It took me 30 years, but I finally learned the art of being. The art of doing has always come rather naturally to me. If you’ve read previous posts, you know that I’m an “Energizer bunny” sort of guy. And you can ask anyone who was in first grade at Pope Elementary School in 1976 -– I never won that “quiet-mouse-still-mouse” game. (But I was all over the lesser-known “loud-squirrel-hyper-squirrel”).
However, my perspective shifted a few years ago when I underwent some minor surgery. After chronic throat infections, my ENT suggested a tonsillectomy. I was a little scared, because a tonsillectomy for a singer is kind of like hand surgery for a pianist. Well, everything turned out fine. I didn’t even say anything stupid when I awoke from anesthetic la-la land, which is quite impressive when you realize that I often say stupid things even without the aid of sodium thiopental. Although the surgery was successful, there was still the recovery. And in case you didn’t know, a large open wound four inches below your soft palate results in an incredibly sore throat. In addition, I had singing engagements scheduled fourteen days from the time of my surgery. So I was on complete vocal rest for the better part of two weeks. Now those of you that know me just had a good laugh, because asking me not to talk is like asking Clint Eastwood not to squint.
So with books and magazines and movies in tow, I set up “rest central” in our bedroom. Like it or not, I had to be still and quiet for long periods of time. And when I’d had my fill of Indiana Jones sequels and “Guess who Jenn’s dating?” articles, even more solitude filled the room. At first it was maddening, especially for an electric wind-up toy like me -– but after a while I started to not mind so much. The quiet was a nice change; it was restful. And it gave me time to do something I hadn’t done in a long time -– just be. Not go anywhere or do anything. Perhaps it sounds bizarre to you introvert types, but for the first time, just being alone and thinking, just reflecting on whatever sentiments crossed my mind -– became exhilarating. And since my time alone with God had gradually become sort of a one-sided conversation, I discovered the wonder of simply listening to God.
After life got “back to normal,” I began making time to be by myself more often –- even without the forced recovery of having something surgically removed. And oh, the places some good old thinking can take you. When exercised properly, our minds become wonderful, practically limitless playgrounds.
There is a painting on the wall at the end of our bedroom – it pictures a large old house with lots of spires and weathervanes and memories. It looks like the kind of place that served as a boarding house back in the “It’s a Wonderful Life” days. I like to look at that painting and just think -– just take out my mental crayons and start coloring outside the lines. Perhaps I’ll think about the road-weary traveler who might have stopped there and had a good, hot meal of roast beef and mashed potatoes with obscene amounts of gravy. And how he retired to the parlor and had a cigar with the other gentlemen. And how they talked about the same silly things men talk about now -– except with more sophistication and nicely groomed beards. (Hey, it’s my brain, so don’t make fun!)
Anyway, after a while, my mind slowly pans out from that scene to a broader and broader picture, like one of those weather satellite images. I start to think beyond that house to the whole town, and beyond that town to the whole state or country, and finally to the big spinning ball itself and the universe beyond. And as I ponder God and my speck of existence in that universe, I eventually end up with the same question at which David arrived: “What is man, that you are mindful of him?” That is when I hear Him say, “But Carey, I am mindful of you. I do care for you. You are mine.” And perhaps that is the greatest reward of all of this patient thinking: If I listen carefully, like when you’re listening across a lake, I can hear God telling me who I am. And God is exactly who I need to hear it from, for there are too many other people and sound-bites and magazine covers lying to me about who I am.
I believe that it is in the being that we find our identity -– God tells us who we are. And it is in the doing that we flesh out our purpose -– God shows us what we are called to do. One without the other will ultimately leave us unfulfilled. So to the be-ers out there -– I admire you. Don’t forget to go out and actively serve God in response to His telling you who you are. And to the do-ers, press on -– but don’t forget to occasionally slow down, open your ears, and find a good painting on a wall somewhere.
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