Each day I vow to look for ways God is working in my life, but sometimes I’m too preoccupied with lesser things to see the glory of his presence.
One of Lori’s and my favorite episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond is the one titled “Italy.” Raymond acts like a spoiled kid through the first of the two-part episode. Nothing is right: their accommodations in a relative’s home are inadequate to him; he complains about his stuffy nose; the excursions are boring; his aunt is annoying.
But something happens to Raymond. He has a “breakthrough” while eating pizza at a local village. Suddenly, he genuinely enjoys the country, bringing gifts to a soiree, playing kickball with local youngsters, and complimenting Debra’s beauty. Raymond can’t explain his sudden change.
When Debra asks him what’s happened to him, he can only say, “It’s different here,” referring to Italy. “They know how to live.”
Unfortunately for Raymond, their trip was almost over before he had his “breakthrough.”
“I was just beginning to understand the life in Italy, and it was already time to return,” he rued.
Isn’t Raymond’s story ours, too? We finally get it: life is coming together, we’ve grown all the wiser, we’ve come to relish the simple things, and then the kids are grown and gone, we’re creaky, and the retirement village looms in the not-so-distant future.
So, I have to work on receiving each moment as a gift, reminding myself to breathe it in, taking each day as the new creation it is: I’ll never see that same sunrise that day again; I’ll never feel the wind caressing my face in that exact way as I gaze skyward; the Cardinal’s reveille will never be sung in that moment again. I look at my wife, Lori, as if I haven’t seen her in years. Glancing at the Bible on my desk, I am awed by the miracle that I have it in my possession, the very Word of God, the binding waiting for me to caress, and the words on the pages I savor like fresh-baked bread. Nothing about the day is stale: I see, feel, and touch familiar things again for the first time.
The other side of me looks at the sun and turns away, worried that I need to get on with the day. The songbird is nice but distant. The wind portends a relentless, blustery day. I’m a man in a hurry. Instead of pausing, I rush ahead to get done what must get done. Even sitting on the porch, there’s my grandson’s bike to move, the weeds to pull, and the sidewalk to sweep. On the way in, I pass by Lori as if she’s not there.
I’m like Raymond in episode 1 of “Italy”: a preoccupied, unappreciative brat.
Raymond was right about the Italians, at least the ones in his relatives’ village. “They know how to live.”
I believe the Italians call it “Il dolce far niente,” which translates to “the sweetness of doing nothing.” It describes someone who is lost in thought, staring into nothing, or appearing absent-mindedly absorbed in their reflection.
I like it, for that is when God seems to break into my agenda with his own, which may take me to the back porch to sit and stare at nothing in particular, or turn off the radio while driving and ponder a Scripture I read earlier that day, or gaze at the sunset.
Isaiah the prophet was speaking for God when he said, “In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength” (Isaiah 30:15).
Ahh yes, “Il dolce far niente.”
The sweetness of doing nothing.
Therein is my strength.