A Song for Blunders

Poet Malcolm Guite has captured a fairly decent synopsis of what could be titled "Instructions for Life."

Be but your own good friend

And be good to the other

Cherish those sisters and brothers

Along the road

And to the earth extend

Every reverence and wonder

Tend to the wounds of your blunders

And honour God who formed our home.

I can hear it as a melody even as I write these words, because I was introduced to the poem through the ministry of Canadian music artist Steve Bell in his piece called Good Friend

Every phrase of this chorus is packed for me, and I'm tempted to unpack it bit by bit.  But that would end up reading more like a sermon, and I do that enough of the time already.

I'm reflecting in a particular way this morning on the one thought almost at the end.  

Tend to the wounds of your blunders.

I'm drawn to it because in the midst of all the other positive admonitions that we all would cheerfully embrace, there's this gentle but pointed reminder that we blunder.... and we wound.

If I'm honest, I'd like to pretend that I am only ever on the being wounded end of things.  And for sure, life, and let's be real, especially ministry, has it's generous share of dings.  Some things can be shrugged off, worked out, easily forgiven and moved on from.  Other wounds go deep.  Some scars are permanent.  Triggers are sensitive and terrible.

I know my own wounds well.  I could recite then far too easily.  The reminder here that comes to me this morning though, is that I've wounded.  I've blundered.  Both my ego and my heart wish it wasn't so, but it is.  And there it is. The log in my own eye thing.  Some of my blunders I am all too aware of.  Others I may know nothing about.  Such is the nature of bumping into one another in various iterations of relationship throughout a lifetime.  Doing life in community, which I fully believe in and also enjoy many benefits of, is confoundingly complex.

So how do I tend to these wounds?  It's a trickier business than it sounds, and requires a slow, careful approach.  No quick apologies.  No intruding upon past lives where more harm can only be the result of a self-centered approach to clearing my own conscience.  No expectation of forgiveness easily, or ever, offered.

But when it is available to me, the opportunity to tend to those wounds, I can't help but hope I would provide what I myself would very much need from someone who has wounded me.  Humility.  Deep listening.  Seeking to understand before being understood.  Validating without excuse.  Offering perspective and additional information where needed.  Making amends when possible and when it causes no further harm.  And ultimately, a change of attitude, approach and behaviour to limit the potential of further wounding.  

Going back to the poem, I suppose if we all paid attention to the other things listed -- being a good friend, cherishing, extending reverence, and honouring God -- we'd have less wounding going on in the first place.

But the truth is in the humanity of it.  We mess up.  We do.

So the joyful lilt of this poem-set-to-music is still cheering.  And inspiring.  A good way to start off this fourth week of Lent reflections, as squirmy it has been to reflect upon.  I'll likely sing the song now for most of the day.  To remind me.  To sober me.  To keep me moving forward in the ways of growing.

I trust the time change hasn't messed with your resting this weekend, and you are headed into your Monday with purpose and joy.  

Enjoy the warmer temperatures while they last.