Letting our souls catch up with our bodies

Sometimes our best advice to others is forgotten by ourselves.

Not very long ago I admonished the worshippers on Sunday morning to slow down, do less, and take a true Sabbath rest. We tend to get swallowed up by life’s demands and forget the important stuff that really matters.

I told my listeners the story of the young, high-strung, typical Type-A, American tourist who was exploring Africa. He hired a guide and gave him the jammed packed itinerary. The tourist had a tight schedule because he wanted to see as much of the African wilderness as he possible could in his limited time. The first morning, he was up early and moving, rushing from one site to the next. The second day was much the same as he relentlessly kept to his agenda like a hound dog after his prey. The third day was the same. But on the fourth day, the tourist awoke and couldn’t find his guide. After a quick search, he saw the guide resting under a tree. The American was incensed and wanted to know why the guide wasn’t ready.

“We must stop and let our souls catch up with our bodies,” the guide calmly said.

It happens to us, doesn’t it? And you don’t have to be a young, activity driven American tourist to feel it. I talk to retired people who tell me they are busier than before retirement.

I awoke today, longing to go and sit under that tree with the tour guide and let my soul catch up with my body.

Sometimes life comes at us like several action movies being played in our mind all at the same time. And even when the movie is over and the screen goes white, the script still plays inside our heads.

And it’s not just the filled schedules that can overwhelm us. The absences of life, or fear of them, can create vacuums that suck the wind from our sails, leaving us adrift on the sea of life.

This summer we buried my wife’s dad. And a few weeks ago, my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness.

Several times I’ve awakened and felt my heart thump, thump, thumping. I had to admit that it has been weeks since I’ve had the Sabbath rest I advised my listeners to take.

“So, I’ll just clear my schedule and take off for the Abby of Gethsemani,” I thought this morning and then I halted after weighing the consequences of cancelling commitments.

Glancing out the kitchen window, I saw the small bench some friends gave Lori when her father died several months ago. The early morning sun was spotlighting it, catching my attention. The bench seemed to shimmer and beg, “Why not? I’m here. Won’t you come and join me?”

And so I did.

But before I sat down, I read the inscription on the bench. I had read it before, I felt sure, but had not really thought about it.

Until now.

“A father holds a child’s hands for a while…their hearts forever.”

I recalled a photograph of Lori’s father, George, holding her hand when she was 8 or 9 years old. His youthful smile had a “take on the world” confidence to it. Lori’s eyes are sparkling, proud to have her daddy’s hand. He’s been gone several months now. But his presence I still feel in Lori’s heart.

And I felt my dad’s hands there on the bench, too, my hand latched to his when at about 10 years of age I tried to keep up with him as we scurried across the downtown square to pick up a package one cold Christmas Eve, his hands full of youthful energy, transferring the anticipation of Christmas to mine.

Those hands, once the steady hands of a skilled dentist, now tremble when I help him up from his wheel chair.

“None of us are going to get out of here alive, David,” Dad reminds me as he answers my question, “What did you think when they told you it was cancer.”

“So, there’s no sense in being sad about it and dwelling on it,” he concludes.

We let go of the hands, finally and forever.

But not the heart.

It’s with us always.

We have to remind ourselves of that because we tend to forget. Sometimes we have to stop, rest a while, and at least let our souls begin to catch up with our bodies.

And embrace the things that last forever.