First Sentences
Beth Lefever, Student Minister
Unitarian Universalist Church of Muncie
September 6, 2009
In a time of change, he remained steadfastly resolute; in a time of resolve, he lived in flux.
It was a fiction which formed her; fantasy saved her life.
A gracious woman by all accounts, her tantrum surprised none more than her.
I was listening to NPR one morning as I was preparing to leave the house. Preoccupied, I actually was only half listening when I suddenly tuned into something that caught my attention. They were discussing first sentences, sentences that people (and I'm not sure if those participating in the discussion were authors or just what they were) – sentences they had come up with that might make intriguing sentences with which to start a book.
I did not have time to listen to much of the program, but I got the gist of what they were doing, and, as someone who loves to write, have toyed with the idea off and on since then…
As it turns out, she slept through the longest night of her life.
A locksmith, shredding documents was not a routine part of his day.
She always thought she would be a grown-up at a much younger age.
First sentences. What a wonderful idea, what a fun exercise. What a great philosophy! In life, we are, to a very great extent, the author of our own stories. Circumstances notwithstanding, most of us, at least in this culture, live our lives out of a relatively broad base of personal choices.
Now certainly some have more choices than others. Certainly some have more resources, more options, more wherewithal than others, by which they may choose from a wider selection of possibilities. But for most of us, options do exist. And as author of our own stories, every day affords the opportunity to write a new first sentence, to unfold a new chapter in our lives, to turn the page. As writer Nancy Thayer says, "It is never too late – in fiction or in life – to revise."
That is surely the hand of grace at work, that ever present opportunity to grow, to change, to begin again.
The first sentences of my life have changed significantly over the last few years. A few years back one of mine might have been: She never expected to be, book bag strapped to her back, starting school at age 47. Another might have been: As a child, she'd been taught that only men should be ministers. Or: She was so painfully shy that at social gatherings people would ask her if she were ill.
Now some of mine might be: She was awfully outgoing for an introvert. Or: Life was growing shorter by the moment; she had no time for mistakes. Or: Who could have known the adventure midlife would bring!
Here's a personal anecdote about one new sentence I had to write. I actually did write this as a commentary for our local public radio station in Elkhart, and I'll present it to you, in part, just as I wrote it:
Math Phobia
I must have been good at math in the beginning. I remember no particular terror in grade school; merely profound distaste. And in the 7th grade I was placed in an accelerated math class, proof, I suppose, of my earlier competence. That's when the terror began.
It was there that I was first given those curious little mind-twister story problems to unravel. You know the ones…
"Three men took a boat across a stream to gather mangos. Two of the men had mothers. The third weighed 217 pounds. If the stream was 37 inches deep in the middle, and 15.02 inches at either edge, how many children would the three men have between them in their lifetimes?"
I was lost. And whereas my erstwhile classmates took to the task with relish, pencils flying and erasers rubbing holes through their papers, I alone pondered the greater questions, such as: Who were these men? How did they come to be in the boat? And what did they want with mangos? Sociology was obviously my bent, and a sociologist I would become! Who needed math?! But alas, my distress would continue.
When, midyear, I was finally transferred out of the advanced class into general math, I'd missed out on half a year of general math instruction and was mathematically unredeemable. I whimpered. I wailed. I whined. I lamented and bemoaned. I did manage the two more years of math required for a high school diploma, passing 9th grade algebra with a D (as in debacle). But I'd given up all hope of an advanced education and a distinguished career in sociology in exchange for the promise of a math free future.
But then – and here's where the anecdote changes – but then I decided I wanted to be a minister. I wanted to go to college. College wanted me to do math. I had to write a new first sentence. It was unsavory; I was reluctant. But the writing of it was crucial to the continuing narrative of my life.
I asked my husband what first sentence he would use in writing about his life, and as he thought about it, supplied him a suggestion of my own: He never dreamed he'd marry such a stunner, and brilliant as well! To which he added: And with such a funny sense of humor! A few minutes later he came up with this one: He thought he'd have a picket fence much sooner in life.
