, but God, could have created a heart and soul capable of such deep love and such profound grief? And who would be better able to console us then the One who made us as we are?

In all of the significant losses of my life I have found God in my grieving, or perhaps it is God who found me, and in the finding reminded me that amid every loss there remained abundant blessings.

One such experience, profound in its simplicity, was a monumental step forward in the healing process of grief.

As I am often lead to do when pain threatens to overwhelm me, I had escaped to a little cottage at the beach to spend time alone in a place where time was all mine. A small paper journal recalled my day:

Here, at the shore, there had been time for making pie, a beautiful thing with golden brown crust and fresh, succulent blueberries. Unfortunately, the cat thought so, too, and in the whip of a tail the counter resounded with purple as in a display of children’s finger-painting, and the remnants of pie resembled a vat of paw-pressed grapes. I sighed.

Still, it was pie, none-the-less. With my eyes closed I slipped one salvaged morsel in my mouth, remembering a morning standing at short stocky bushes plump with blueberries and picking until my fingers took on the hue of distant mountains at the close of day. Gratitude welled up in me.

I must find joy in my life as it is, because it is mine, and I know it is mine by the generous hand of God. Such knowledge makes ignorance impossible as an excuse for failed gratitude and cast away blessings.

Whether in our most painful moments or through the stress and strain of daily life, it is easy to lose sight of gratitude, as it is easy to lose sight of the passing of time and the fragility of tomorrow. But death, which is so often the source of our deepest pain, has also taught me that cast away blessings are lost treasures and that joyfully living the life we are given is the most meaningful expression of gratitude.

Who, but God….?

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

Letting go is simple wisdom with divine potential

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us. Joseph Campbell

Did you ever pass a car fire on the highway and wonder how it started? I have, many times, and today I got the explanation—when it happened to my husband.

While I was cooking dinner I got a phone call. I could tell by the tone of my husband’s voice that whatever had happened was going to require my going and picking him up somewhere. I had just hoped it wouldn’t be on some god-forsaken backwoods road in a part of New Jersey I didn’t know.

As it turned it out, he was only two miles down the road in a gas station. He had driven all the way home from the shore on the parkway and had made it to Route 9 when he and my son heard a pop in the engine. They pulled into a gas station next to the fuel pump because they also needed gas. My husband got out of the van and opened the hood to discover the engine was on fire. Bad enough in itself, but very bad when you’re parked next to a fuel pump! Fortunately, for him and the terrified gas station attendant, he had a fire extinguisher under the seat and was able to avert a tragedy.

Now this van is 18 years old, pushing 200,000 miles, looks like it has been through a war and sports silver electrical tape bandages on its scrapes and dings. Add to that a fire.

"I think it’s time to get a new van," I suggested to my husband.

I thought I caught the hint of a nod, but his eyes were glazed over. When I came home from work the next day I expected we might start looking for a replacement. Instead, I saw the familiar reflection of silver tape in the sun as I pulled around the corner.

"It’s fixed," he said proudly when I walked in the door.

I just sighed. Sometimes it’s hard to accept when it’s time to let go. Sometimes what is has such a powerful hold on us that we fail to see the possibilities of what might be. We tend to think of letting go in terms of loss, and sometimes it is, but just as often it is a gain, if we can acknowledge that thing, that relationship, that circumstance as having filled its potential in our lives; for better or for worse it has had an impact on who or where we are at this moment in time. But this moment has already past away, and those things should not define us or our future.

New life is ours, says the Lord. And it happens by letting go of the old, by trusting in our God who spoke to the exiles in Babylon through the prophet Jeremiah: For I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans to give you a future and a hope.

God instructed the Israelites to live fully during the time of their exile in the land where they found themselves, to build houses, plant gardens, marry and have children. But God also told them to be ready to let go, to move on to the new future God had planned for them.

There is a teaching in the ancient Chinese philosophical text Tao Te Ching which states, "To hold, you must first open your hand."

It is simple wisdom with divine potential.

Sometimes talking to God is like talking to yourself

"Answer when I call, my saving God." Psalm 4:2

Yesterday was one of those days. You know the kind, when your mind is pulled in every direction; five requests for help, four email emergencies, three phone calls about a personal "business matter" and it’s only nine o’clock in the morning. So I decided to take a break and call my husband. I dialed his cell number from my office phone and, wouldn’t you know, as soon as I got through my cell phone started to ring. I hung up on his call and answered my phone.

