Lessons from the Scaffolding
Rev. Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
5/30/04

 

Meditation “The Healing Moment” by Elizabeth Tarbox
from Listening for our Song (Boston: Skinner House, 2002)

 

Each day I am newly reminded of my unworthiness: a dozen thoughts misspoken; another day when the good I do falls so far short of the good that I could do; myriad small interchanges, moments of sharing that strain to the breaking point my desire to be generous, helpful, and kind; months of careful work lost by a moment’s impatience, a careless word.

 

But when I am here at the edge of creation, breaking with the small tide over the sand, the need to do good rolls away; the question of what is right diminishes to insignificance and is easily borne away by the tiny waves.  Here, where no words are spoken, none are misspoken.

 

I am with the broken stubble of the marsh grass that holds on through the wrecking wind and the burning flood.  I am with the grains that mold themselves around everything, accepting even so unworthy a foot as mine, holding and shaping it until it feels that it belongs.  I stand somewhere between truth and vision, and what I don’t know ceases to embarrass me, because what I do know is that the water feels gentle like a lover’s touch, and the sand welcomes it.

 

What I have done or failed to do has left no noticeable mark on creation.  What I do or don’t do is of no moment now.  Now I am here and grateful to be touched, calmed, and healed by the immense pattern of the universe.  And when I die, it will be an honor for my blood to return to the sea and my bones to become the sand.  Reassured, I am called back to my life, to another day.

 

Reading
From Buddhist sage Thich Nhat Hanh

 

Our true home is in the present moment.

To live in the present moment is a miracle.

The miracle is not to walk on water.

The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment,
to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.

Peace is all around us—
in the world and in nature—
and within us—
in our bodies and our spirits.

Once we learn to touch this peace,
we will be healed and transformed.
It is not a matter of faith;
it is a matter of practice.

 

Sermon

This story begins almost three years ago. Susan and I packed our two cats into our two old Toyotas and headed for Des Moines and the next chapter of our lives.  Having sowed our “big city” oats, we were ready for the change in scenery…the change in lifestyle that Des Moines promised.  With a down payment loan from Susan’s parents, we had purchased a nice old home in a tree-filled city neighborhood and we were anxious to get busy making it our own.

 

I was celebrating my graduation from theological school and looking forward to actually practicing the ministry for which I had been preparing for many years.  The decision to accept the call to Des Moines had been easy for us.  The church seemed to be a perfect match for what I hoped to do and Des Moines seemed to be a great fit for the quality of life we were seeking.

 

Moving to Iowa would also bring us closer to Ames, where Susan’s parents, John and Marcia, had lived for most of her life.  We tried not to let this factor be too important in our decision. After all, we were used to living away from family and we were not certain what being closer might bring.  Only time would tell if it was a good thing.

 

A few weeks before we moved, Susan’s parents began mentioning the possibility of hiring us to paint the exterior of a property they owned, a fourplex apartment building in Ames.  Knowing that money would be tight for us for a few months, we decided to accept the offer.  I can’t say I actually remember deciding to accept the offer.  But I do know that less than a week after moving to Des Moines, we began making a daily commute up to Ames to do the work…so we must have agreed to it at some point.

 

Before I go much further in this story, it is important for me to admit something to you.  As much as I appreciated the idea of helping out John and Marcia, and earning some money, I didn’t want to be painting an apartment complex…in Ames or anywhere else.  I didn’t want to be driving to Ames every day, climbing up and down scaffolding during a heat wave.  I really wanted to be working on our own home…or maybe even just taking it easy after the four-year marathon of preparation for ministry…relaxing amidst the stresses of relocating and my new job, soon-to-begin.

 

As we made our first drive up to Ames, you could say I was a little bitter. I am not proud that I was bitter…but bitter I was. Being the good soldier that I am, or at least try to be, I plodded ahead and worked with Susan to fulfill the commitment we had made.  I’m not real good at hiding my emotions, so I assume it was apparent to Susan’s parents that I was not too happy.  In fact, I imagine that my face probably had a constant scowl for several days.  They never said anything to me about it, though.  Maybe they just expected me to be a sulky son-in-law.  There are a lot of us out there, you know.

 

As each workday unfolded into another, John would visit us at the apartment.  He helped us get set up, coached us on how to assemble the scaffolding, made sure we had enough paint, and occasionally gave us a hand as we cleaned the brushes at the end of the day.   But though he offered us his words of instruction, support and even gratitude, I noticed that he didn’t really do much himself.  He told us he was going to be scraping and painting the garage but, to my surprise, he was getting very little accomplished.  I couldn’t figure out why this active guy wasn’t doing more to help us.  I even wondered if he was going slowly on purpose…just to give us an opportunity to make more money.  I fought the urge to tell him that it would be ok with us if he helped more:  I didn’t want to be disrespectful.  After all, we had agreed to do the work ourselves…and we were being paid.

