Janet Hanson

The creature is incapable of knowing anything except what God gives to it from day to day. If it knew beforehand what God intends for it, it would never be at peace. ~Catherine of Genoa

I wake up thirsty. My spirit, dry and gasping claws the air, croaking barely-formed thoughts of love-lack and dread. I dress in the burden of the day ahead and the unfinished tasks of yesterday. The day begins with a glass half-empty.

I often wish to be re-made, to be the one who leaps from the covers, throws open the blinds and bellows a greeting to a startled world. When the glass is half-full, only positive possibilities hang at attention, ready to be donned with chin up, straight back buoyancy.

Instead, I mutter to the kitchen, pour a steaming mug and take a breath. If I listen, if I allow myself the life-giving pause, I hear these words,

 “The Glass is Full…

Every morning your glass is filled to the brim. When problems clamor it is not because I was stingy. When others prosper, they were not given more than you. Every day your glass is full.

Full of what?

• Enough love, with no supplement needed.
• Enough power, so you can come to me weak.
• Enough forgiveness so you can fearlessly face your darkness.
• Enough joy so happiness need not be the goal.

But you turn from my love for the sake of human acceptance, you deplete yourself trying to prove you are me, you spin your delusions to avoid seeing the truth, you search the world over for what I’ve already poured.

My child, all the grace, wisdom and provision you need, is already there. The glass is always full. But it comes one overflowing cupful at a time–enough for each day–so you will learn to drink from me.”

So I sit with my coffee, one hand on my dog’s warm back. I close my eyes and let my glass be filled.

Do you see the glass as full? Is God really enough?

Photograph of Butchart Gardens, Victoria, BC by Ted Martinson

There are none so blind as those who will not see.

When cataract surgery was first introduced, the stories of dozens of people–those blinded from birth now suddenly able to see–were preserved.

In Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard shares the poignant results: many of the newly-sighted were so dazzled by color, space and variety; so disturbed by the enormity and confusion of what they saw, they preferred to keep their eyes shut.

The world seemed less oppressive. Life was more manageable and easier to navigate in the dark.

I’m told that when an infant turns her face away, avoiding  eye contact, this is a sign she is overstimulated. To turn her chin, to force her to look at you, is to disrespect her boundaries. The human response to what overwhelms is to choose not to see.

Learning to see

Jesus reminds us that “the eye is the lamp of the body.” Our eyes won’t automatically see. Our brains have to tell them what to notice.

So too, our hearts won’t automatically admit what is true. Our minds must will to notice. Unfortunately, we learn early the deadly dance of avoidance.

Annie Dillard’s prescription for dull-eyed vision is to say aloud what she encounters, to put into words and so train her mind to notice. This, poets, preachers and pray-ers have always known. To let in the light, to see what is really true, you must

• think it, speak it, write it, sing it, 
• shout it, whisper it, journal it, share it, 
• draw it, paint it, sculpt it, scribble it, 
• pray it until you learn it by heart,

and then listen for it to be spoken back to you.

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Philippians 4:8

What are you refusing to see?

Image credit:dhiking on flickr

I wake expectant, hoping to see a new thing. ~Annie Dillard

Creation performs its extraordinary dance whether or not we choose to attend.

Too often I live in my head, chasing and worrying over ideas like a dog with its chewed-up tail.

I miss so much.

Years ago I flew to Germany for my brother’s wedding, with Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek as my companion. Few write like Dillard, though many try to imitate. Her words shook me awake. I walked through that European visit alert and alive to to every sensible nuance.

As we chased the sunset on the return journey, I stared for hours at what appeared to be enormous trenches cut into the arctic landscape, and looming shadows over a continent. Who was making those shadows? My brain never made sense of what I saw, but I watched,  unblinking, for the entire flight.

The gift of wonder

“Vision is a deliberate gift,” Dillard notes. I think of the two meanings of the word.

• Gift: a grace, an ability to strive for.
• Gift: a favor, an offering.

When eyes are open, ears paused to listen, our noses lifted to the breeze, our tongues savoring a taste; when we choose to gently touch, we gift our Maker, we applaud his wonders.

Pause for a moment and pay attention. Without over-thinking, what do your five senses report? A moment ago I walked out my back door and

• saw a dragonfly darting importantly among the flowers,
• heard the soft purr of a hummingbird in flight,
• felt the hot sun on my cheek,
• sniffed the subtle scent of grass,
• tasted the fresh coffee I’d poured in my cup,

And offered it all back for God’s approval.

Stop a moment and tell us what you notice.