"Hello?"

I heard a woman’s voice but then she hung up on me. I was annoyed.

It sounded like my co-worker. I had called her earlier from my phone so maybe she was just returning the call. I decided to try my husband again before checking with my co-worker. I dialed his number and was interrupted by another call on my cell.

"Hello?" I said sharply.

"Hello?" I heard her reply, but nothing more, so I hung up.

God, this is so annoying, I thought.

I looked at the in-coming call location: work. It has to be her, I thought. But then, as I reached to phone my husband one more time, it suddenly became embarrassingly clear – I had been calling myself.

My cell number and my husband’s both begin with the same four numbers and, being mentally fragmented, I dialed the wrong number.My husband laughed out loud when I reached him. I think he considered it right up there with the time I roasted my eyeglasses on the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner.

He suggested the phone call story would make a good column, but I reminded him that I needed a spiritual connection. That’s when he hit me with, "Well, sometimes talking to God is like talking to yourself. You don’t get an answer and all you hear is the sound of your own voice."

I was speechless for a few seconds. God talk from my husband is a rarity. There was a lot to unpack in what he was saying, not the least of which was wondering if he was speaking from experience. Certainly, I have had a fair share of emails from readers who empathize with the words of Dolly Parton’s song, Hello God. She asks the question, "Hello, God, are you out there? Can you hear me, are you listenin’ any more? Hello God, if we’re still on speakin’ terms can you help me like before?"

I imagine King David would emphasize, as well. So many of his psalms seem to be asking, "Are you listening to me?"

One of my favorites is Psalm 13, when David asks, "How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day?"

This is a man on the edge, but one who is confident enough in God’s love to hold God’s "feet" to the fire. Without fear, he entreats God, "Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God!"

Still, in spite of his painful situation and the lack of God’s response, David ends his psalm by saying, "I trust in your faithfulness. Grant my heart joy in your help,that I may sing of the Lord, ‘How good our God has been to me!’"

Renowned Rabbi Abraham Heschel has said, "A religious man is a person who holds God and man in one thought at one time, at all times, who suffers harm done to others, whose greatest passion is compassion, whose greatest strength is love and defiance of despair."

David was a religious man. We may have trouble believing it because we see, with human eyes, the magnitude of David’s sins. But God saw something more. In spite of his sinfulness, his great accomplishments and his periods of trials and deep turmoil, David depended on God. It was through his darkest periods that David developed a trust and hope in God that would sustain him throughout his life.

David’s psalms are encouragement for us because they are songs of faith in a God who is always listening and always responding, even when it seems like we are talking to ourselves.

Copyright © 2010 by Mary Regina Morrell

Not bothering is an important part of the journey

"How do you do nothing?" asked Pooh…. Christopher Robin replied, "It means just going along, listening to all the things you can hear, and not bothering."

For many years I have written a newspaper column at least twice a month. During the past several years, it has been almost once a week. Adding a stray column here or there, I would estimate that I have written some 500 columns about a variety of spiritual topics.

But recently, as has happened several times during those years, I have found the writing difficult, the thoughts jumbled into little piles like rocks collecting on the bottom of a stream bed that has stopped its move forward.

I remember the first time this happened.

Tossing and turning one sleepless night, I wondered if I could possibly be losing the gift I had been given. It was a disquieting thought, so I rose from bed to find something to occupy my mind.

Of course, as many women will do, I turned to cleaning, sorting out piles of mail that had accumulated in the den. As I threw one thing after another into the garbage I came across a greeting card that I had purchased but never sent—probably because I liked it so much I didn’t want to part with it. The photo was of a cat stretched luxuriously across the top of a roll-top desk full of "stuff," obviously basking in the sun which shone through the adjacent window. The verse read, "There’s no pleasure in having nothing to do. The fun is having lots to do and not doing it."

Doing nothing is a concept I can’t quite get my head around, but at three in the morning, with a mind running on overtime and getting nowhere, it sounded like an incredibly wonderful experience.