My husband and I were both late bloomers. Very late. Both of us. Evan not only did not have a picket fence, for most of his adult life he did not have a home of his own, or a job of financial significance. A hippie, in fact for some years and in philosophy for many years more, he gave real substance to the phrase, "Will work for food."
He did work. From all that I can determine, he has always worked very hard. But money and material possessions were not so very important to him, and he was pretty casual about how he was paid. On many levels I admire that about him, but when we married fourteen years ago, I quickly determined that perhaps another approach might be more useful to us as a couple.
While I lived a more conventional lifestyle in my earlier years, and as (at that time) my father's Republican daughter, I was definitely not into the hippie philosophy. But I still took a long time sorting through who I was and what it was I wanted my life to be about. It was not that I didn't try to figure such things out. It's more that I had to overcome a lot in order to find my way. I had to find courage before I could press ahead. Fear kept my sentences incomplete, or perhaps formatted more as questions than statements.
What does get in the way of the writing of our own stories? In addition to fear, what stops us from the penning of our own narratives? Poverty? Exhaustion? Complacency? Perceived cultural expectations? Lack of time, support, or the space in which to consider the tenor and timbre of our lives?
Such things can indeed impede our progress in such matters. Having the time and a place to reflect are especially helpful to the process of planning and living our lives deliberately.
Joseph Campbell wrote: "This is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room, or a certain hour or so a day, where you don't know what was in the newspapers that morning, you don't know who your friends are, you don't know what you owe anybody, you don't know what anybody owes to you. This is a place of creative incubation. At first you may find nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen."
Carving out such time and space can make all the difference in the intentionality with which we live our lives. But doing so can be hard. We are all busy and involved, with demands on our time, our energy, our persons. Such self-reflection may even seem selfish and self-indulgent. But as Dag Hammarskjold said, "The more faithfully you listen to the voice within you, the better you will hear what is sounding outside."
It is often in self-reflection that we clarify our values, establish our goals, refine our character. It often is in self-reflection that we center ourselves in who we are and what we believe, and by so doing, are then more able to meet the obligations of our lives with conscience and power and strength. It is in self-reflection that we shed the skin of old thoughts, beliefs and ways of being that no longer fit who we have come to be, or who we are becoming. It is how we go about evaluating and discerning what gives our lives meaning.
Author Stephanie Marston tells of a famous Indian story about an argument between the gods over where to hide the secret of life.
"Bury it under a mountain," one god suggested. "They'll never find it there."
"No," another countered. "One day they will find a way to dig up the mountain and uncover the secret of life."
"Put it in the depths of the ocean," another god suggested. "It will be safe there."
"No," said the others. "Some day humankind will find a way to travel to the depths of the ocean, and they will find it."
The gods pondered the problem for some time until finally: "Put it inside them," another god said. "Men and women will never think of looking for it there."
All the gods agreed, and so it is said that the gods hid the secret of life within us.
To clear a space in our lives to ponder the secret of life, to reflect on the world and our place in it, enriches us, and thus, all those with whom we share our lives. It is, if I may suggest, a spiritual practice well in keeping with, in particular, the fourth principle of Unitarian Universalism, a free and responsible search for truth and meaning.
As Unitarian Universalists, we do not subscribe to any one creed or doctrine or belief structure, and thus we hold dear the principle that finding truth and meaning in life is an individual responsibility. Our churches and fellowships try hard to provide a broad base of ideas, information and thoughts from many other sources and religious traditions to help nourish the individual search. And, as Unitarian Universalists, we read, and we talk, and we talk, and we read, and we study. And then we talk some more.
I imagine you've all heard the joke about Unitarian Universalists, given the choice, upon death, of either going to heaven or going to a discussion group about heaven…? And what do they choose? If they are true UU's, to a person, they choose the latter. We know that, don't we?
