Our Little Lives
Van Gogh, Almond Blossoms, 1890
In my reading this morning, Henri Nouwen, in his book Life Of The Beloved: Spiritual Living In A Secular World, used a phrase that’s had me thinking all morning. Is it possible, he asks, that “the fruitfulness of our little life” could possibly make a difference in a world swirling out of control? The fruitfulness part attracted my attention first. Is my life really fruitful? If not, how might I become more fruitful? That’s certainly worth thinking about.
But the part that triggered me most was the reference to “our little life.” Fruitful or not, I feel so little anymore. I used to think I could change the world, that my actions and my words could matter. That was a driving passion for me, the clarifying language of my life as a leader. But now, the world seems so big. And I feel so small.
Sometimes I think I’ve got my head around things, Ok, I’ve got it figured out, but then the whole picture spins once again into a blur. Where can I turn? Whom can I trust? How can I see the whole picture more clearly. I desperately want to be fruitful, to offer up something helpful. But I’m one of the little people, and the big people aren’t managing things very well. To speak up seems to make things worse.
Frankly, I find myself slipping into a kind of funk at times, a place I’ve never resided for very long, a place that frighteningly teeters on despair, a dreaded acedia, perhaps. I need some help this morning. What might it mean to redefine what is fruitful in such a way that even from my little life I might be helpful?
What if we could come to see ourselves, Nouwen suggests, as “a little seed planted in a very rich soil.” That’s an image that comes with a rich tradition. Jesus uses that language. Could my “little life,” that seed, actually grow into a wide-spreading tree, one that blossoms and bears fruit for others to see and to use?
And then Nouwen offers this encouragement:
We may be little, insignificant servants in the eyes of a world motivated by efficiency, control, and success. But when we realize that God has chosen us from all eternity, sent us into a world as blessed ones . . . can’t we, then, also trust that our little lives will multiply themselves and be able to fulfill the needs of countless people?
Sounds a little preposterous, Nouwen admits. How could my little life possibly matter to countless people? Well, it might go something like this:
Imagine that, in the center of your heart, you trust that your smiles and handshakes, your embraces and your kisses are only the early signs of a worldwide community of love and peace!
Sounds a little like John Lennon, imagining, but think about it. This is part of what I was looking for this morning. Maybe we’ve got to adjust the scales. Maybe something has to happen that seems inconsequential at first but turns out quite dramatically important. Maybe the beginning of the fruitful spiritual life radiates outward from this “center of your heart.” When that center becomes transformed, reshaped in the presence of the living God, a God who draws us, summons us, whoever we are, wherever we are, no matter our circumstances, no matter how little we are, no matter how screwed up the world has become—well, maybe then, we can actually contribute to our world becoming so much better.
Little lives have to regroup around little things. We think we’ve got to make big things happen, or that big people need to rescue us. But what if we simply offer our smiles and handshakes, at least to begin with? What if we keep writing the little words we have to write? What if we keep reaching out with our small gestures?
Who cares if our lives are little? Who gets to do the measuring? Since all the big notions seem to crumble around us, we’ve got to start somewhere to get back on track, both for our lives and for our world. Maybe our small gestures and our little words really can be the place to start over. Maybe this is the way we can become fruitful.