The sacred mundane

On attention, interruptions, and life with Christ

It’s 7am. I'm driving out of the neighborhood, joining the slew of other commuters trying to get ahead of school traffic. Even so, I quickly find myself at a standstill, inching forward in fits and starts as an officer systematically directs the daily jam on Old Hickory Blvd. In the pause I watch the mists over the steeplechase begin to dissipate as gold beams seep through the treetops. One minute later I’m stopped again, this time squarely in front of a tiny fenced-in burial ground. I wonder how many times have I driven this road and never noticed it before? Who had the unfortunate plight of being buried here, sandwiched between the golf-course and this unforgiving road? Only an ancient oak tree guards these forgotten sleepers. We passersby pay our respects with these enforced pauses, glancing distractedly out the window before hurriedly moving on. There is no time for dust returning to dust.

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Arming myself with my wide-brimmed hat, basket and pint containers, I head towards the blackberry bushes. I work my way down the first row with my back towards the sun, hunting for the best berries: the plump and juicy ones, the ones that seem impatient to jump into my hand. The bird-pecked and bug infested ones can stay; I’ll feed my wild friends. I move methodically along with the bees; we don’t bother each other. I like to have them nearby. Their gentle and diligent attention leads me along my way.

At the end of the first row I shift to move back up the other side. Looking east, the dew gleams like frost in the sunlight— every drooping branch, every leaf, every blade of grass perfectly defined and glinting with white. I try to capture the stunning image with my phone, but it’s a total wash and I quickly give up. Instead I capture it with my eyes, breathing in the untouched beauty before moving forward and breaking the dew with my feet.

There are so many berries here, even late in the season. The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few¹— I’m the only one out here, but honestly I like it that way. I wonder if it is ok that I don’t want to share the peace. I hope nobody finds me here, and I wonder if that is ok too. I’m lost in the work as I find myself attuned to berries and bees, sun and shadow. The words of Simone Weil rise distinctly in my mind: “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.”² And I feel relieved as I realize: I think I’ve been praying. Maybe the bees are too.

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It’s just after 8am now. The others are scattering out into the fields— I hear okra plunking into buckets and playful shouts echoing back and forth. I have to let go of the sweet silence; I have to let the lingering dawn evaporate into day. Jesus faced plenty of interruptions to his quiet mornings— I wonder if he ever got annoyed. Somehow his persistent invitations are gracious and spacious, with room to watch and learn, to try and fail.

“Walk with me and work with me— watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace.”³

Re-living this one hour— noticing Christ walking and working with me— each mundane moment turns sacred. Christ relished the unfurling mist and stopped at that tiny cemetery— he probably spent a long time there. He expertly picked the berries, meditated on the bees, and gloried in the sparkling dew. In the interruptions I hear the patient invitation again: “Walk with me and work with me— watch how I do it.” Ok. I’m watching. I will be forever, but he’s good with me clumsily following along. The unforced rhythms of grace aren’t complicated or performative; they’re simple— learning to just live life with him.

1. Matthew 9:38

2. From “Gravity and Grace,” by Simone Weil. This phrase has been a repeated anthem at The Priory.

3. Matthew 11:28-29, from The Message