I sent out a trial run of an e-newsletter today; below is a piece of it. If you’re interested in receiving a not-even-monthly update, feel free to sign up using the form at the bottom of the main page. I’ll get better at this…maybe? Anyway, you can see the whole newsletter at this link if you’re interested.
Lent is over,
and with it, at least technically, my little “fast” from social media. I haven’t really reengaged, though. I’m still mulling over whether being on those websites is, on balance, better or worse for my mental, physical, and spiritual health. Of course I, and probably you, have that question about email, too. Nothing is perfect. But at the very least, it felt to me strange to sing out the “Hallelujah!”s of Easter Sunday by logging back on for some mind-numbing — or for that matter mind-agitating — scrolling.
And so, as promised: a not-even-monthly newsletter. I decided to call it “The Victory Column,” a phrase I’ve written about before. Way back what miraculously seems like forever ago, in the hospital in D.C., other patients and myself would talk about the little wins that went in our victory column for the day. Everything went in the victory column. Nothing went in the defeat column. We were defeated enough already, thank you. Got your feet on the floor? Victory column. Managed to actually stand up? Victory column. Managed to choke down some hospital food? Victory column. It was a little way to count the small things that add up to the big thing; to drag our leaden feet into a practice of gratitude; to celebrate, if only in a kind of eye-rolling shrug, the goodness buried in our days.
I came to think of the Victory Column like manna in the desert — little pieces of goodness, spoiled if hoarded, enough even if the gathering is neglected, hardly seeming like a feast but somehow sufficient for each day.
Today, my life is undeniably good. My son Jude is walking and my daughter Laila is running, and the dog and the chickens have largely maintained their backyard détente. Leigh and I both have meaningful ministry to be about, and there is food on our table (not to mention, because of the aforementioned children, on the floor) and a new-to-us if needing-some-work roof over our heads. There is, by all accounts, much to be anxious about, worried for, even afraid of; but if I look right at my feet, there is more than enough.
And still: the wisdom of the Victory Column, to look for and name the good things, even the minuscule good things, remains. Perhaps because of an illness or perhaps because of personality or perhaps just because of a little whispery voice common to humanity that our ancestors imagined as an awfully clever snake, I am constantly tempted to focus on the defeat, on the despair, on the haunting-around-the-edges of a life lived mindful of the shadow of death.
And so: the Victory Column. A way to name the little wins, the easy-to-miss beauty, the manna - “what is it?” that is there, scattered at our feet, if we think to look for it. It is, somehow, enough. Sometimes, it is even, undeniably, more.