I spent last week with my nose buried in the manuscript of Finding God Abiding, going over corrections suggested by my copy editor. I read the whole thing every day–often twice a day–alternating between “track changes” in Word and the old-fashioned printed copy. As a writer friend commiserated, there is no such thing as being finished with editing; you just call time-of-death on the process, praying that no lingering, mortifying errors lurk in plain sight.
Today I thought I’d take a step back and look at the words differently, using a word cloud generator. Based on frequency of usage (and dropping proper names, articles, conjunctions, etc.), what were my go-to words for this book? Here are the results, which I invite you to ponder.
What catches your eye? What stirs your curiosity about the story behind the words? Do you find yourself combining any words, whimsically or meaningfully? What opens the door to a story or memory of your own? Which word might God invite you to sit with in prayer? (Or, simply pick one and pray with it; what comes to you?)
Although I look forward to the day when I can put this whole book in your hands, the publication date (June 7) is still almost nine months away. Until then, may your ordinary days be extraordinarily blessed by the God who abides.
Saturday is the Feast of St. Ignatius Loyola—two years from the day that I stepped down from a twenty-six-year campus ministry career to pursue a freelance existence. As the second anniversary of my “third act” approaches, I’m delighted to announce that my next book, Finding God Abiding, will be coming into the world on June 7, 2022, courtesy of Woodhall Press. Here’s the cover, designed by the very talented Asha Hossain.
So much thought and work go into cover design; that’s what the rest of this post is about. If you’re intrigued, read on!
Asha had an unenviable task: design a cover that would be “just like the first book, only different.” In other words, make it clear that this is a companion volume to Finding God in Ordinary Time, yet offering fresh bread. Here’s a peek at the thought process (to which many of you contributed via Facebook and Instagram this week):
Did you even notice the background? It’s not just white; it’s a woven texture, alluding to one of my overarching themes: life as a tapestry. In “A God Who Abides,” I wrote:
“The stories in this book are organized around four actions that run like threads through the tapestry of our lives: perceiving, becoming, embracing, and releasing. We awaken to the world around us, discover and rediscover our path, practice love in its many forms, and grieve the loss of much that we hold dear. These movements are neither sequential nor singular; we go back and forth like a weaver, creating a unique tapestry on the loom that is our life.”
The woven background is such a subtle detail; it may never register in the reader’s conscious mind, but it adds to the overall impression.
On the cover of Finding God in Ordinary Time, the hummingbird is what people really remember. For this book, we wanted something equally memorable. I shared with Asha a paragraph from my chapter “Finding God in a Fire Siren” and suggested she might find inspiration there. A few days later, I emailed her back to say, “Or poppies! I love poppies! If you find good image, I can always change the language.” And that’s what happened. Since then, I have given a lot of thought to the significance of poppies, and have a whole pastoral reflection to share, but that will keep for another day.
The red and the green were obvious, to match the poppy flowers and stems. But red + green = Christmas, and red + green + white = the Italian flag. Not that I don’t love Christmas and Italy, but neither is what I was going for. When Asha introduced purple for the way it balanced the other colors, my mind went straight to the liturgical year: green for Ordinary Time, purple for Advent and Lent, white for Christmas and Easter, and red for Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and all those martyrs’ feast days. My book traces God’s abiding presence through the joys and travails of our life; how appropriate to have a nod to the whole sweep of the liturgical year–birth, death, resurrection, and everything in between–right there on the cover.
Oh, my goodness. Most of it was easy; “Finding God” and “Daily Meditations” are in the same fonts as we used for Ordinary Time (Trajan Pro and Minion Pro, for the curious). To convey a sense of freshness, Asha presented a choice of fun script fonts for the word Abiding. I wasn’t crazy about either one, but they arrived as I was about to take a walk with my friend Rose—who can always be counted on for an opinion—so I printed out the samples and headed out the door. After much discussion (and a three-mile hoof, and some wine), Rose said “You have nice handwriting. Why don’t you write it yourself?” This was SUCH an Enneagram One thing to say, and to agree to—one of the many reasons Rose and I get along. Three sharpies and almost two hundred attempts later, we had a winner.
