To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common — this is to be my symphony.
—William Henry Channing
How do you measure a life? There are times when I can’t help judging what I do and what I have, what others do and what they have, and what happens to all of us as a way of assessing our collective quality of life, as if that were the measure of our lives. But why do we need to measure anything?
This past Saturday morning I was beginning a three-hour trip to the church I serve in another state to lead a celebration of life that day. Plans were to stay overnight and lead a worship service at the same church the next day. But when I pulled onto the highway, suddenly my car started lurching. It felt like the wheels were about to come off. I had to race home and quickly transfer all my gear — backpack, robe, guitar and suitcase — to my wife’s car, and then start my trek all over again.
I made it to the church on time. The service was wonderful, thanks to the extraordinary gentleman being celebrated and his loving family … and then Sunday’s service was canceled due to the snowy, freezing weather. So I drove back home that evening and the next day unpacked and undid everything I had carefully planned. I then had to arrange for my car to be looked at.
So there I was, sitting at Lost Mile Auto this morning awaiting the verdict on my mysteriously vibrating vehicle, and I found myself feeling chagrined. (I actually love that word, chagrined. Don’t you?) There I was, trying to do good in the world, and I was delayed on saving some part of the planet because I had to tend to something as mundane as car trouble. Plus, the canceled Sunday worship service had thrown parish life into disarray, which meant I was scheduling and rescheduling meetings and events, and it all felt so inconsequential. I didn’t study the Book of Outlook in seminary.
Then, as I was looking out the window of the Lost Mile lounge, I suddenly thought of all the people who love me and who I love. I thought of the constancy of relationships. I thought of how often I focus on faulty tires and schedule mishaps — the transient — rather than all the love that is in my life — the permanent. And I was surprised in that moment. I was surprised at how seldom I just stop and think: All those people. All that love. It’s all here, every day. What was I so worried about?
Maybe we judge our relationships, but I hazard to guess that we all have people who love us unconditionally and for whom we return the favor. And that kind of love, real love, defies measure. The true quality of life is not in our annual income or earnings per share or whether our home is house beautiful or whether we vacation on the Riviera. It’s not something you can isolate and quantify. Our relationships and all that love — they just are. There’s no need to measure something so constant. There’s no scale from one to ten. The days, the news, the events — they come and go. Let them. You have something much more eternal. If you want to know whether you are truly okay, especially in this time, turn to love. When the chips are down, or the tires about to blow, it’s good to remember that something so close to infinity is on our side.
What a breath of calm and love, thank you, Rob.