Thursday, September 6, 2007

WAITING:
TWENTY QUESTIONS

THE following are twenty questions for the next time you are looking for something to do while you are waiting.

1) Can women wait better than men? Babies take nine month to be born: planting the seed is much quicker.

2) Are farmers more patient than city folks? Do they find it easier to wait at banks and loan agencies? Waiting for seeds to grow and bud takes time, but so too does waiting for subways, buses, traffic, etc.

3) Is this generation more impatient than earlier generations? Do instant cereal, instant coffee, instant replay, microwave ovens, cable TV, video movies, instant copy machines, instant read-outs from computers, prevent people from learning how to wait?

4) Do couples without children miss out by not waiting up at night with a sick child, waiting for kids to grow, waiting for kids to come home safely from camp or the movies?

5) If you are or if you were a waiter or a waitress in a restaurant what would be the three most important things you would do to give good service to your customers?

6) If you broke your leg and had to sit around healing from four to six weeks, what would do with your time? Would it be a joyful break (pardon the pun) or would you “go bananas,” not knowing what to do with your time?

7) Still in the broken leg situation, what five books are you looking for time to read?

8) You are sitting waiting in a doctor’s waiting room and in walk the following three people: a teen-age girl on crutches, her foot in a cast; a woman who seems to be seven months pregnant; and a old lady in her seventies. Which of the three would you most likely give your seat to?

9) Or you’re in the same waiting room, but this time standing with those three people. Seated is an eighteen-year old boy, obviously into body building. Would you suggest to him that he offer his seat to one of the three persons?

10) Do you usually keep people waiting? Or are you usually on time? If you’re often late, do you do it to all people in all kinds of situations or is it usually to one person or one situation?

11) Do you answer mail or phone calls immediately, or are you a procrastinator, putting people off for hours, days and weeks?

12) When you pray, do you get restless? What’s your patience level? Do you get restless after ten, twenty, forty, or sixty minutes? What are your feelings about Jesus’ words, “Could you not watch with me for one hour?”

13) Why did Jesus wait till he was around thirty before he started moving around as a preacher?

14) Why did Jesus curse the fig tree in Matthew and not give it a second chance, while in Luke he gives it another year? Which is the real Jesus: the Jesus of Matthew or Luke?

15) Is there someone who is waiting for you to say to them, “I’m sorry for hurting you?”

16) Is there somebody you’re waiting to come to you and prove that they are sorry for hurting you?

17) Do you cheat, when you can, on waiting in line, trying to get ahead of others, in restaurants, at the shopping center, etc.? Do you believe in the principle of “first come, first serve”?

18) If you had cancer, would you be able to deal with all the waiting that is often involved: waiting to take tests, for the test reports, for good news? Would you be able to deal with losing hair, strength, movement?

19) You are in a barbershop or the hair dresser’s. You walk in without an appointment. Four persons are ahead of you. Would you be the type that would sit and wait, or would you leave and come back another time?

20) Looking at your life, what are the three most important things you are waiting for?

MANTRA: “Lord, teach me to learn to wait for what’s worth waiting for.”


© Andrew Costello, Chapter 43 of Thank God It's Friday, 1987
REALITY THERAPY


Discovering my job
has become more important
than my family .

Panning the whole day
on the way into work,
lining up every minute of it,
only to see the boss
waiting for me
with a piece of paper in his hand
as I walk in the door.

Seeing my son bored
by something that really interests me.

My brother wants to put mom
in a nursing home,
and my sister doesn’t
and I’m caught in the middle,
and I’m the only one who has taken care of mom
for the past four years
since she had her stroke.

Finding out I never really knew
my dad till after he died.

Couldn’t wait till the talk was over to
complain about it,
only to hear that everybody liked it.

Going to bed on the night
after a funeral
with one less person in the house.

Trying to make a right turn
out of my driveway,
but nobody will let me out.

Finally somebody slows down
and waves for me to pull out
into traffic in front of him.

Finding myself a few seconds later
speeding up to stop somebody else
who is trying to make a right turn
out of their driveway
just as I was.

Looking in the mirror to see
if the person in the car behind me
just saw what I did.



© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980
PRESENCE

Let’s be honest.
We all know about presence,
whether a person wants to be with us
or whether they feel trapped,
like a prisoner in our presence.

The baby knows.
She knows even when she’s sleeping
whether her parents want her or not.

The old people know.
They know which of their children
are only a phone call
or a visit away.

The team knows whether the cheer leaders
have to cheer or want to cheer.
They know when the crowd
is with them or not.
They know. They can sense it.

The people in the church know
whether the preacher
wants to be in the pulpit or not.

The wife -- the husband -- they both know
whether their marriage
has become a trap -- people living,
people dying in separate prison cells,
or whether their marriage
is an ever expanding universe,
an ever expanding move towards God.