But still, I wasn’t sure. I asked Asha to show me what the cover would look like if the whole title was in the same typed font, and it looked BEAUTIFUL. Elegant. Dignified. What if I used my own handwriting, then regretted the decision? What if I put that little bit of myself out there, and it made me cringe every time I saw the book?
Can you see where this is headed?
If I’m worried about putting too much of myself out there . . . if I’m afraid of letting people see my messy edges and imperfections . . . well then, frankly, I should be writing some other sort of books. Science fiction, perhaps. A Brief History of Mathematics. Bicycle manuals.
The comment that gave me enough courage to move forward with the handwritten Abiding was from my friend Emilie, who wrote this beautiful observation: “The handwriting provides a suggestion of something personal within.” Indeed, it should. Finding God Abiding includes chapters on everything from body image to the clergy scandal, from feeling broke to not being able to stop crying. (Also nicer stuff.)
If I can be brave about all that, surely, I can write my own name on the cover.
Now, back to editing the manuscript . . . deadline, September 1st!
The Jesuit Center for Spiritual Growth in Wernersville, PA is closing its doors next month. For those of us who have been formed and sustained by this holy place, the closure is cause for weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Can there also be peace, gratitude and acceptance?
Many thanks to the Wernersville staff for graciously sharing my reflection on their website.
I saw an Instagram post this week that I just can’t stop thinking about.
A maple tree had been leaning alarmingly close to power lines, so the utility company took it down. The tree wasn’t in good shape; termites had been hollowing it out for years. But still, it takes a long time to grow something that majestic, and it’s sad to see it on the ground.
This particular tree was on the campus of our local Reconstructionist Rabbinical College. Unbeknownst to them, the maple’s gradual dying had created a space for life to thrive. A colony of bees had moved in, becoming fruitful and multiplying for years–until the chainsaws arrived. The felling of the tree didn’t bother the bees; they were in their winter cluster, with the queen at the center and her worker bee ladies shivering around her to generate warmth. It wasn’t until spring, when rising temperatures and blossoming flowers brought the bees outside in search of pollen, that the College discovered their bee problem.
I don’t know their initial reaction to this discovery–if it were me, there would have been a lot of hyperbolic shrieking–but their response was amazing. They called our neighbors, Rachel and Ofer Yehezkel, who operate Spring Honeybees from their back yard. The Yehezkels suited up, bringing a smoke pot and a contraption that looks like a strong-but-gentle shop vac. Over the course of three hours, they carefully cut apart the downed trunk, vacuumed out the entire colony–over 40,000 bees, including the precious queen–and relocated them to a hive in their own back yard. Once the colony is well-established, Rachel and Ofer will move the hive back to the Rabbinical College. There, the bees will continue pollinating trees, flowers, and vegetable gardens in a two-mile radius, making some pretty delicious honey while they’re at it.
When I first glanced at Spring Honeybees’ Instagram post, it looked horrifying; seeing all those bees inside the open tree trunk gave me the willies. As I pondered the story, though, I realized what an amazing image of hope and perseverance it is for our times. It’s a tale of how many things that looked like tragedy and disaster actually worked for good, because of the ingenuity and resourcefulness of both bees and human beings. Literally, a swarm of life had emerged where it looked like there was only death. How fitting that this happened around both Passover and Easter–the holy days that remind us of God’s power to change our mourning into dancing.
Collectively, we have had our fill of mourning, as COVID-19 has been the source of so much devastation. There’s been literal death, of course–561,000 souls in the US and 31.2 million worldwide, as of this writing–but we’ve also experienced the “death” of our usual way of doing almost everything. Much of this has been tragic. But buried in all this loss and disorientation has been a hidden thriving. We discovered that business-as-usual isn’t always for the best, and that there is more than one way to do almost anything.
