Living in a Gift

When you are living in the middle of a gift, 
then there is a truth which replaces virtually all uncertainty.

One day, when I was not looking, I found myself living in a gift. I did not expect it, and I still do not know how to understand it, but it has for a moment made sense of many things I have long believed.

The gift was Richmond Hill, the blessing within which I live. I was standing in the Novitiate, the beautiful early 19th century parlor which currently is our chapel. The windows in the Novitiate face south from the hill, looking across the river to the edge of the horizon. The sun goes across the sky from east to west, shaping the day from different directions.

In the November sunlight, and in an unanticipated moment of stillness, I realized I was breathing quietly and with an ease which had been absent only minutes before. Things that I had been praying for had already happened. Events beyond my control -- events of goodness -- were fully present. We were moving forward from a firm foundation.

When you are living in the middle of a gift, then there is a truth which replaces virtually all uncertainty. Nothing can be taken away. You are living the chronicle of what is being received. Light, air, breath, food, relationship, hope, redemption, justice, prayer, kindness, time, respite -- these things assume firm presence and stature. The capital investment of the creator in which our lives find their existence becomes an experience, not an assumption. The grace without which we would shrivel into nothing spreads its glow throughout our spirits and gives us life.

When we speak of "a gift," we are talking about something identifiable -- something we have not seen or possessed before, or something we have previously taken for granted which now is visible and appreciated. What I did not know before is the way in which a gift can suddenly illumine the whole of life and lay bare the full breadth of daily existence. I did not know that the spark of someone's generosity could set the very heavens ablaze with the glory of God, revealing the holy ground on which all of us are standing even this very minute.

Reality then becomes both insubstantial and substantial. It is no longer hard reality which forms the secure basis of experience, but soft reality. Hard reality -- the tough facts of success and failure, of matching and conflicting, of credits and debits, of physical health or injury, of need and capacity on which daily human calculations depend -- becomes not the central story but the sideline of the story. The story is in what is given. What is given happens. The sum total of the day is the ultimately incalculable total of the gifts within which it occurs. Some of those gifts appear to be payments. Others are less explicable. All are the breath of life.

The story of Christmas is just that kind of story -- the story of a purely gratuitous event which, if lived with, begins to reshape one's whole approach to life and history.

Gifts need to be received to be alive. They need to be breathed in, felt, sensed, thought about. Their fragrance, their taste, is there to be experienced. The gift becomes an energy which enlivens the spirit and expands one's view of life. Jesus was an unexpected gift to his parents, and when he became old enough to be intentional, he went around Israel giving gifts:

gifts to Jews and Arabs and Romans and Asians and Europeans and Africans;

gifts to women and men and children, to elderly and infant;

gifts to persons of all religions and no religion;

gifts to rich and poor and middle income;

gifts of teaching, of comfort, of healing, of liberation, of forgiveness, of confrontation, of encouragement, of loving presence, of insight.

Jesus, himself the gift of his father, gave the gift of his own life, lived in the spirit of giving. If there was a glow that surrounded him, if there was a spirit which accompanied him in every gathering, if there was a magic which seemed present all the time with him, it was that spirit. He was living in the gift, and therefore he was behaving like gift. Gift was the atmosphere of his consciousness, the conspiracy of his being.

The child was gift. The teacher and prophet was gift. The healer was gift. The purpose-maker was gift. And the man willing to put his own life on the line was nothing but gift.

Gratitude fills the afternoon light and we breathe in its golden richness. We find that place of simplicity out of the storm of opulence and breathe there the breath of what is most truly of value.

There is this kind of spirit in the air at this time of the year, no matter what else is happening. Evil surrounds us and has a field day in the world. Busyness, anxiety, and unsuspected misery always threaten to choke out the more delicate joys of the Christmas season. But the spirit of the gift endures regardless.

It endures because it is the deepest reality. Below the physical thing is the spiritual thing. Beneath cynicism and failure is joy and birth. The foundation is now, and will always be, gift.

On that, and only on that, can we completely rely.

by C. A. Baum

She was only a mixed-breed scrap of a dog. Her colors were black and tan, but her eyes were what made me take her. They were warm and had gold flecks in them. Other than that, she was nothing unusual, or as my father put it, " A damn nuisance." I called her Princess.

Dad preferred his hunting dog, a massive hound named Rudy, who followed him everywhere. Rudy had status; Princess was barely tolerated. At mealtimes, she would wait until Rudy ate, then settle for scraps. She slept beside my bed, content that at least one person loved her.

One day Princess started barking like mad near the railroad tracks that ran beside our house. We realized something was wrong when Dad said Rudy had gotten loose. We followed Princess, who led us to Rudy’s lifeless body beside the tracks. His neck was broken.

