So I spend the first day of summer drinking in and relishing the offerings from my garden, this year outrageous with bloom. And yet. What is fomenting inside that makes it so easy to miss the moments we are enjoying?  (As if bemoaning the end of the party while still holding the first glass of wine in our hand.)

This week I was charmed by the story about a woman named Sarah. An ordinary woman with a peculiar habit. You see, every Saturday, when the Jehovah's Witnesses make their neighborhood rounds, she invites them in. And begins by saying, "I'm glad to see you. I'm not going to covert, but you all are welcome to stay for tea." And every Saturday, the missionaries do just that.

Another time, a salesman dropped in--old fashioned door-to-door, selling vacuum cleaners.  "Come on in," she tells him. "I need to tell you that I'm not going to buy, and my baby is asleep, so no loud demo, but you look like you've had a long day, would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Why?" the salesman asked.

"Well, this may sound strange, but I actually believe that God may be found in any person, so I'm offering you coffee because you might be Jesus."

I'm certain that for the salesman, it was easily his strangest house call ever; but he sat for a spell, and enjoyed the coffee.

There was a time where I would have overlooked this story. Or likely, would have dismissed it. It falls under the category of too-good-to-be-true.

We live in a world where, because of fear, we mistrust just about everyone and everything. Even kindness. Especially kindness. (I read that in some countries it is the ruse of would-be pickpockets. They pose as persons needing direction, and when kind strangers stop to help, those who help are fleeced. Is it the exception? Yes. But even so, fear carries the narrative of our time and our relations and our conversations.)

This in not a Sabbath Moment about kindness. Per se. Because our temptation is to bottle up whatever Sarah had, or find a way to teach it or market it on Amazon.

Lord knows, we find multiple ways to complicate life. It is not enough, apparently, just to offer a cup of coffee.

Sarah's story is about letting life in.

Every bit of life.

Sarah's story is about making space.

Rooting ourselves in love and hospitality. 

(For the record; just give me a list, I'm okay. Making space is trickier.)

Dr. Irvin Yalom writes, "(She) described the horrible days of her cancer's recurrence... She cried when she told me about calling her surgeon, a friend of twenty years, only to be informed by his nurse that there were to be no further appointments because the doctor had nothing more to offer. "What is wrong with doctors? Why don't they understand the importance of sheer presence?" she asked. "Why can't they realize that the very moment they have nothing else to offer is the moment they are most needed?" (Momma and the Meaning of Life)

We make space to see.

We make space to be seen.

We make space to give wholeheartedly.

We make space to welcome.

We make space to offer comfort or reprieve or hope.

We make space to be Sabbath, in a world of disquiet, disruption and misgiving.

That certainly doesn't mean that we sugarcoat the world. There's enough pain and injury to go around. And I can tell you that I am not a fan of people who--in the name of upbeat coaching--dismiss life's complications, irritations, tensions and potential pain.

Here's the deal: When we make space we are able to bring who we are, wholeheartedly--whether that be grief or sadness or bewilderment or gladness or joy.

Some movies I need to watch over and over. The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is one of them. A group of disparate British retirees are lured by an invitation to "outsource" themselves for a stay at the newly opened Best Exotic Marigold Hotel in Jaipur, India. It is no surprise that, upon arrival, they discover a place far from a luxurious retreat. The advertising claim, bodacious... "for the elderly and beautiful." And who wouldn't welcome that enticement? Recently widowed housewife Evelyn Greenslade (Judi Dench), who must sell her home to cover huge debts left by her late husband. High Court Judge Graham Dashwood (Tom Wilkinson), who has for many years been retiring "any day now". During the retirement speech of a colleague, Graham declares, "Today's the day."  While in India, Graham dies, but after he has reunited with Manoj--the love of his youth, the love of his life. Evelyn's voice-over at Graham's funeral...

Of course, it was inevitable. Put enough old people in the same place, and it won't be too long before one of them goes. Graham died of a heart condition which he'd had for many years, so he knew before he left that he would not be coming back. He wanted to die in India, he just didn't want any of us to know. Manoj wanted him to have a Hindu burial there by the lake at the place they had visited together. Not a holy place, although for them perhaps it was. It takes a long time for a body to be consumed. Many hours for the mourners to remember their dead. The fire must be lit at dawn and by sunset there must be nothing left but ash. Is it our friend we are grieving for whose life we knew so little, or is it our own loss that we are mourning? Have we traveled far enough that we can allow our tears to fall?

I guess my answer is "it depends." If we have some "offer us coffee," then maybe we can allow our souls to catch up.

In her book The Sabbath World, Judith Shulevitz quotes a lovely teaching by 18th century master the Vilna Gaon. "Consider the mystery surrounding the first Shabbat. Why did God stop, anyway? God stopped to show us that what we create becomes meaningful only once we stop creating it and start remembering why it was worth creating in the first place." Shulevitz closes by saying, "We have to remember to stop because we have to stop to remember."

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around. Leo F. Buscaglia

"Come on in." Maybe that is exactly what we need today. One cup of tea, or coffee, at a time. Or maybe, that is what we can offer...   

My good friend Sam greets me, "Namaste." Meaning, I bow to you, or to the divine spark I see in you.

That was Sarah's gift too. And the reminder of what we too often fail to see; that we too, are the gift. Each one of us carries within us that divine spark. The image of our Creator.

It is raining tonight. (Go figure, it is summer in Seattle after all.) In my garden the climbing rose Constance Spry is in full bloom, wanton and wasteful, petals from the early spent blossoms now a carpet on the lawn.