If you’d asked me in 2019 if I had ever considered giving a Zoom retreat, I would have responded with a blank stare. My pivot to virtual retreats in 2020 was made out of expediency–a way to keep working and offer spiritual nourishment to people who could no longer come out to my programs. In these gatherings, however, I encountered so many people who never could have come out to my programs. The mother trying to get her six-month-old daughter to sleep, for example, could not have attended my Lenten evening of reflection even if I’d held it just a few miles from her home. Neither could the woman viewing it from a hospital bed in her living room. And the best two-hour retreat in the world would not have drawn participants from both California and Northern Ireland, as one of my early offerings did. This means that the need was always there, but I couldn’t see it until the pandemic forced me to do things differently.
I keep hearing stories like this. Ask almost anyone how their year has been, and after a legit litany of woe they will reveal a few hidden gems–the obligation it was a relief to put down, the surprising joy discovered in quarantine, the novel experiment they’re glad they tried. Like bees in a fallen tree trunk, life emerged where it looked like there was only death.
After an unthinkable year, the rollout of the coronavirus vaccine has given us hope of a return to normal at last. LIke many of you, I am longing to resume travel, choral singing, and raucous family gatherings. In other ways, though, I hope we never return to normal–by which I mean “the way it’s always been done.” If we’ve learned anything from the coronavirus—besides the fragility of life and the importance of social responsibility—it is this: there is always a different way to do a thing. And different–as my friend Lauren DuCharme says when speaking about diversity–is not another word for bad.
Whatever your new normal is, may your ordinary (and far-from-ordinary) days be extraordinarily blessed.
Call to mind again that image of honeybees thriving in the rotting tree trunk. How has the “death” of your pre-pandemic routines created space for life to thrive? What do you want to hold on to, even when this whole wretched mess is behind us? I’d love to hear about it. Kindly share in the comment section below!
I’ve been telling this story a lot lately, encouraging people to notice God’s invitations to prayer this Lent. I hope it will appear in my next book, Finding God Abiding. Here’s a sneak peek at the first draft!
“There’s no reason for them to blow that siren anymore,” my neighbor insisted. “Everyone has pagers now.”
The volunteer fire station is less than 100 yards from our bedroom windows. At all times of the day and night, its powerful siren cranks up to a sustained, nerve-jangling pitch. It wakes babies, sets dogs howling, and generally shatters the peace. Why should we put up with this blasted racket, he went on, when there was a non-disruptive alternative? Would I join him at the upcoming township meeting to help make his case?
I should mention that this was not just any neighbor, but the one we called “The Mayor of the Block.” Retired yet busy, The Mayor kept tabs on everyone. He was also incredibly helpful. The morning after any winter storm, there he would be, using his snow blower to clear the sidewalk on both sides of the block, and once—in the cold, without gloves—he took a saw to a tree that had fallen across our driveway, so I could get to work. He was full of generous energy—a person on whom I had come to rely. Now, he was asking me for something. And I was going to have to refuse.
It’s funny, the things that push us to take a stand. Despite being in The Mayor’s debt . . . despite his civic-mindedness and genuine concern for the jangled nerves and wakened babies of our block . . . there was no way I could oppose the fire siren. I couldn’t even give the sort of non-committal response that would allow him to think that I agreed, but—alas—just couldn’t make the meeting.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t. My mother always told me that, when I hear a siren, it means someone is in trouble, and someone is going to help, and since neither of those people is me, the least I can do is stop and pray for them.” To this, The Mayor of the Block had no response (though he may have added “religious nut” to his mental file on me).
“Teach us to pray,” the disciples implored Jesus. Although my siren-prompted Hail Marys are not profound prayers, they are part of my prayer life—my ongoing conversation with God. It’s the spiritual equivalent of spotting something funny and texting my brother a photo of it; that’s far from the whole of our communion, but it is a shared connection, briefly drawing us together in the midst of our separate busyness.
Each day contains countless opportunities to raise our minds and hearts to God, especially once we decide to notice a thing: the whistle of a train or the roar of an airplane; the sight of a cardinal or the sound of a woodpecker; a rainbow in the sky or one at our feet in sidewalk chalk. Anything that invites us to pause can be as sacred as a cathedral door.
