roses in the morning

My backyard smells like my grandmother's closet.  Roses heavy in the morning air.

A truly Oregon smell.  Summer heat and roses.

I am sitting in the hot tub.  Finishing a book I started reading last weekend.  Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz. 


For about six months, I intended to track down a copy.  But I just did not get around to it.  When I mentioned it to my house sitter, he told me he had a copy.  A Christmas gift from his sister.


He lent it to me, and I started reading it about a week ago.

Now I am at peace with the day.  With the roses.  And the book.  An hour ago, I was not.

But a little background may help.  Last night I was watching a movie with a friend.  The Machinist.  One of the thrillers that lets you use your mind more than your adrenalin glands.

The plot had been rolling along with some rather nasty scenes.  At one point, our protagonist enters a house of horrors ride that appears customized for his paranoia.  Just as his date's little boy goes into an epileptic fit as a result of the ride, my friend switched off the movie and wanted to talk about something that caught his attention in the film.

I just stared at him as he started talking.  In my mind, I was still working on the plot and what the epileptic fit had to do with a character who appeared to be slipping into madness.

When he got no reaction, he asked: "What's wrong?"

I would like to say I had a rational conversation about his point and we went back to watching the movie.

That did not happen.  Instead, I stood up, declared "I am out of here,"  and left.  In a silent huff. 


I would also like to say I went to bed and slept the sleep if the self-satisfied innocent.  I didn't because I was not innocent.  But I was not going to apologize first.  After all, my pride was at stake.

I got up this morning.  Grabbed some leftover pizza.  And took the Miller book to the hot tub.

The book is about his path to spirituality.  Christian spirituality.  In a real sense, he is a political, social, and spiritual traveler with Anne Lamott.  If you know her writing, you know a lot about Don Miller.

When I opened the book, the essay hit me between the eyes.  He had earlier made the point that self-absorption is what keeps most of us from having satisfactory relationships with one another.  And, as a result, with God.  I have known that for some time.

The part of the book I started reading was his memory of living alone until he was 30. His pastor suggested that he move into a house with several other single guys in Portland -- a small community of faith. He was reluctant to do it.


And he soon found out why. He was so self-absorbed that he could not deal with other people. As he put it: "The audacity to come into my room, my sound stage, and interrupt the obvious flow of the story with questions about how I am."

He then related a story of driving to Salem to listen to Brennan Manning speak. Manning is a former Catholic priest who struggled with alcoholism and speaks frankly -- very frankly -- about matters of Christian spirituality. He summarized Manning's sermon -- Jesus' encounter with Zacchaeus. How Jesus dined with him and showed him that love -- not recrimination -- would heal his life. How the great danger of a harsh word, the power of unlove can deteriorate a person's heart and spirit. That our communication should be seasoned with love and compassion.

His summary pierced my heart. Beth (of Minto Dog) and I were at that same lecture -- that same night. The night that Don Miller listened to Brennan Manning. I recall how convicted I felt. I had shown the same lack of compassion for my fellow man. Daily. I said I was going to stop doing it.

I haven't. Last night was a perfect example.

I could have done a number of things other than getting angry.  We could have talked.  I could have repressed my self-absorption to talk about what my friend wanted to talk about.  I could have been a friend.  The type of person Jesus was.  And wants us to be.

Reading Miller's tale was enough to get me out of the hot tub and on the computer.  I sent an email to my friend -- basically saying what I have said here.  Apologizing for being so self-absorbed -- and wishing I had said the same things last night.

The exchange went well.  Because we are willing to forgive each other's foibles.  And to try not judging one another.

It is tough.  But it is the currency of friendship.

Perhaps that is the reason I wrote those essays last week about the nature of relationships.  I was supposed to be a bit more sensitive toward others -- and not so self-absorbed.

I do know one thing.  I feel at peace having had the apology conversation.  And maybe I will do better next time.  When it matters.

For now.  I sit.  I read. 

But I have stopped to smell the roses.