Love this in particular
On pandemics, baths, and the practice of the presence of God
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I take a bath almost every night. As the pandemic continues and I am house-bound with four children who seem to never take a breath between simultaneous sentences, I look forward to that thirty minutes behind a locked door every day. I am homeschooling four kids between grade eight and preschool while holding down a full-time job. I am also an introvert and three of the six people in this house are extroverts. Hence: baths.
Just as a glimpse into the inner life of extroverts, let me tell you a quick story about our curly-haired nine-year-old who happens to be an extrovert with a capital E. Earlier in the week she had an online Zoom class with her teacher and friends. When I set up the iPad in her room and clicked JOIN, the screen suddenly filled with a gallery of little grade three faces and she literally bounced in her seat and flung her arms into the air and hollered, HELLOOOOOO TO THE PEOPLE!!!!!!
Bless the extroverts, this is a particular kind of torture when a houseful of six people does still not fully satisfy. I love this about her. And you can see why I look forward to silent bathtime with a re-read of a nice cozy murder mystery every evening when the littles are tucked into their beds.
Sidenote: has anyone else forgotten how to read? I usually read multiple books a week but my brain feels like a ping-pong table. I have the attention span of a TikTok scroller. So I’ve had to give up on reading anything new or challenging or above a grade ten reading level. Hence: my steady re-visit to Three Pines and Inspector Gamache. Thank heavens for Louise Penny’s books - although I always end up craving steak frites and baguettes by the third page.
That particular night, I got out of the tub and wiped the steam from the mirror. My hair was piled on top of my head and with my wide silver streaks and threads tucked into the bun, I looked like a rounder version of Miss Rumphius. And the thought came, unbidden, to my mind: I love this in particular. This, the hot water, the smell of the bath salts, the clean towel, the damp paperback on the edge of the tub, the rosiness of my cheeks, the languid heat rising from my limbs, the noise on the other side of the door: love this.
My resolution at the beginning of 2020 was a simple and yet complicated one: remember how to love the world again. Not in general but in particular. Yet the world of 2020 looks nothing like I thought it would look. I think that’s safe to say for all of us. There has been such unimaginable loss, anxiety, isolation, and suffering. Some of us are experiencing the deepest grief and most exhausting work, others are accumulating a steady stream of small losses. We are all so tired, hope feels far away. I imagined 2020 as the year I would emerge, as if would turn the page and I would stride out into the world, ready to love.
Remembering how to love the world while still in the midst of grief and suffering is complicated. Because what we don’t need right now is a mindless resolute beam of positive thinking and encouraging chirps about silver linings. Those sentiments melted long ago, a cotton candy of survival. I can’t love the whole big world right now - my life has become very small and contained as it should. I can’t love the whole big world right now - who could love pestilence and peril?
At our last Evolving Faith gathering in Denver last October - a million years ago, remember travelling? planes? people? hugging? - Dan Evans shared with us an unpublished excerpt from Rachel’s unfinished work which referenced this poem by Daniel Ladinsky, inspired by Francis of Assisi:
I think God might be a little prejudiced.
For once He asked me to join Him on a walk
through this world,
and we gazed into every heart on this earth,
and I noticed He lingered a bit longer
before any face that was
weeping,
and before any eyes that were
laughing.
And sometimes when we passed
a soul in worship,
God too would kneel
down.
I have come to learn: God
adores His
creation.
I won’t share what Dan read that day as it will likely be available eventually and I want to honour that process, but Rachel Held Evans’ theme was about her yearning to be loved by God specifically, not just generally. This has stayed with me for six months now, especially the visual of God lingering with any face that is weeping, any eyes laughing, any soul kneeling, with a particular sort of love.
I don’t know if we can love the world in general. But I do think we can manage to love the world in particular. In fact, I’ve found - entirely by accident - that this practice of loving this in particular a few times a day is actually functioning as both an invocation and a benediction. Learning to love this in particular - whatever this means in that moment - a few times a day invites the presence of God (or at least my awareness of it) and blesses as sacred where God already dwells. This has been a nice surprise.