“Pray for me!” we often say in times of trouble. I like to think of the fire siren as just that—our first responders’ dashed-off plea as they race to someone’s assistance. I’m glad the siren continues to disrupt my peace, so I can pray for theirs. Perhaps my fellow neighbors are doing just that—encircling those brave first responders in prayers for their protection, despite our occasional grumbles about the noise.
In the next few days, the world will celebrate New Year’s Eve/Day–a flip of the calendar page more eagerly awaited this year than most–and the Church will celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany–the arrival of those mysterious Magi with their impractical gifts. Although they are always proximate, these two celebrations feel especially connected right now.
I’ve long been a fan of Jan Richardson: artist, minister, preacher, poet, and writer of blessings. One of my favorites is her Epiphany blessing, “For Those Who Have Far to Travel.” You can read it in its entirety at her Painted Prayerbook website, but here’s how it begins:
If you could see the journey whole you might never undertake it; might never dare the first step that propels you from the place you have known toward the place you know not.
Call it one of the mercies of the road: that we see it only by stages as it opens before us, as it comes into our keeping step by single step.
If you could see the journey whole, you might never undertake it. Isn’t that the truth? Human beings are capable of astonishing endurance when something meaningful must be done–carrying and birthing babies, caring for dying loved ones, and doing all the demanding jobs we now deem essential–but perhaps it’s just as well that those endeavors don’t come with a crystal ball. On March 13, for example, what on earth would we have done if the text alerts had said “Okay, folks; pack it in for at least the next year”? Call it one of the mercies of the road: that we see it only by stages . . .
What’s going to happen in 2021? We are filled with questions, most of which begin with the word “when.” The past nine months have made us wary of plan-making, yet still we wonder about everything from the return of in-person instruction and the simple joys of dinner in someone else’s home to summer weddings and foreign travel. What is going to happen?!?
Here’s the truth: we’ve never known. Any certainty we may have felt in years past about what the future held was always, at best, a lucky guess. Each new day has always been a swing around a blind corner; these long months of pandemic simply have helped us grasp that more clearly.
My prayer for you in 2021, therefore, is that you may take each day as it comes, “step by single step.” Whatever you encounter, may you find God there. And may that finding transform you, inspiring you to follow the footsteps of the Magi and discover a new way home.
Blessed New Year and Happy Epiphany, Christine
P.S. Next week, I’ll be offering my New Year’s retreat, Take Nothing for the Journey? Packing for the Year Ahead,on Tuesday (January 5th) from 9:30 – 11:30 Eastern and on Thursday (January 7th) from 7:00 – 9:00 p.m. Eastern. Here’s a little preview video–obviously recorded in warmer weather–that perhaps doesn’t sufficiently explain that I’m using “packing” as a metaphor, but gives you a fun taste of where we’re going nonetheless.
I’m working on a new dramatic monologue, re-telling the “Martha/Mary” incident (Luke 10:38-42) from Mary’s perspective. (I’ve spent the last twenty years channeling Martha; in the second half of life, it’s time to hang out with her sister for a while.) At one point, sitting at Jesus’ feet and listening to him speak, Mary exclaims, “Jesus, I’d love to live in the Kingdom of God!”
Her point is that the kingdom Jesus is describing sounds so much better than the Roman Empire under which they are living. I remember my Scripture professor Hal Taussig explaining that a better translation for “Kingdom” or “Reign” of God would be “God’s Imperial Rule.” In other words, Jesus was being as pointed (and political) as if he showed up in DC talking about “the United States of God.”
Thinking of it that way helps me stop tripping over Jesus’ use of a term both too male and too antiquated for a modern democracy in which kings–and queens–appear mostly as fairy tales or figureheads (or compelling Netflix characters).
This weekend, the Catholic Church celebrated the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe, more commonly known as the Feast of Christ the King. This feast was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI in response to what he saw as two worrisome trends: secularism and nationalism.
Ninety-five years later, that still feels spot-on. What better feast to celebrate in the wake of this divisive election season? The “kingship” of Christ reminds us that, although we must strive to elect leaders who will advance the common good, our buck does not stop at the Oval Office. God’s law of love must reign in our hearts, because our real citizenship is as members of God’s one human family. As Scripture says, we are “fellow citizens with the holy ones and members of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:19), a household which knows no borders or political parties.