 

Once Susan and I had nearly made our way around the apartment three times, once for the scraping and twice for the painting, something in me changed. Maybe it was just that the work trips to Ames were almost over.  Maybe it was that the thick July humidity had mercifully subsided for the day.  Maybe all the physical activity had enabled me to finally loosen my scowl.  Or maybe it was just one of those “lifted moments” we sang about in the opening hymn this morning…“The soul has lifted moments, above the drift of days, when life’s great meaning breaketh in sunrise on our ways.”

 

Susan was on the ground getting another can of paint, leaving me alone on the scaffolding I had come to know so well over the week I had begrudgingly swung myself up and down it.  I took advantage of the break to turn away from the work and just look out from my tower of metal and wood.  I took a few deep breaths and just tried to be present in the moment…something I should have done much sooner.   I took in the scene.  This was definitely not Chicago anymore.  Big, green, leafy trees.   Clean air.  Bright blue sky with a few stray clouds.  My wife just below me.  A new adventure ahead of us both. A solid old house back in Des Moines.  A good job awaiting me in a few weeks. A mother and father-in-law that were kind enough to help us earn some money…and to put up with me.  They even brought us lunch each day.  And then it hit me.  “Mark, “ I told myself,  “You are such an idiot.”

 

It was one of those rare and treasured moments when I could see the arc of my life…my life that, while not perfect, was beautiful all the same.  I could see the gift that it was to be alive and in the presence of people who love me…people who would not always be here.  I vowed that I would change my attitude. I decided that to be near family would be a blessing…as long as I would choose to see it that way, and thereby help make it so. 

 

Why did it take me so long to pause and pay attention to something other than my desire to be doing something else?  Why was I so anxious to be grumpy, that I forgot to be grateful?  Why was I in such a hurry to get the work done when all that was waiting for me was just another task?  Why, for that matter, does it take any of us so long to be present to something other than our disappointments, unmet expectations, or long list of tasks that often distract us from what is truly important…which is, of course, whatever we are doing right now?

 

I challenged myself to remember this discovery on the scaffolding…to not forget my moment of clarity…this moment when I was able to, as this morning’s reading suggests, appreciate the peace and beauty that are available at all times…even while painting a fourplex in July.

 

I confess I haven’t always been a fan of readings like the one we heard this morning and their Buddhist teaching that the way to overcome difficulties is to submerge oneself in the present moment…to breathe in the annoyance, trouble or pain, if you will, and breathe it out again…that the way to let go of cares and attachments is to simply let go of cares and attachments.  It’s like saying the way to quit smoking is to quit smoking.  Obvious, but not all that helpful.  But, you know the alternative is not so great either.  After all, my week of internal pouting while painting the fourplex had not offered any relief from the chains of my resentment…in fact, it just made things more difficult…if not for everyone else, then certainly for me.   Besides, the wisdom of the passage is not that living in the present is easy…or a cure for all that ails us.   No, Buddhist teaching reminds us that living in the present is nothing less than a miracle…a miracle that takes practice…a lifetime of practice…a lifetime of impatience and mistakes, missteps, and miscues…and the courage to trudge ahead anyway, laughing when we can and welcoming the healing moments when we find them…the healing moments that enable us to see our lives as the impermanent blessings they are.

 

These days, I look back on that painting project more fondly than I ever would have expected at the time.  I remember details about conversations I had with John, the quirky ways he chose to help us, the kindness he showed each time he visited the work site, the gift that it was to know him and to be loved by him.  I have reason to remember because, as many of you know, John died this spring from complications associated with ALS, a cruel disease that over time robs its victims of their ability to control their muscles.  Looking back, we now know that he was unable to help us paint the fourplex because he was already experiencing symptoms of the disease that would eventually take his life.  So now, my lesson from the scaffolding has even more poignancy.  Had I known what the next three years would bring, I would not have been so surly about the painting job…and I would not have been so uncertain about whether or not moving closer to family was a good thing. 

 

So I hold on to this story, this lesson from the scaffolding, because I believe it is an important reminder of the choices we face whenever we find ourselves more caught up in what we think life should be rather than what life really is: an opportunity to love and be loved…to breathe in each day as though it may be our last…to do all we can to be present to the world as we find it…and to be gentle with those around us…for they may not be here tomorrow.

 

I recall my lesson from the scaffolding when I find myself getting too stressed about tasks yet undone, when I have the urge to hold onto a resentment rather than forgive, when I fret about the expectations I have of others that are more about my needs than theirs.  And, of course, I remember the lesson from the scaffolding each time I hold my daughter, who, in her seven months on earth, has taught me more about flexibility and being present than I ever would have thought possible. 

 

Am I always able to have the same kind of clarity I experienced on that July afternoon in Ames?  Of course not.  But I continue to practice and remind myself that the practice is enough.  It has to be.  It has to be because the alternative is not so great either.  It has to be, because, as I have sung to my daughter in the middle of the night when sleep hasn’t come easy and my patience is wearing thin,

(sung) “It will be over before we know it…so we might as well enjoy it…It will be over before we know it…so we might as well enjoy it…”

 

© 2004 Rev. Mark Stringer  First Unitarian Church of Des Moines