I am.

God is present and we know it.

Presence:
we know these truths about presence
even when we deny them.

And all is touching.
All the cells of the universe
are touching each other,
present to each other,
cheering each other on.

All is present to all.
All is circular.
Everything is present to everything.
Everyone is present to everyone.
Everyone is present to God.

God is present to everyone and everything.
The universe is a sign
of the ever expanding presence of God,
like the baby to the parents.

My life is touching your life
Life is touching life.
Life is touching God.

Yet some people feel trapped.
They feel like they are dying,
in a closed prison cell,
unable to open up to the presence of another person, to the presence of God.

And the truth will set you free.

And all cells will be opened.



© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1981
I AM HUMAN

I am human -- one of us.

I know when I’m on a bridge
and when I’m crossing a river.

I get nervous when I hear the couple in the next house fight, especially because they have small children.

I get mad at motorcycles when they
roar up my quiet street at midnight.

Sometimes I like rain and sometimes I don’t.

I know when I vote and don’t vote.

I know when I’m eating watermelon or fresh bread.

I don’t know when I’m eating boiled potatoes,
most soups and toast.

I know when someone I love is in the room.

I know when I’m passing a cemetery.

There is something special about horses, especially
when I see a mare and her colt in a green field.

I know when I have a fever or a blister.

When I see a sailboat or a pregnant woman or a church something happens to me.

I get nervous when I see a person in a wheelchair
or when I see an ambulance flashing
or when a tractor trailer truck is too close.

I slow down, no matter what, when I see a police car.

A baby’s fingers always get to me.

I love the ocean.

I feel lonely when I’m in a car alone
and there is a couple close to each other in the car in front of me.

It makes it even worse when certain songs
come over the car radio.

I like it when someone tells me they missed me.

I feel good when I do the same or when I help someone.

Oh yeah, and sometimes I even pray.

© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980
PLEASE POST

If you won’t laugh,
you’ll have to leave the playground.

If you won’t work,
you can’t sit at this table.

If you won’t pray,
you’ll have to leave the church.

If you won’t sing,
you’ll have to leave the group

If you won’t dance,
you won’t be invited to the wedding.

If you won’t listen,
you’ll end up with a briefcase of only your ideas.

If you won’t talk,
you’ll have to leave this house.

If you don’t vote,
you’ll have to stop all that complaining.

If you only buy vanilla, chocolate and strawberry,
you’ll never taste chocolate chip ice cream.

If you don’t sacrifice,
you’ll never know.

If you don’t open doors,
you’ll never get out.

If you don’t get into the boat,
you’ll never taste the open sea.

If you are a poor loser,
you can’t play cards around here.

If you don’t lower your nets,
you’ll never make a catch.

If you won’t love,
you’ll never find God.

© Andrew Costello, Listenings, 1980
CANCER

The night was bright
because of the glistening
Passover moon.
I lay there awake
listening to both my
pulse and my watch,
wondering which would
stop first,
knowing that soon
my hour would come,
knowing that my Judas body
had betrayed me,
with cancer kissing
and killing all my insides.
For weeks
I cried with anger
at this creeping way
to die, this agony
in a bed called Gethsemane,
unable to flee the tears
pulsing down the valley
of my ear, this crucifying night,
not even wanting to roll over
and reach for the cup
of water on the table,
unable to escape death,
yet slowly I hear
myself beginning to
utter my first
word, “Father. . . .”



© Andrew Costello, Cries .... But Silent, 1981
DIARY

Before you come down
from the mountain,
write it down fast, clearly, quickly,
before it fades, before it’s too late.

Line up the words
Carve them in stone.
Number them in your journal.
Show them in your face, in your eyes.

Make them last,
these results of your inner mumblings,
these commandments you’ve heard
during long bus rides,
these commandments you’ve discovered
from lonely mistakes, or
from being misquoted, or
from being misunderstood.

Tell everyone that after
all these years of not knowing,
you finally know
that your real goals so far were:

1) to be loved,
2) to be accepted,
3) to know you know you have something to offer,
4) to know they know you have something to offer
5) to know they know you know,
6) to know you’re still learning,
7) to know that each fall teaches if you rise,
8) to know you’re beginning to realize there are others,
9) to know you’re beginning to know there is a God,
10) to know there’s more to know.

But remember,
these ten will be broken,
will be forgotten,
will some day seem adolescent,
but at least you’ve written them down,
you’ve chiseled them in stone.

Remember,
new commandments,
new insights,
will begin to appear
after they have rumbled around in your mind
for a while as you move across the desert.

Remember,
in your next exodus,
on your next mountain,
you might begin to carve,
slowly and quietly
the word ”love”,
but this time on a tree.

© Andrew Costello, 
Cries .... But Silent, 1981