In my monologue, when Mary exclaims that she wants to live in the Kingdom of God, Jesus takes the conversation in an unnerving new direction by responding: “But you do! We all do. Just look around you; the Kingdom of God is in your midst. You just have to believe it exists . . . then start acting like one of its very good citizens.”
What does it mean to act like a very good citizen of the Kingdom / Reign / Imperial Rule / United States of God? At a minimum, in this fraught, ongoing election season, it means setting aside partisan bitterness and refusing to label or demonize the other side. And it means going beyond ourselves in practical care for those with whom Jesus identified in today’s Gospel. Can we see and respond to Jesus, for example, in those whose lives are threatened by the COVID-19 pandemic and/or the plague of white supremacy?
Our liturgical year comes to a close this week, as Ordinary Time gives way to Advent. However exhausted this far-from-ordinary season has left you, I pray that you will be able to move gently into the days ahead, drawing solace and strength from the One to whom we owe our first and final allegiance.
I’ve just returned from a week of silent retreat at the Jesuit Center for Spiritual Growth in beautiful Wernersville, PA. For all the years I worked in higher ed, my retreats had to be in the summer, so this was my first opportunity to soak in the fall foliage of the rolling hills around God’s country house. It felt fitting, pondering the autumn of my life (early autumn, one hopes) during the autumn of the year, as the fruits of both are similar.
First is the most obvious: the stunning and particular beauty of this season. On retreat, I spent hours outside, gazing at the gratuitous blaze of colors all around me, the leaves spiraling down like fiery snowflakes, the kind angle of sunlight turning the afternoons golden. From the west cloister in the hour before dinner, I could bask in surprising warmth at the end of a clear, brisk day.
It makes me conscious of the beauty of later life, for those who can embrace it gracefully. I call to mind the white-haired women I know, the lines in their faces etched by a lifetime of smiles. I think of the older Jesuits at Wernersville—men I’ve known for decades—joints stiff, shoulders a bit stooped, but their whole being still aflame with a well-tended fire that the Jesuit novices on retreat could only envy.
Next are the literal fruits (and vegetables) of autumn. Gone are the tender peaches and snap peas, the bumper crop of fast-growing zucchini; farm stands are full of apples, pumpkins, and sweet potatoes now. This is the time for hearty produce: the kind that has taken all season to ripen, that packs in the nutrients, and that can withstand the coming cold.
This is the wisdom of the autumn of life. There are lessons that only come through time, reflection, and loss. Certain spiritual insights are visible only from this vantage point, as we look back on our own personal salvation history. The wisdom of autumn knows there is frost in the forecast, but has the power to nourish us through the dark days ahead.
And finally, there is the gleaning. During my long walks on retreat, I saw the ground littered with corn cobs, acorns, and fallen apples. The harvest is over, but there is so much still available to feed the sweet chipmunks, frisky squirrels, and roaming deer. It reminds me of the Biblical mandate to leave the corners of one’s field unharvested, and not go back to pick any overlooked produce, so that those who are in need may find some sustenance.
Gleaning is all about availability. We may not have a field to leave unplowed, but the autumn of life may give us a unique opportunity to make ourselves available. With calendars no longer scheduled to the very edges, we are more free to respond to those in need, whether in our families, neighborhoods, or faith communities. “Where do you need me today?” we can ask God, and listen for the answer.
And speaking of availability . . . If you can spare two hours on Tuesday, I’m offering a Zoom retreat through St. Placid Priory on the topic “Finding God in Ordinary (and Far-from-Ordinary) Time.” We’ll explore nature as a way of connecting with God in any season, and consider the wisdom of St. Ignatius Loyola’s First Principle and Foundation. The retreat will feature mostly presentation, with time for reflection and two brief breakouts. That’s this Tuesday, October 27, from 12:30 – 2:30 p.m. EASTERN. Click here to register ($25).
Though we live in fraught times (understatement!), I hope this autumn finds you able to appreciate the beauty, wisdom, and availability that the season evokes in these waning weeks of Ordinary Time.