And so I’ve landed here right now: remembering to love this in particular.
This particular moment, this particular ordinary goodness with heft and length and trth. To love the constellation of golden freckles scattered across one daughter’s nose, the squinty-eyed grin of another, the pounding of a basketball on the pavement out back. Love the way my now-as-tall-as-me son overfills his cereal bowl and forgets he can’t walk and read at the same time and holds his hair while he watches tv.
Love the pencil crayons and markers always on the kitchen table. Love the curl of steam from the tea in the morning, love the light in the late afternoon illuminating as holy, the crumbs on the floor. Learn to love the schedules and the routines that are emerging, love(?) the soundtrack from Descendants or whatever Billie Eilish song always seems to be playing somewhere in the house. Love the slow mornings and the nightly Jeopardy pop quizzes in the living room. Love underlined poems and the sight of birds on the wind. Love the cold of starlight and the quiet of the streets. Love the worn pages of a well-loved Bible and the laughter from a Parks and Rec episode. Love the orderly rows of books on the shelves and the haphazard piles of books on the coffee table and the nearly-dead Kindle everyone fights over for Quiet Time.
Love the Donate button on a food bank website and the satisfying click of finding some small way to keep loving your neighbours. Love your friend whose mother has died while you cook chili all afternoon, crying as you stir and season. Love Nova Scotia in general and each broken life in particular. Love the comfort of grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch. Love the way his hands feel against your skin. Love your body, every curve and change. Love the perfect shade of lipstick and a phone call with a friend. Love the tiny green seedling poking through the black dirt, the tulips withstanding the wind and the rain, the steady parade of appropriately spaced neighbours walking their dogs in the morning. Love the fresh green of spring leaves, glowing with possible life. Love the smooth flowing “v” of knitting stockinette stitches, one after another. Love the drive-thru and the grocery store. Love the click of the lock on the washroom door as the bathwater runs.
Love the sound of the words I love you, I forgive you, I’m sorry, I miss you, I want you, I choose you, I made coffee and it’s ready. Love the bark of the big old tree you watch through every season of change. Love this moment of particular grace not in spite of all the grief and loss surrounding us but because of it. Love this because now you know that Frederick Buechner was right: this is the world, beautiful and terrible things will happen, don’t be afraid. Beautiful things are happening and terrible things are happening, both are true. Don’t be afraid. Are you remembering to find something, in particular, to love even during this?
Love this. Love this. Love this.
In case you missed it
Our Easter Series on the I AM Statements of Jesus
Easter Sunday:: I AM the Resurrection and the Life - for everyone
The AUDIO version of me reading the Easter Sunday essay aloud
A Community Conversation: Good Words for Hard Times
And for something completely ridiculous and particular: A Schitt’s Creek Benediction
All content is copyrighted by Sarah Bessey. To clarify, you are of course free to quote a snippet or to reference my work on social media. In fact, I’m grateful when you do - thank you! I just ask that you link back to the original post and don’t share more than a paragraph or two. And please don’t copy and repost an entire essay elsewhere.
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Learn more about my books: Miracles and Other Reasonable Things | Out of Sorts: Making Peace with an Evolving Faith | Jesus Feminist
I think about this often:
In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Yes, there will also be singing
About the dark times.
– Bertolt Brecht
Who am I singing to? Whose song am I allowing to reach me?
Thank you. It brought me back to Brother Lawrence and practicing the presence of God in the moment. I'm needing to stop and breath and find the love; thanks for the reflection. Oh, and I'm recommending a new mystery series. If you love Louise Penny, try Julia Spencer-Flemings series about a small town in upstate New York. The protagonist is a woman Episcopal priest who sleuths along with the local sheriff. Louise Penny is a good friend of hers and recommended it. You won't regret it.