I like this line early in the Gospel of Luke, the one about Mary pondering things. In rapid narrative, we read of a census, Joseph and Mary heading back home for the census, Mary giving birth to a boy, an angel telling shepherds to check out the baby, and then the line: “But Mary treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.” I’m struck by two things in this one line: the vague “all these things” and the act of pondering—as if “all these things” is what led to the pondering. If so, an uncommon reaction to the chaos of life and one I wish I did better.
I write at 8:56 pm on December 24th, a magical time for kids who celebrate Christmas for in a few brief hours the presents come. My wife is moving through the kitchen making hot tea; my mom is behind me wrapping presents. My kids are upstairs tucked in bed, visions of sugar plums and all that. I’m at my laptop with a glass of red wine, wine that should have been tossed out this morning because it is three days old at this point, but, at this point, after days of shopping and wrapping and cooking, well, wine is wine. These are some of my immediate “all these things.”
Zoom out and my “all these things” weigh a little more heavily on my shoulders than presents and cooking the coming chaos of Christmas. The “all these things” concern my family of 5 and the wounds we receive as we move through this world.
My wife and I wondering how to adapt to my parents’ sudden divorce after 45 years. How do we talk to the kids about it? What does our extended family look like now that my dad has quite his marriage? Do the kids still hang with grandpa? Sure! When?
My 10-year-old son finding his place when he is not interested in the common masculine kid narratives, the football, the basketball, the wrestling, the mud and bikes and trucks. More interested in signing Christmas carols to himself and choreographing dance moves instead of watching YouTube clips of Luka Dončić and scrolling the internet for the new Jordans.
My daughter, in kindergarten, dealing with a bully and coming home in tears.
My three-year-old. He’s good. But needs to figure out potty training.
These are my “all the things,” the ones whirling around my world that take up my headspace throughout the day.
And I immediately want to act on all them. Solve the problems. Yell at my parents, especially my dad, for blowing up a marriage when they are so close to the finish line of life; yell at the athletic football player kids at my son’s school that exclude him because he is not out there on the field working toward head trauma later in life; yell at the parents of the bully.
I’m not good at pondering. At seeing “all these things” and spending time in reflection / meditation / pray – just pondering.
I just finished reading Seeber and Berg’s book The Slow Professor. As the title suggests, the authors argue against the frantic pace of higher ed and make a call for, well, more pondering. They wonder how wonderful it would be if a professor would write “read a lot of books” on their required annual review.
But higher ed, and life, comes with the check-list mentality. We are machines rapidly churning out production.
I want to ponder like Mary. Higher ed borrows from the Bible with the idea of sabbaticals. The idea of a professor retreating into thought for an extended period of time. Like Jesus who fled into the wilderness for 40 days; Paul who disappeared into Arabia; and even Jesus, again, who, when questioned by the authorities, bent down and drew in the sand just to reflect on what to do next. (Tom Deans’ has a wonderful CCC article on Jesus writing in the sand).
I need to ponder more. To slow down, to treasure all these things, and to think—not act.
But, I gotta act now. These presents got to get under the tree somehow.
Santa needs my help.
J. Michael Rifenburg 