May your ordinary (and far-from-ordinary) days be extraordinarily blessed!
P.S. I am offering several Advent retreats in both live and Zoom formats; stay tuned for a newsletter with details in early November, or visit my Speaker page.
It’s been a whole year, friends! One year ago today, I locked the door of Gwynedd Mercy University’s campus ministry center, walked through the empty parking lot, and drove away into my new life.
I knew it would take me at least a year to get my bearings, and that I had to resist the impulse to fill my calendar with everything that raised its hand first. For years, I had proclaimed that I wanted to be a “freelance me,” and now I was actually doing it. But what did “it” look like, exactly? The joy and terror of a freelance existence are intertwined: it’s the fine line between getting to decide and having to decide what to do with your day / week / year / one wild and precious life. (Thank you, Mary Oliver.)
Se hace camino al andar, wrote the Spanish poet Antonio Machado. The path is made by walking. As I have walked this unfolding path, a delightful companion on the journey has been my godson, Jeff Civillico.
We are the bookends of our family—the oldest and youngest of seven cousins, both holding degrees in theology from Jesuit universities. (Fun fact: I’m often described as “profound—and surprisingly funny,” while Jeff is precisely the opposite.) Jeff’s career has always been a freelance adventure, so he has been both an inspiration and guide for me this year. With gratitude, I’m delighted to share his story with you.
As I mentioned, Jeff and I both have undergraduate degrees in theology—Saint Joe’s for me, Georgetown for him—but there our stories diverge. I became a campus minister, spiritual writer, and retreat facilitator; Jeff became a professional juggler, Vegas headliner, and keynote speaker. (Bonus: the next time someone asks, “What can you do with a degree in theology?” you have a whole new answer!)
Jeff’s passion for entertainment predated his interest in theology, but since there was no major for what he wanted to do, he figured he might as well study something that interested him. Arriving at Georgetown just days before 9/11, he was drawn to learn more about world religions, which led to a concentration in Religion and Culture. (See, I told you he was surprisingly profound!)
Jeff’s career path had already taken him from juggling in his parents’ living room to performing at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor and Williamsburg’s Busch Gardens; a couple summers of cruise ship gigs during college led to a couple years of Disney World gigs after graduation. Then the bright lights of the Vegas strip beckoned, and Jeff got his own show: Comedy in Action. For many performers, that would be the “BOOM – Made It!” moment. For Jeff, however, it was simply a new beginning, as he constantly strives to expand and integrate his life’s work. “A goal achieved,” he likes to say, “is just your next starting point.”
Jeff had a ten-year run doing family-friendly comedy in various Caesars Entertainment venues, at one point performing as many as ten shows a week. By 2019, however, he was down to just one—Wednesday evenings at the Paris—by his own choice. Though wanting to keep a foothold on the strip, he needed to free up time for new creative ventures: from guest-hosting the local ABC affiliate’s “Morning Blend” and serving as spokesperson for the Las Vegas Natural History Museum to giving keynote speeches and emceeing large corporate gatherings in cities across the country and around the world.
Meanwhile, there was an ambitious charitable endeavor taking shape in Jeff’s imagination. Recognizing that Vegas is home to a community of generous performers, in 2011 he founded Win-Win Entertainment, a non-profit that enables entertainers, athletes, and other celebrities to share their time with children in need. Thanks to Jeff’s professional network, in 2017 Win-Win began to expand, starting with Minneapolis then Salt Lake City, Orlando, San Francisco, and more. They are in a dozen cities nationwide now—and still growing.
Being founder and CEO of a non-profit may not be what gets Jeff the most attention, but it is, by far, his most satisfying work. (It’s also another intriguing thing one can do with a degree in theology!)
So, what takes a person from juggling for spare change at the Inner Harbor to running a national non-profit and performing around the world? That feels like such an amazing leap, one that can’t be accounted for by the simple passage of time. Here’s the secret: it wasn’t a leap at all. Instead, Jeff credits what he calls The Power of the Pivot.
In a keynote address by the same title, he explains it this way: “A pivot is a small change, made with one foot on the ground, that forces you to focus on your next step.” This is a perfect description of what Jeff has done in his career. He has made a series of pivots:
Living room to Inner Harbor to Busch Gardens to Disney World to Vegas
Juggling to clean comedy to keynote speeches to emcee work
Volunteering personally to match-making local volunteers to establishing a national volunteer network
A pivot is a small change, made with one foot on the ground, that forces you to focus on your next step.
Through each change, Jeff has kept one foot on the ground and intentionally pivoted in the direction he wanted to go.
The coronavirus crisis hit the entertainment industry hard. Everything Jeff did—as a performer and a philanthropist—was based on personal presence and audience interaction. In a heartbeat, venues were closed, events were cancelled, and the last thing anyone wanted in a children’s hospital was a non-essential stranger walking from room to room just for fun!
Fortunately, Jeff already knew all about the pivot. To help corporations hold successful meetings in the dreaded Zoom format, he branded himself as “your virtual host,” using his nimble wit and contagious energy to emcee more than 60 corporate, charitable, and educational gatherings since March.
For Win-Win, Jeff had begun to work on the idea of “virtual visits” even before the coronavirus era. When the shutdown hit, again he pivoted quickly; Win-Win is now able to bring smiles to kids who really need them in 23 programs nationwide, through customized performances on in-house television channels.
To onlookers, it might seem as though Jeff made this leap to virtual venues effortlessly. But the secret, again, is that it wasn’t a leap at all. Jeff kept one foot on the ground of his mission—the WHY behind the WHAT of all his endeavors—and pivoted to a new HOW. (Thank you, Simon Sinek.)
And here, our disparate paths begin to converge. I still remember how my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the evening of March 12, as parishes and groups called to cancel their Lenten retreats and my event calendar collapsed like a blown tire. At that point, I’m not sure I’d even heard of Zoom; now I’m giving Zoom retreats for St. Placid Priory, all the way across the country in Lacey, Washington. Although I miss being in person, I am moved to be able to touch people’s hearts at a distance; during my first Zoom retreat, participants “came” from as far away as San Diego and Scotland. Maybe you can join me for the next one: Does Everything Happen for a Reason?Tuesday, August 25 at 12:30 p.m. Eastern.
As we chatted about that commonality, Jeff observed that we offer two things people are craving in these very strange times: entertainment and spiritual sustenance . . . the funny and the profound; each of us has pivoted to continue meeting those needs.
Pivoting is not just about changing external tactics, Jeff suggests. It’s also about the shifts in attitude and mindset that we need in order to move forward in changing times. This is similar to one of the key points in a retreat I first developed in January, called Take Nothing for the Journey? Packing for the Unknown. I suggested that, as we “pack” for an unknown future (which is to say, every day we get out of bed in the morning), we need to let go of assumptions about the way things have to be, and hold onto qualities like flexibility, curiosity, patience, and a good sense of humor. This is true more than ever in the coronavirus era.
One of the things Jeff and I have marveled at is that he was talking about the power of the pivot and I was talking about packing for the unknown before the pandemic broke over our collective heads. While it’s tempting to pride ourselves on having been prescient, the fortunate timing simply affirms our shared message: everything we need to get through this long season of uncertainty is already inside us.
Whatever challenge you are facing, I pray that you are able to keep one foot on the ground, fortify yourself with a useful mindset, let go of what is not essential, and focus on your next step. Together, we can pivot our way to what’s next.
May your ordinary (and far-from ordinary) days be extraordinarily blessed!
Jeff Civillico recently celebrated a 10-year run on the Las Vegas Strip as a Headliner with Caesars Entertainment at the iconic hotel properties The LINQ, The Flamingo, and The Paris. His clean, family-friendly “Comedy in Action” show remains highly acclaimed: voted “Best of Las Vegas” three years in a row by the Las Vegas Review Journal, named “Entertainer of the Year” by Vegas Inc, and honored by his fans with a 5-star rating on Yelp, Ticketmaster, and Google. Jeff now takes his renowned clean comedy show to performing arts centers and major corporate events and conferences nationwide. He also serves as a Host and Keynote Speaker. When Jeff is not Hosting, Entertaining, or Speaking on-stage or on-camera, he is focused on the continued expansion and development of his national 501c3 nonprofit Win-Win Entertainment. Win-Win Entertainment brings smiles to children who really need them in hospitals and foster homes through in-person and virtual visits from performers, athletes, and celebrities.
