Generally, Latin-based scripts fall into two categories: formal—the scripts used as the instrument of authority; and informal—the cursive or quickly written scripts used for everyday transactions. History repeatedly shows formal scripts degenerating into cursive forms, which are, in turn, upgraded, finally achieving formal status as new hands in their own right.
—David Harris, The Art of Calligraphy, 6
The engraved invitation is formal. The cursive scrawl on torn notebook paper, even if it’s letting you know you’re welcome at the wedding, is not. The hand-written thank-you note on 20 lb. vellum gets your attention in a way a tweet or voicemail can’t convey, no matter how cheerfully you chirp.
Still, I believe we need some of both when it comes to prayer, which is our way of verbally placing ourselves in the presence of God.
At times, prayer is a casual, cursive conversation, a garden walk on a bright afternoon. You can sense God strolling along with you, smelling the flowers, humming a silly tune. You chat about the weather and the Final Four. God points out a cloud that looks like a swan. You laugh and shake your head, because you think it looks like a bear.
But at other times, prayer is hand-lettered, in careful meter and verse. You get out the good stationery of the soul, dip your spirit’s pen in the inkwell and let your lifeblood flow. You scent the prayer with your best eau de toilette and seal with hot wax. The subject matter is serious, deep, moving, rooted in longing, skirting the edge of loneliness or despair.
Cursive at times, at others engraved, my prayers have led me on a good journey. I hope your prayer life has been richly varied this season. I hope you have been able to listen for God.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Command Performances
…Then he turned his face to me one last time, / as on the day he died in my arms, and said, I would like to add / two more commandments: / the Eleventh Commandment, “Thou shalt not change,” / and the Twelfth Commandment, “Thou shalt change. You will change.” / Thus spoke my father, and he turned away / and disappeared into his strange distances.
—Yehuda Amichai, “My Parents’ Lodging Place,” in Open Closed Open, 58-59
As a parent I understand. I treasure the moment. I want it to last. You know that instant when your child is on stage, the spotlight picks up every gesture, the disbelief is suspended, and you see your son, your very own, become the star of the show. You can die happy now. You know the hug at bedtime as your daughter’s tiny arms circle your neck and you drink in the fragrance of soap and toddler. Eternity is like this. Don’t ever change.
And yet, there is also the thrill of legs and arms growing longer, the changing shape, voice, smell, and touch. You can see the magic of growth, not just physically but emotionally and spiritually. He gets better at baseball; she’s in pointe shoes now; she’s perfecting the robotic Legos; he’s developing his own journaling style. You hear the whispering promise of perpetual evolutionary motion, the generation of possibilities, the possibility of generations to come. There may be grandchildren, someday! Change, change, thou shalt change!
I can say, “Don’t change,” because I love you as you are, and “Do change,” because I love you as you are becoming. Is it wrong to claim both the present and the future and give thanks for each? I believe there is a place where delight meets hope, where the snapshot leans into the unknown. It’s what it means to be a parent. It’s what it means to be someone’s child.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
—Yehuda Amichai, “My Parents’ Lodging Place,” in Open Closed Open, 58-59
As a parent I understand. I treasure the moment. I want it to last. You know that instant when your child is on stage, the spotlight picks up every gesture, the disbelief is suspended, and you see your son, your very own, become the star of the show. You can die happy now. You know the hug at bedtime as your daughter’s tiny arms circle your neck and you drink in the fragrance of soap and toddler. Eternity is like this. Don’t ever change.
And yet, there is also the thrill of legs and arms growing longer, the changing shape, voice, smell, and touch. You can see the magic of growth, not just physically but emotionally and spiritually. He gets better at baseball; she’s in pointe shoes now; she’s perfecting the robotic Legos; he’s developing his own journaling style. You hear the whispering promise of perpetual evolutionary motion, the generation of possibilities, the possibility of generations to come. There may be grandchildren, someday! Change, change, thou shalt change!
I can say, “Don’t change,” because I love you as you are, and “Do change,” because I love you as you are becoming. Is it wrong to claim both the present and the future and give thanks for each? I believe there is a place where delight meets hope, where the snapshot leans into the unknown. It’s what it means to be a parent. It’s what it means to be someone’s child.
Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.
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