Stop, and Listen

“God of peace, who has taught us that in returning and rest we will be saved, in quietness and confidence will be our strength: By the might of your Spirit lift us, we pray, to your presence, where we may be still and know that you are God; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” Book of Common Prayer, the prayer for Quiet Confidence

“Put it all in God’s hands, and LISTEN!” That was the advice recently from a fellow pilgrim in Santa Fe. To that I would add, and hope, for the best, of course. And perhaps never has there been a time for me where I needed so badly to hear those words, and to regain the sense of hope that used to greet me each morning as I awoke, before the long journey as we watched our mother’s decline and death, the day of infamy, September 11, 2001, a war in its fifth year, and eight years of hard times for most ordinary Americans on just about any matter. Yes, a renaissance of hope could rejuvenate. The advice of the southern-bred now Santa Fe pilgrim is staying close to my mind, and heart, especially in the middle of the night, when the darkness steals defenses. “God is still speaking,” we say on Sundays at a church where I worship while here in Texas. Interesting, isn’t it, for any of us who profess a belief in God to have ever thought otherwise? “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10) “Selah” concludes each verse, from Hebrew, which can be translated “stop, and listen.”

Let me be honest. I am worried, almost panicky at times, about my financial future. I’m in over my head, or so it seems, as I watch things that must be translated into dollars and cents unravel, as I bleed. And while I can look around me, recognizing clearly the bounty of my own life by comparison, I remain worried. I’m not a hurricane victim, I have my health—as far as I know—I have treasure aplenty that has exchange value for that which pays the bills, and sometimes, SELAH, I believe what I used to say to our mother as her health failed and she worried, worried, worried that her money would not hold out, when in reality she was so blessed with material comfort, ample reserves, and more importantly, family treasure, that cannot be assigned a value. “Mother, where is your faith?” I would plead, frustrated to madness at times over her fears, about everything, while I was standing in the middle of a bonfire of my own creation that was consuming the modest reserves I had garnered from a career I left too soon and a subsequent series of poor choices. Unfortunately these choices seem to continue. SELAH. “Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” (Sir Walter Scott) Mother was a child of the depression, and though her growing up family did not suffer the loss that so characterized that time for many, like our daddy’s family, she nonetheless carried the scars of having matured in such a difficult and scary period of our history. LISTEN.

Twice since the turn of the 20^th century, some of us have seen our efforts to earn very modestly for the future—in a fickle, fickle stock market—falter, frighteningly, dizzyingly. As far as I can see right now, at this moment, and I’ll borrow words right out of the southern veins of my paternal bloodline, “…I might as well call the dogs and piss on the fire." It’s time to give up the hunt. In fact, another southernism, “this dog won’t hunt.” I think it’s time to hang up my spurs, to borrow a metaphor from my southwestern roots. SELAH.

I don’t even like guns, and I certainly don’t have the stomach for killing. What I know about hunting is shooting an innocent redbird from our front yard on West Montgomery Road, the highway to Tomball, and feeling instant, gut-wrenching regret and shame. Why would I do such a stupid, thoughtless thing? And why would I shoot a rabbit, which I did in the company of my friend David and my nephews? I had no intention of eating it. God only knows what was in my pitiful 11-year-old brain when I shot the redbird. Were I living in earlier times, I guess I would be a vegetarian, or at the mercy of someone who hunts, like the person firing a shotgun in the woods to the north as I sit here, fans whirring above me on a fall-like Friday morning. Yes, had I lived in earlier times, I would have been at the mercy of this hunter, just like I’ve put myself at the mercy of the guy who has invested for me and a market that swats the likes of me like a complaining mosquito. And though I’ve ridden horses just about my entire life, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve strapped on a pair of spurs. My attraction to spurs is limited to their historical and artistic value. I can shed tears over a painting depicting a working cowboy, spur-clad boots crammed into a saddle stirrup, like the night scene from a south Texas ranch that hangs large in the old bunkhouse part of my barn home. Sometimes I think I would go down the tubes before I would sell this representation of my Texas heritage, regardless of its exchange value. LISTEN.

I am told that my God has a sense of humor. So he, or she, surely must be smiling, waiting patiently for my discernment to kick in, for me to take a deep breath and just listen. I am also told that we are meant to struggle, that in doing so we can learn patience, humility, trust, and we can learn to hope. My friend who preceded me by more than a century—surely we would have been friends had we been neighbors—Emily Dickinson writes, “Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul/And sings the tune--without the words/And never stops at all/Yet, never, in extremity/It asked a crumb of me.” SELAH.

Stop, and Listen—Normangee, Texas (September 26, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis