For my granddaughter, Gracyn

It is useless to try to make peace with ourselves by being pleased with everything we have done. In order to settle down in the quiet of our own being we must learn to be detached from the results of our own activity. We must withdraw ourselves, to some extent, from the effects that are beyond our control and be content with the good will and the work that are the quiet expression of our inner life. We must be content to live without watching ourselves live, to work without expecting any immediate reward, to love without an instantaneous satisfaction, and to exist without any special recognition.
― Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island

I would be lying if I said that I’ve lived Merton’s words. I wish that I could say that I’ve been much more interested in being than doing, that I’ve rested in the quiet of my own being more than in the things I’ve done. If I were to score my level of being throughout my adult life, well let’s just say that my average score would be painfully low. And don’t get me started about the Christmas season. It’s a miracle, indeed, that I haven’t self-combusted as I’ve shopped, shipped, baked, wrapped, and decorated. Seriously, a D- for the season would be generous.

God asked–and continues to ask–many of his most unlikely servants to do things they weren’t especially prepared for, things that required talent and aptitude they didn’t have. And we read story after story of these folk who accomplished great things for God’s kingdom. But with Mary, God asks her to be, to become the holy receptacle into which he plants his most precious seed and knits his most wonderful work: Christ. In Luke 1: 38, we read:

And Mary said, “Behold, the bondslave of the Lord; may it be done to me according to your word.”

May it be done to me–not let me do. Each Advent season, I marvel at Mary’s quick consent to settle down in the quiet of her own being, to be God’s handmaiden. She is the woman I’d like to be when I grow up.

This fall, I’ve been homeschooling my two grandchildren. It goes without saying that most days are filled with doing: 2nd grade math, reading, science, social studies, penmanship and spelling AND 6th grade math, reading and writing, science, social studies, spelling and beginning Spanish. Even at my most experienced point in teaching, I never had this many preps. Each day, I hope I haven’t forgotten something. And as a veteran doer, I have folders and charts–all the teacher things that are standard tools of the trade.

A few days ago, I’d finished with Griffin who had gone to the garage to work with Grandpa. Gracyn and I worked to complete the subjects she hadn’t yet started. When we’d finished, I gathered up papers to put in her folders and cleaned up our work area. It was then that I noticed she’d moved to the kitchen bar where she planted herself on a stool. It became clear that she just wanted to talk and pass the time with me. I was struck with the fact that I had to DO nothing. I just had to let it be done to me: the sweet conversation, the time alone with an 11-year-old who—for 30 precious minutes—made me feel more like a friend and confidante than a grandma. As I sat there, I let it be done to me. I became a willing receptacle for all she wanted to give me, for I was acutely aware that this was what I was called to be.

In Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, Thomas Merton explains that when he prays, he seeks a point vierge or virgin point at the center of his being. He describes this as a point untouched [by sin and] by illusion, a point of pure truth . . . which belongs entirely to God. . . . As I sat and let Gracyn’s presence wash over and through me, I realized that I’d reached a point vierge. This time belonged entirely to God who had blessed me with an experience untouched by sin and illusion, a point of pure truth. Like Mary, I found that I could only utter, How can this be?

As the days before Christmas crowd in upon me, one day crashing into the next, the hours filled with final shopping, wrapping, and mailing Christmas cards, no doubt I’ll find myself a doer more times than I’d care to admit. But this Advent season, I vow to simply be. I will be ever mindful of those point vierges which come only when I can stop doing.

And when, in the middle of a lesson on telling time to the half hour, my grandson gasps as he reports that there are three squirrels on a one branch in the ash tree outside, I’ll let his wonder be done to me. I’ll stifle the teacher-in-me and channel Mary. For I’ll understand the futility of measuring my worth by everything I’ve done. I’ll really try to settle down in the quiet of my own being.