Even after more than three decades, I still find it hard to sleep the night before I preach. I attribute a good bit of that to the inner wrestling match that takes place as I struggle to change my heart’s prayer from something like, “Please let them be impressed” to “Let me glorify you and be a blessing for others.”

So, when I woke up at my daughter’s a couple of Sundays ago, I was tired and anxious. I had spent the night there because I had been invited to fill the pulpit for two churches near her house and I took that as an opportunity to add some family time to my weekend.

As I made my way downstairs, I was a little dismayed to discover that my eight year old granddaughter was already up and eating breakfast. I say dismayed because she is one of those folks that appreciates nothing better in the morning than the sound of people not talking and she is willing to express that preference. (Full disclosure, she may have inherited that from someone on her mother’s side of the family.) Anyway, when she looked up from her cinnamon toast, she gave me a look that confirmed my trepidation and conveyed that a vow of silence might be a good thing to add to my Sunday morning disciplines. Fine. Quietly I secured a mug of coffee and headed for the front porch.

The porch was a good choice for a nervous preacher. Morning was breaking, the cement was cool and refreshing to my bare feet, the day’s early glow was covering the neighborhood, and the rhythm the neighbors’ sprinkler just added to the feeling that things were being refreshed and growing. I settled into the rocking chair closest to the door and took that magic first sip of coffee.

Several birds were singing their morning songs but the most prominent voice was the crow. I guess calling a crow’s caw a song is a stretch but they sure seem to enjoy it.

There is a myth that says that the crows were once told by God that they could become any other creature they desired but they turned the offer down, choosing to remain crows. They must have figured that being clever, fairly tough, and able to fly was enough.

As I sat pondering crows and sermons, the front door opened and out came the granddaughter. She too was barefoot, with prettier feet, and she too took a moment to look around and take in the morning. Then, without a word, she walked past me to the next rocker. She pulled it a few inches closer to mine, took a seat, and continued her assessment. It occurred to me that it never crossed her mind that she wouldn’t be welcome in my sanctuary. I guess she believes me when I tell her that her Granddaddy will always love her.

As we sat and slowly rocked, I wondered if she remembered the hike we took a year or so ago, when I told her and her little brother to stand still and observe what was going on through each of their five senses. When we got to hearing she said that she heard birds but I asked her to go a little deeper, “How many birds?”

I wondered if I had ever told her about the crows turning down the offer to change into something other than what they were.

I wanted to say something but I knew speaking would ruin the moment. It was like a butterfly had landed in my hand and if I moved the wrong way it would fly away. I didn’t want it to fly away.

So we just sat; surrounded by creation, God’s first language. Enjoying the sound of people not talking and watching morning break.

“Praise for the morning…”

Phyllis Tickle, via her book, The Divine Hours: Prayers for Springtime, informed me this morning that on May 1 we celebrate the lives of St. Philip and St. James. This James is the one known as “James the Less.” She said that these two Christ followers “remained fairly obscure during their lives, preferring apparently to further the Church and not their own fame.” That observation concerning two of Jesus’ original disciples reminded me of a rather humbling moment of self-awareness I experienced a few years back.

The church’s basketball team had played that night and when I walked in the kitchen, after the game, Kathryn asked me if we had won.
“Nope, we lost.”
“What was the score?”
“I don’t remember but I had twelve points.”

Oops. I wouldn’t think it is a sign of a good team player to be sure what you scored but unable to remember the team’s score. Most likely, this applies not only to basketball players but to church folks, teachers, public servants, parents, spouses. . . let’s just say pretty much everyone who seeks to live with other people and somehow leave things a little better than you found them.

I’ll confess, throughout my career as a minister, I constantly had to remind myself of one the most important things a pastor can remember; it’s not about you. It’s not about you when you preach. It’s not about you when you counsel. It’s not about you when you lead.

One would think that would be a little easier to remember in retirement, when you are slowly drifting to the periphery anyway but I find the wondering how I’m doing and fretting over what my stats are, doesn’t quiet down so easily.

I’m still trying to live into the lesson the teacher gave the disciple when he told him to go to the graveyard and praise the saints there as highly as he could and then to insult them terribly. The disciple did as he was told and returned to his teacher.
“What did they think of your praises and insults?” the teacher asked.
“They didn’t seem to care.”
“Strive to care as much about whether people are praising or insulting you.”

They didn’t seem to care about their own fame, preferring to further the Church. Happy St. Philip and St. James day.