Eugene's parents would make him take Sister Lychen a plate of cookies, and when he'd get to her house, he would find all the blinds down, and all the shutters closed. Old Sister Lychen lived in a house of gloom. She was waiting to die. Eugene Peterson writes that Sister Lychen represents a brand of Christian faith where life here and now is just a trial, so that life can really start in heaven. You know, someday.

Eugene had a fantasy of bursting into Sister Lychen's house, opening all the window blinds, and saying, "Sister Lychen, look! There's a whole world outside! There's a world of turtles and hummingbirds and hawks and grizzly bears."  

You gotta smile...

Although if we're honest we'll admit that we all have some shutters or blinds somewhere in our mental house. It's our way of waiting for someday.  

I'm waiting for my real life to begin.

Lord knows that there's a plethora of cheerleaders (with can't miss advice or products) who find great motivation in lists, and will give (or sell) me a list of things I need to do to find inner peace, and live in the moment. Sort of like the movie, Bucket List. That list of things we want (or need or feel compelled) to do before we die.

In a small bookstore, I saw a book called 10,000 things to do before you die. I had just started my own list, with only three things on it, so the number 10,000 made me a little dizzy. So I did what needed to be done: I sat down on the back patio and watched my cat play near the stream, apparently unaware of any pressure about a list of things to complete before cat heaven. While he's at play, I sit, mouth agape, because a Kingfisher honors us with his presence and charisma--this elusive, noble and elegant bird, parking himself on a limb near the pond, hoping for lunch. Nothing struck his fancy, so after ten minutes or so, he moves on. I guess the good news is that for a chunk of time I didn't care one whit about any list to check off that would make my life complete.

The hitch in our giddy-up is that we're wired to consume, add on, scurry and expand. Like the rich man in Luke's Gospel, "What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops. I will tear down my barns and build bigger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I'll say to myself, 'You have plenty of good things laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.'" When the goal of living in the present is just another conquest (what we attain, buy, achieve), we are like (to borrow from Meister Eckhart) a man riding an ox looking for an ox to ride.

But hey, if you're a list maker, more power to you. Just don't make it so heavy it weighs you down.

I guess if push came to shove, I could make a list with three things.

One. Practice the prayer suggested by a Buddhist monk, "If I should wake before I die..."

Two. Savor a Sabbath Moment (or day if you let it stretch). Sit still and let the other stuff go. If you're lucky, a Kingfisher (or turtle or hummingbird or hawk or perchance even a grizzly bear) may stop by. You see, if rest is woven into the fabric of our very selves, then Sabbath is the Creator's invitation to re-create, dance, celebrate, enjoy, take pleasure in, absorb this gift called life. An invitation to live--to enter into, to be present in--this life, without the need to complete the list for the life yet to be. I just finished a great book--Lewis Hyde's The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World. These encounters or connections (whether our art or our work) is called a gift because it cannot be treated as a commodity. Or hoarded. Or bought and traded. It can only be given, bestowed, offered and shared. It is always on the move, lightening the load of fellow travelers and open blinds that have been closed for too long.