I was talking with a good friend a few days ago when I found words for something I had long been thinking about.
It's pretty easy: all we really have to give is our attention.
In our jobs, as we scrap to make order out of chaos, meaning out of the menial, and goodness out of the work.
In our gloriously imperfect families, bruised and beautiful little things they are, as many hits on the chin we take leaning into them.
As we close our eyes in prayer, running roughshod to the arms of a God we've never known, pleading for our messes to matter and for our love to grow larger.
And yet so difficult. If we have ever cheated on anything, it's our attention. It's a ticket to intimacy we seem intent on shredding. I don't know about you, but I divide attention like it's my job.
No more than 15 minutes have I written before I start squirming. I want ESPN. I want Star Tribune. I want to give my attention away.
No more than 15 minutes am I with a good friend before my hand starts digging in my pocket for my phone. I want World Series updates. I want new news. I want connection, but I'm too lazy to take the ancient way.
I'm not saying you should throw your phones into the Mississippi. I am saying you should cheapen your attention because, after all, is the only ticket you have to life's creative call. The call to begin healing families with eye contact. The call to pray like you mean it. The call to listen to the moment until you find it funny. The call to find the vocation in your job. The call to sow intimacy.
photo: basil, showing up to the call to birdwatch