We do love to read and we do love to talk. But what we may not do so much, is to be silent, to go within ourselves and be still, to see what may be there, or what may come.
Emerson said, "Go cherish your soul; expel companions; set your habits to a life of solitude; then will the faculties rise fair and full within." Self reflection is necessary in order to direct the unfolding of our lives, to narrate our own biographies. It is necessary to beginning again, to writing new first sentences. So, too, is courage necessary to the process.
Think about the new sentences you might have written about your own lives. Think about those times you began again, or chose to turn left instead of right, chose to speak up rather than remain quiet. These may be very small things:
She sensed the grouchy clerk was sad, and so she risked a smile.
The book he'd ordered had not come in, so he bought one on woodworking instead.
She'd always thought she couldn't dance, but couldn't resist when he asked.
Or they could be bigger things:
As scary as it was, standing up to her husband made all the difference.
The move out west, by all accounts, was a life-changing choice.
The commitment unnerved him, but he made it anyway.
I was afraid to marry Evan. I'd been married before and didn't intend to marry again. It was even more frightening for Evan. He had not been married before. It felt like a major risk for each of us.
The first time I stood in the pulpit at UU Elkhart was scary, as I was starting school at age 47, and later, beginning seminary. Coming here to Muncie a few weeks ago to begin my Internship was frightening, even though I knew you to be warm and gracious and non-threatening. All of these things occurred within this last decade, and all of them have made all the difference in the unfolding of my life, in forming the person I am and am becoming, in shaping my own evolution. And each of them began with a first sentence, sometimes even just a first word.
Other choices I have made throughout my life have not always been as positive. But none have been as harmful as making no choice, not deciding, not picking up that pen and scratching out another new sentence.
Writer Alan Watts said, "When you try to stay on the surface of the water, you sink; when you try to sink, you float. When you hold your breath, you lose it." I lost a lot of air before I quit holding my breath and began breathing freely. I lost a lot of time seeking courage. But (and I know I am quoting a lot of writers this morning) as Anais Nin writes, "The day came when the risk to remain in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom." For me, the day came when standing still was harder than stepping out, when being quiet was harder than claiming my voice, when not writing was harder than writing.
It does not matter what has gone before, it matters what is to come. Beginnings, like change, are uniquely the property of human beings, a gift of grace and being. You may choose a major life change about which to write your first sentence, or just a slight adjustment in attitude. You may decide to change jobs, begin a relationship or relocate, or you may simply become intentional about laughing more, judging less, reaching out just a bit more often. You may choose to speak up, hold your tongue, take the leap or bide your time.
The wonderful thing about first sentences is they are absolutely limitless. In them, all things are possible – maybe not likely, maybe not practical, maybe not certain, but definitely possible. It matters not a whit if you've never begun before, you may begin now. It is primarily an act of will (over skill). You may not begin winning Olympic metals, but you may begin to walk or run. You may not begin performing opera, but you can begin to sing. You may not win the Pulitzer Prize, but you can author your own story. It is only for you to decide.
Morgan Farley's poem entitled "The Clearing" speaks eloquently about the process of giving birth to ourselves, of picking up that pen and beginning again our own narratives:
I am clearing a space—here, where the trees stand back.
I am making a circle so open the moon will fall in love and stroke these grasses with her silver.
I am setting stones in the four directions, stones that have called my name from mountaintops and riverbeds, canyons and mesas.
Here I will stand with my hands empty, mind gaping under the moon.
I know there is another way to live. When I find it, the angels will cry out in rapture; each cell of my body will be a rose, a star.
If something seized my life tonight, if a sudden wind swept through me, changing everything, I would not resist. I am ready for whatever comes.
But I think it will be something small, an animal padding out from the shadows, or a word spoken so softly I hear it inside.
It is dark out here, and silent. The moon is stone. I am alone with my longing.
Nothing is happening but the next breath, and the next...
