If we aren’t intentional about tending to our souls, we run the risk of being subjected to a pace of life that distracts us and a depth that doesn’t feel satisfying.
As I stood by the river with my girlfriend this past weekend, watching chunks of ice drift past, I was struck by their quiet journey. It seemed like each chunk had a story to tell. A few were pristine, others were moss-streaked, and many carried smaller pieces of snow and ice, all drifting along in the same steady current.
The geese squawked in protest on the other side, as if complaining about the cold as they landed on the water, but the river didn’t stop. It simply moved forward, carrying everything with it. I found it to be a quiet reminder that even in the ordinary, there is something worth seeing. But I also concluded something else.
The pace of my life feels too fast sometimes. So I have to step out of the flow and carve out time for the deeper life. Sometimes, that involves rivers. Other times, it involves camping out in liturgy books (the latest one I’m really enjoying is Be Thou My Vision by Jonathan Gibson). And still other times, it’s road trips, baseball games or concerts.
I yearn for any such activity that disrupts the rhythm of the hamster wheel and leads to contemplation, because without it, life feels like a hurry trap, constantly pulling me forward without room to breathe.
Contemplation doesn’t just happen, though. And I can’t say that scheduling it helps me, either. It’s more about recognizing I need it, and then putting other activities aside – sometimes even good activities.
Yet, I’ve found that it’s not enough to simply acknowledge my need for contemplation. It requires intentionality and the willingness to step away from the noise. That’s when I begin to see what Jesus meant when He pointed to the natural world as a reminder of God’s provision.
When Jesus taught his disciples about anxiousness in Matthew 6 (ESV), he used normal outdoor activities as his starting point: “Look at the birds of the air,” and “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.” If God takes care of the birds and the lilies, which are only here for a short season, how much more will he take care of us?
This is the thing I’m reminded of when I make time for the deeper life. Intellectually, I know he cares for me, even when my schedule is crazy busy. But experientially, I feel it when I pull away and make time for contemplation.
The cares of this world will always be there when we return from the river, the book of liturgy, the road trip, baseball games or concerts. And we have to tend to those cares. But we also need to tend to our souls. If we aren’t intentional about doing so, we run the risk of being subjected to a pace that distracts us and a depth that doesn’t feel satisfying.
