Wednesday, October 17, 2007

This One Wild Precious Life

It's not unusual to run out of paper. The printer only holds so many sheets, so it happens from time to time that, finishing up a re-edited sermon early Sunday morning, I plug the laptop into the printer, refresh my cup of coffee, grab the pages from the output tray and scurry on my way, only to discover later that the paper supply was shorter than the manuscript.

I think about that as I visit a dear friend in hospice, watching as each day finds her weaker; wondering if this day will be her last; if this page drawn through the printer of her experience will exhaust her supply, knowing that no matter how many days are ultimately counted it won't feel, to her, like her manuscript was complete.

I think about that -- as a 51-year-0ld man who still thinks of himself as "young", who still catches himself thinking and behaving as though the bulk of his time is ahead. It's possible that I could live beyond that centennial threshold, but given my thirst for coffee, attraction to desserts, and enjoyment of leisure, the odds are not in my favor. Regardless, the point remains the same: many or few, one doesn't know how many sheets are in the printer. This one showing -- this day in progress -- is the only one I am sure of, and even it could get crumpled along the way. Of what, then, will it consist?

This isn't a novel question, nor is the implied answer head-turning wisdom. Philosophers from the Buddha to Tim McGraw have encouraged people to "live like you were dying." Which, of course, all of us are. It's just that I am prone to forget -- embarrassingly and naively soon after I walk out of that hospice room. But one of these days I will step into the pulpit with a manuscript missing its final page -- or two. One of these days I'll step into eternity with a life finished, but incomplete. What will the evidence be of my stewardship?

What, then, is printing on this sheet of day?

For starters, poetry, and Mary Oliver's version of the question:
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
---"The Summer Day"

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Wow, I had never thought of life as sheets of paper...a unique idea. it gives me a lot to think about. Also I love the grasshopper poem. Thanks Tim.
Mary

Anonymous said...

Another WOW, I find myself running out of sheets . Tissues. Earlier tonight having a phone call finding my best friend since kindergarten's battle with cancer taking a sudden and drastic turn for the worse.
When turning the computer back on to look after some business details, the bookmark I was seeking found the one I needed. Instantly finding your site I thought I should read your blog. How fitting to find such inspiration and irony. Thanks for reloading my paper tray for many more jobs to be printed.
Thanks also for words that help refill the ink cartridges of HOPE!!!

Sincerely, your brother-in-law Paul Mott.