sethlewis.ie

The Leak (a poem)

Today I have a poem for you that is inspired by true events in our home. We recently discovered that a slow leak behind the shower had done enormous damage inside our bathroom walls without us realising it. As I considered what had happened I noticed a connection between our home and our hearts. That’s what this poem is about.

The Leak

Silently
the water creeps
behind the tidy
tiles, seeps
into the wood
and insulation
slow and patient
devastation
working hidden
in the dark
drip

drip

A Personal Update (With A Book Update, Too)

I woke up the other day thinking about the list of normal things I was going to do that day, which is not unusual. But it struck me that I’ve been waking up like that for years and years, and the list of normal things I’ve thought about has changed dramatically. For example, recently I’ve been taking our oldest child out to practice driving. This is normal now, but it wasn’t a year ago, and it’s a sign that our family is entering another new and different kind of normal. Next year our youngest will join her brothers in secondary school and our normal will change again.

The Past Is More Than A List Of Problems

It’s often said that those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. The unstated assumption in this saying is that the past is full of problems—which is obviously true. Learning from the mistakes of the past is a big job because there are just so many to choose from. Our learning is also complicated by the danger of over-correction—of fixating so intently on avoiding one problem that we fall easily into another. After all, we’re just as susceptible to cultural blind spots, overlooked abuses, and self-serving justifications as anyone who went before us. Have you seen the internet lately? So we must learn from the mistakes of the past, and we must apply our lessons carefully. But I think we sell history, our ancestors, and our own selves short when we only see the past as a litany of problems to avoid. Our forebearers certainly had their issues—plenty of them—but they also had their successes. They were often wrong, but sometimes they were right. And what if we were humble enough to admit this? What if we learned from history not only by critiquing it, but also by letting it critique us?

Assisted Suicide And The Meaning Of Life

Our representatives in Dublin are voting this evening on whether to approve recommendations for assisted suicide in Ireland. This is only an indicative vote, a first step towards changing our laws, but it is a step that will pave the way for official legislation to be brought forward in the future. The argument in favour of this change is usually framed in the language of compassion and choice—that those who are suffering greatly should be able to end their suffering—and their lives—on their own terms. There are, however, many significant concerns raised in the debate as well. For example, there is the unspoken (or perhaps spoken) pressure to die that allowing this option places on good-hearted people who hate to be a burden on others. Is that really a free choice? Or consider the obvious cost-cutting incentive that assisted suicide gives the health service to end lives rather than provide expensive palliative care. Does that really promote compassion? These concerns are reason enough to oppose assisted suicide, especially in light of the heartbreaking evidence from countries who have already started down this road. But I have another more fundamental objection. I know that the one great benefit and argument for assisted suicide is that it ends suffering. This is true enough. The trouble is that it ends suffering not by treating or managing it, but rather by ending the sufferer. In doing so, assisted suicide creates a new category for our culture—a category of human life that society agrees is simply not worth living.

Rain On The Window (a poem)

The garden is
A liquid blur
But I don’t stir
To close the blinds
The world has turned
Impressionistic—
Like a sad
(But still artistic)
Painter came
And just remixed it
Smudged the lines
And drained the colour
Told the sun
He shouldn’t bother
Wiped the sky
And stars away
And left me only
Endless grey
And as I look
Outside I think
That even when
It’s indistinct
And even when
It blurs my thoughts
And when it rains
And drains
And blots
And even when
It breaks my heart
This world is still
A work of art

The Daily Dance Of Family Life

The electric kettle clicks off. I give some of the water to Jessica for the breakfast porridge and take the rest to warm the flasks for hot lunches for the children. I need a little more, so I fill the kettle again. The children are in the kitchen now, wearing their uniforms and queueing at the refrigerator to pack fruits and vegetables into their lunch boxes. I fill everyone’s water bottles then switch to unloading the dishwasher, working around Jessica who is now preparing breakfast fruit and the children who are laying the table and getting the juice out of the refrigerator (which has hardly closed). As the five of us step around each other and pause and dive in and out of cabinets and counter space to do our various morning jobs, someone observes that our movements around the kitchen are like a dance. We laugh, but it’s true.

A Wide Place

As the youngest of four children, I was always the last to experience the privileges that came with growing up. I remember one year waiting impatiently for my birthday—the day I would finally be allowed to have my very own pocketknife. I wanted it right away. I wanted to carve sticks and notch arrows like my older brother could. But my parents were very strict: I had to be old enough, and I also had to be trained through Scouts in how to use knives properly and safely. I knew that my pocketknife privileges would be revoked the first time I failed to abide by the safety rules I learned. I didn’t fully understand why my parents were so serious about these regulations until my neighbour cut his thumb with a pocketknife badly enough to need stitches. After that, I saw the wisdom of my parent’s rules more clearly. Their strictness was protecting me and freeing me to enjoy the benefits of my pocketknife without being hurt by it. I saw that their commands were actually an expression of their love for me.

Some Of My Favourite Bluegrass

I grew up in the hills a couple of hours south of Nashville, in the heartland of country music. The radio played songs like Imagine That and Where The Green Grass Grows, but I never imagined that I would end up living in a place where the grass is as green as it is here in Ireland. I also married a girl from the mountains of Virginia, and her family helped me discover a world of music where the grass is not green—it’s blue. Bluegrass is a part of my cultural heritage (with deep roots in traditional Irish music as well), and my love for it has only grown with time. So today I’d like to share my favourite bluegrass tunes with you.

The Cost Of Greatness (a poem)

Can you bear the cost of greatness
In the kingdom of our Lord?
You can’t buy it with your money
Or take it with a sword

Will you let yourself be overlooked
And measured as the least?
Can you bear to serve the tables
For the others as they feast?

Let your patience be called weakness
Let your love be misconstrued
Let them scorn your sacrifices
And speak evil of your good

Can you give away your rights
Without demanding recognition?
Quench the thirst of enemies
While they reload their ammunition?

Plough your years into the soil
Till your neighbour’s garden blooms
And keep on being generous
When everyone assumes
That the credit for the good you’ve done
Is everyone’s but yours—
And when they say your work’s in vain
Still keep a steady course

Can you offer up forgiveness
To the ones who’ve done you wrong?
Can you bend your neck into the yoke
And still lift up a song?

The climb to heaven’s greatness
On the pathway of our Lord
Is a climb that takes you downward
To his unending reward

“Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave—just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

– Matthew 20:26-28

What Does God Listen For?

Have you ever considered all the things you hear in the course of one day? This morning, I heard birds singing outside, and the voices of my family. I heard the coffee machine and the clink of plates and cutlery at breakfast. Right now, I’m hearing the noise of construction above the ever-present sounds of traffic and the occasional gust of wind. I haven’t even had lunch yet. There will be plenty more to fill my ears before this day is finished.

Have you ever considered all the things that God hears? The creator of sound waves hears the unceasing worship of angels before his throne. He hears the swirling wind of Jupiter and the ice that melts on Mars. He hears beyond what is audible to us—the ultrasonic songs of katydids and the footsteps of aphids. He hears beyond the limits of location—every rain drop, every lightning bolt, every asteroid, every pinging dolphin and rumbling tectonic shift, everywhere, all the time. And I thought I had a lot to take in.