Stewarding Stillness

And learning to live softly

When I started this humble endeavor, I committed to writing on Mondays. This was not set in stone, as anyone who might be counting can see. But even if you are not counting, I was. That is, until last week.

I did not discard this goal lightly. I know through trying and failing (and grieving the lost opportunities) to develop disciplines like piano practice or good scholarship that if I want to bear fruit, I must buckle down. If I’m unwilling to do the work, what kind of “results” can I honestly expect? After all: “No pain, no gain; know pain, know gain.”

Hold that thought.

Over the past couple of weeks, on top of the holiday and the joys and challenges of ten days with extra family around the house, changing our rhythms and routines, I had another little “extra” element to shake things up…and slow things way down.

Dad and I had spent a happy morning rummaging in the woods to find wintery florals. I have pursued a similar activity for years, satisfying my own need for frugal beauty and outdoor exercise. Our conversation while puttering and exploring revealed that my own instincts to forage came naturally from my paternal “Grandmother Baldwin” who passed away when I was seven. It was a joy to connect family history to present practices.

Unfortunately, petals are not the only things that drop. “Leaves of three,” indicative of the presence of urushiol to which I am severely allergic, also drop during the cold months.

Yep. I had a serious bout of Poison Ivy that started the day before Thanksgiving.

I didn’t realize I had had a Tuesday tangle with the demon plant until sometime early on Wednesday—a prime day for cooking ahead so that Thursday still offers a measure of rest. By the time the oven was good and hot, so was I. I was miserable.

But that was nothing compared to what I would end up feeling Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. By Monday, it was time for prednisone.

Some people love steroids. I mean, they love that they lessen inflammation, make them feel “they could run through a brick wall” (to quote my husband). That is not my story. I took my last dose of prednisone on Saturday morning, 12/7. Today, Wednesday the 11th of December in the 2024th year of our Lord, fully two weeks after my initial symptoms began, I feel like I might be coming back to some sense of “normal.”

But what does that even mean?

Since being among those at WORLD whose hours and projects were reduced or terminated completely this summer, normal has been an elusive thing. Two months after I lost my job, we lost Triscuit (doggy companion of ten years) to rapid-onset anemia. Two months after that, Hurricane Helene struck our region. Instead of characterized by familiar rhythms and a steady faithfulness in one direction, life has felt like a series of gear changes attempted by someone learning how to drive stick.

My first car was a manual transmission, Mazda Protégé. I speak of that car with such glowing nostalgia that my eldest is on the lookout for a stick-shift…but she has yet to experience what no person can adequately describe, and what no driving instructor should have to endure without serious accolades…and maybe some downers. A very patient friend sat in the passenger seat to calmly bear witness and give counsel while I found all the mistakes that could be made, engaging and disengaging the clutch, gas, brake, gears, at all the wrong times to the car’s loud, violently-shuddering protest.

That car is me. The driver attempting to drive that car is also me. And a Very Patient Friend sits in the passenger seat, coaching me through gear changes towards easeful progress forward.

But in this moment, I have finally jerked to a shaky stop. My foot is off the gas. The clutch is disengaged. The car has stalled. I sit here in exhaustion. Sitting still.

I am not the one “stewarding” the stillness. I am notorious for my inability to slow down, rest, wait. In spite of the words above swirling in my head all summer, they never did land. The runway I presented remained inhospitable: rocky and pitted. I’m reminded of a scene from Pixar’s Cars where Lightning McQueen repaves the road he destroyed in Radiator Springs in record time. Can you all hear ‘Mater’s voice as he goes to try out the new road McQueen had rushed to complete?

Slow down. Rest. Wait.

An image comes to mind of those who have learned to live in the wilderness: it is vital (literally a situation of life or death) to walk slowly, listen carefully, observe minutely. One must attune to one’s surroundings, to one’s own self: breath, movement, smells, color, sound, heartbeat…

I am not a good watchman waiting for the morning; but he has been a Good Father bringing his mercy with the new dawn. Like a mother hen, he has hovered over me. He has made me sit like a weaned child next to her mother. He has reminded me that unless he builds the house, all my labor is in vain. My Shepherd has used his rod and staff. He has guided me with goads that hem me in behind and before, leading me through dark valleys towards still waters. In peace, he has made me lie down and dwell in safety. In knowledge higher than I can ever attain, he knows my intimate needs, my anxious thoughts, my very words before I conceive them. He has given to me, his beloved, sleep.¹

As he allows, I will use the words he gives. I will ask (and sometimes answer) my questions. I will ponder. Maybe next week, maybe next month, I will share my own percolating thoughts on my questions from December 2nd. I recognize this stillness keeps me honest, allowing me to do what I aim to do: allow others the space to think their own thoughts, not just mine. Maybe when I share my thoughts, they will merely be buried in the tidal wave of content that rolls off of other people’s tongues and fingertips. Thy will be done. I am learning to trust the Father, practice faithfulness regardless of whether or not others witness it, and march to the beat of a different drum.

I will have a “sit-and-think” as one of our favorite cartoon characters winsomely calls it (and continue to invite you to do the same, developing reflective capacity together).²

And I will continue to ask questions.

What is the Lord stewarding in your life right now? What will it take for you to attune to and recognize it?

1. Ideas woven from Jesus’ words in Matthew 23:37-39/Luke 13:34-35 and from the Psalms including 4, 23, 51, 127, 130, 131, 139.

2. We discovered the joys of Sarah & Duck many years ago. If you like quiet, British,

artsy cartoons and/or if you have children under 10, you might enjoy them, too.