The dog I love most in the world just turned seven. Lazarus is an aptly-named rescue: seventy-seven pounds of energy and affection, dignified except when he’s being silly. He is my brother’s housemate. (Or at least that’s how I assume he regards himself, not feeling owned by anyone.) I see him often, but not often enough, and cherish every day I get to spend in his extravagant company.
We don’t know the exact date of Laz’s birth; he was rescued as a three-month-old, born “sometime in July.” But it’s nice to be able to celebrate such things, so Stephen chose a date of significance: July 6. That’s the day in 2007 that our mom was diagnosed with the cancer that killed her swiftly; it’s also the day in 2012 that we lost our dear cousin Susan to the cancer she’d fought for years. It also happens to be the day before my own birthday. Stephen picked this terrible date to help redeem it, just as I picked the eleventh anniversary of our mom’s death—September 17—for my book’s publication in 2018. (That date had been a bit pre-redeemed already; Mom died on the day my goddaughter turned six. When Bizzy’s mom worried her daughter would someday feel bad about that, I said “You just tell her that God wanted it never to be a completely sad day for me, so made it her birthday first.”)
This year, we spent our birthday week in Maine, where Laz provided a “finding God” experience that I am continuing to unpack.
Being seven makes Laz now a firmly middle-aged dog, as I have been for some time a firmly middle-aged woman. We’re both showing our gray, feeling a little creaky in the joints, and excessively fond of couch naps. We also both like long walks, so last Saturday we took Laz to Porter Preserve, part of the Boothbay Region Land Trust.
Setting off down a trail into the woods, I brought up the rear, picking my way cautiously, using a hiking pole for balance. Laz, on the other hand, strained at his leash, whistling like a teakettle with frenzied impatience. So much to see! So much to smell! Hurry up, people!
The preserve had only a few cars in the parking lot, and no one in sight or earshot. The posted rules said that dogs must be “leashed or under voice control.” Laz is a good boy. Stephen unclipped the leash.
He bounded away from us, all muscle and joy. At the sound of his name, Laz whirled and returned, surefooted and exalting. He continued foraging ahead and doubling back until we followed a sign marked “Vista” to some big rocks above the Sheepscot River. Perhaps not understanding the meaning of the word “vista,” Laz leaped without hesitation and disappeared under the water. Momentarily surprised by its depth, he popped up and swam strongly to shore, pausing only to shake off dramatically before rushing back in after a thrown stick. Glorious!
Over the last few days, I have found myself savoring those memories of Laz’s adventure, and it has stirred something in me. He was so free, so glad in his body, as I so often am not. As an introvert of uptight (some would say proper) Irish descent, I know I am stiff in more than my joints. Like Martha in Luke’s Gospel (sister of Lazarus—how about that), I work the perimeter of a party rather than plant myself in the center of the fun. When worship turns exuberant at my church, I can practically feel the rigor mortis setting in, as I resist yet envy those who can give over their whole body to praise.
Thinking of Laz at Porter Preserve reminds me of one of the tenets of Ignatian spirituality: that we draw close to God by recognizing the deepest desires of our hearts. The yearning I feel when I replay the mental images of Laz cavorting through the woods reveals such a desire. Something in me wants to move more freely, less self-consciously in this world. I am drawn to the energy I experienced in Laz unleashed, and I believe this reveals something of God’s desire for me as well. I need to sit with that desire, to notice when I’m following it—and when I’m not.
In her lovely book Dog Songs, Mary Oliver imagines a conversation with a pup who claims to know nothing of prayer. She assures him, “Every time you wake up and love your life and the world, you’re praying, my dear boy.”
Waking up, loving my life, loving the world. At 55, I can’t think of a better way to start each day.