Still, being the often times stubborn Irish woman that I can be, I put aside the thought and went on cleaning, musing about the solution to my predicament. The next thing I was to pick up was a book of poetry by Emily Dickenson. Randomly I opened the pages and my eyes rested on a poem about a little brook. The first and last verses say it all: "Have you got a brook in your little heart . . . and your little draught of life is daily drunken there . . . Beware lest this little brook of life some burning noon go dry!"

As the light began to dawn in my head, it was almost as if my faithful guardian angel could be heard muttering something like, "It’s about time!" while exhaling a sigh of relief.

I sat in a nearby chair and considered what I had to finally acknowledge. I needed to stop writing for a time and take a respite for doing nothing—not a retreat, not a time of prayer or recollection, all of which have a purpose, but a time of no purpose other than to simply be and, in the "be-ing", be renewed and refreshed.

So, every year, as I did then, I take a hiatus from writing. But during this time of simplicity and expectant waiting for the rain of renewal, I store up all the spiritual lessons life has to offer so I have plenty to write about when the brook is filled.

If I were to rate my accomplishments in life, learning to make some time for "not bothering," is high on my list.

Thanks, Christopher Robin!

Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell

A simple life brings joy to the spirit

"Tea ceremony is a way of worshipping the beautiful and the simple. All one’s efforts are concentrated on trying to achieve perfection through the imperfect gestures of daily life. Its beauty consists in the respect with which it is performed. If a mere cup of tea can bring us closer to God, we should watch out for all the other dozens of opportunities that each ordinary day offers us." Kakuzo Okakura, tea master, as recorded by Paulo Coelho in Like the Flowing River

Hanging on the wall in a quaint gift shop at the New Jersey shore is a hand carved wooden sign that reads, "Life doesn’t have to be perfect to be joyful." The black and white photo above the words portrays the image of a country grandma, hair pulled up in a bun, her plain cotton dress protected by a flowered print apron tied at the neck and waist.

She stands in the doorway of a tired wooden shack. Old-fashioned baking utensils and mottled pottery are visible through the door. It’s not hard to imagine she has just finished mixing up a home-made pie or two. Obviously, she doesn’t have much, as far as money or belongings go, but she exudes an aura of contentment.

At least for me, the image provoked feelings of wistfulness, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who considered purchasing the sign. Many people seem to yearn for days gone by. Of course, in reality, such a homespun country life as the one implied by the image brought with it innumerable challenges and hardships. But the message of the words still embodies an understanding of the principal of simplicity; the reality that the most meaningful things in life are not the wealth and success our culture entices us to strive for, but those moments when we realize joy in the blessings of life and love.

The real problem doesn’t lay in our having money. The erosion of our spiritual life begins when our desire to possess the things money can buy leads us to compromises that damage our personal and family lives. When not having something destroys our joy, then it is time to acknowledge that our attachment to things other than God is leading us away from God.

"Everything we possess that is not necessary for life or happiness becomes a burden, and scarcely a day passes that we do not add to it," writes author Robert Brault.

As I grow older, and hopefully, wiser, I realize the truth in his words, and become increasingly aware of how much I have contributed to the weight of my own burdens; how much I have wounded the "whole" of who I am with worry and with attachment, and, ultimately, I am reminded of how far I have moved away from the spiritual principal of simplicity.

To restore wholeness first requires a restoration of relationships, to God, to created things and other people. Within those relationships we discover the joy that leads to a deeper understanding of who we are meant to be.

"Tis the gift to be simple," wrote Shaker Elder Joseph Brackett, Jr., in 1848 when he composed the Shaker dance song, "Simple Gifts." Once an obscure piece of music, it has become a beloved religious song across the country. As with most well-loved music, the song has been recorded and, often re-written, not always to the benefit of the original. Today we are more familiar with a revised edition that changed the simple article "the" to "a." That one little letter changed the intent of the composer, who believed that simplicity was the gift of God. Perhaps the popularity of the song stems from the fact that, deep within the human heart, we believe it, too, even when we have trouble living it.

This man of simple faith has left the world with a simple song, a beautiful mantra for a deep and holistic spirituality:

" ‘Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free, ‘tis the gift to come down where you want to be, and when we find ourselves in the place just right, it will be in the valley of love and delight."

Copyright © 2010 Mary Regina Morrell