Dad stumbled back to the house in shock. The task of burying the huge dog fell on me. As I dug, Princess sat next to the body with a perplexed look in her eyes. When I lowered Rudy into the grave, she showed alarm. When I began to cover him with dirt, she became visibly agitated, so much so that I hurriedly unburied Rudy and made certain he was dead.

When I finished the burial, Princess tried to unbury him. I chased her away. She tried again. I held her to me and told her through my tears that her friend was gone. An odd expression came over her features, and she walked over to the grave and lay across Rudy’s final resting place.

That night I tried to get her inside, but she wouldn’t budge. I tried to get her to eat, but she ignored the bowl. Next day the same thing. That night a howling rainstorm roared in. She was still there the following morning and kept her vigil throughout the rainy day. I told Dad I was worried, but he said, ‘She will be in when she gets hungry and wet enough." He clearly was not concerned over what he considered an inferior animal. More important, he was doing his own grieving. Until then he had not been able to even look at his pet’s grave.

The next morning Princess was still in place. I ran downstairs, determined this time to drag her off. I stopped when I saw Dad emerge from the parlor carrying his buffalo-robe blanket. No one was ever allowed to touch that blanket. He told me to stay put. I watched from the window as he shook out the blanket above Princess’ soaked form, wrapped her up, and lifted her into his arms like a child. He told us to get towels and warm soapy water. My sister and I wanted to care for her, but he would not allow it. Never looking up as he worked on the bedraggled animal, he said the job was his alone.

He cleaned off the mud and dried her shivering body. Then he took her in his lap. For a long time he sat there, tears running down his cheeks; the only sound in the room was the rain beating on the windows. Finally, he declared that as long as he lived, Princess would sit at his feet, sleep on his bed, and eat from his plate. He said that he had never known such loyalty from man or beast and that he would honor her always.ª

Carol Ann Baum is a New Jersey-based free-lance writer. She writes, "My father and the dog are long deceased, but never forgotten; nothing in the heart ever is." Reprinted by permission from Modern Maturity, a publication of AARP, January, 1999, (202) 434-6850, Washington, DC.

Sometimes, it is only after loved ones have died that we recognize the little ways in which they affect our lives. The big impacts are fairly obvious while they are still around: their influences on our basic personality our hobbies, vocations, spiritual life, and so on. I went to West Point largely because my father was a West Pointer. I played baseball and basketball because I have an older brother who did the same. These are all easy to understand.

But why do I call all Wrens "Jenny"? I never gave it much thought until I attended my grandmother’s funeral. There I was reminded of what comfort it is to look back at the lives of departed family members and friends and realize the little things they leave with you. I remember the wrens that inhabited a couple of birdhouses in my grandparents orchard in St. Joseph, Missouri. Grandma called the females, "Jenny Wren." Now, I don’t know where the name came from; whether it was from a poem, folklore, or if my grandmother came up with the name on her own. But, even though I have heard other people use the name, I will always remember that it was in Grandma’s orchard that I first heard the name. And now, whenever I see or hear a wren, I call it "Jenny" – even though it is probably a male if I hear it sing. However the name came about, it seems very appropriate for such a diminutive and nervous, but tenaciously protective little bird. And it brings precious memories of my grandmother back to my mind.

Reprinted from Pelican Post, June 1996, Southport, NC.

1. THE GIFT OF LISTENING

Really listen – no interrupting, no daydreaming, no planning your response. Just listening

2. THE GIFT OF AFFECTION

Be generous with appropriate hugs, kisses, pats on the back and handholds. Share your love with family & friends.

3. THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER

Clip cartoons. Share articles and funny stories. Your gift will say, "I love to laugh with you."

4. THE GIFT OF A WRITTEN NOTE

It can be a simple "Thanks for the help" note or a full sonnet (help on the web at CyranoCyber.com). A brief, handwritten note may be remembered for a lifetime, and may even change a life.[Editor’s note: I wrote "10 things I like most about you" for four of my friends.]

5. THE GIFT OF A COMPLIMENT

A simple and sincere, "You look great in red!" "You did a super job!" or "That was a wonderful meal!" can make someone’s day.

6. THE GIFT OF A FAVOR

Every day, every place you go, do something kind for someone around you.

7. THE GIFT OF SOLITUDE

There are times when we want nothing better than to be left aloe. Be sensitive to those times and give the gift of solitude to others.

8. THE GIFT OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION

The easiest way to feel good is to extend a kind word to someone else. It is not hard to say "Hello" or "Thank you."

by Jan Edmiston

Singles Network 
"Invested in Individuals since 1995"

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