The day began gently, a morning of slanting light coming through the trees, of air warming to release the last few wisps of fog on the lake, of birds offering a chorus of praise as I walked quietly onto the screened porch, my journal and coffee cup in hand. I closed my eyes in preparation for prayer and meditation, appreciating the stillness, slowing my breath, sinking lower into the silence when I noticed beneath the calm a bit of regret, creeping in on tiptoe, lodging itself in some crevasse in my brain, causing a less than holy sigh to escape between rhythmic in and out breathing.

Vacation was winding down and I had not been as faithful or attentive to this practice as I had hoped I would be. “In the moment,” I breathed, “In the moment. There is still time. There is still time.”

That time, as ephemeral as slanting light, as delicate as the foggy wisps, as fleeting as birdsong, was rudely disrupted by the cacophony of children – children who shrieked and splashed and shrieked and splashed in their own rambunctious morning practice, jumping off the dock down from ours, egging each other on, heedless and unrestrained, piercing my carefully constructed cocoon. Angrily, I looked at the clock: 5:45 a.m.!

“What sort of parents allow their children to make such a racket at this time of the day?! Do they think they are the only ones on the lake?!” I asked myself, full of indignation and brimming with righteousness. I huffed and puffed and tried to re-enter my meditation, hoping I could regain my serenity and salvage the time, the precious, running out time.

Then their dog started barking.

Furious, I slammed down the journal, slopping coffee, and hurried into my room, stomping my feet, nearly tripping over the lamp cord, kicking at dust bunnies stirred up by my movement. I was compelled to do something, but what, I wondered, when I saw my bathing suit hanging benignly on the hook. I grabbed it and hastily put it on, muttering to myself, fuming, wondering what I would do, finding myself down the stairs and out on the dock.

Observing that noisy lot, a host of things to say rose up within. Intent on delivering that overwrought piece of my mind to them, I lowered myself into the water, surprisingly warm at that hour, inviting and soft, parting for my fevered self as I began to swim.

As I slipped into the rhythm of breath and stroke I started to calm down, my distress dissipating around me, trailing behind me, flowing out in the wake my kicking legs left behind. As distress faded, honesty arrived, telling me that my anger was not at the noisy kids disturbing my precious prayer time. It was directed at me. I was angry at myself for not being as attentive to my spiritual practice as I had hoped I would be. I was angry that time, over which I had no control, was running out.

But it was not. There was an abundance of time and a number of ways to pray.

In Ephesians, Paul tells us to walk circumspectly, not as fools but as the wise, redeeming the time. In that moment, I was invited to redeem the time not by walking but by swimming. Thus, I was moved to gratitude for that chance, for the gift of the water, and for my ability to swim in it. Each breath and stroke became its own prayer and meditation, and my morning swim became a doxology, flowing freely, brimming with gratitude, encircling everything around me, including the offending children and their dog.

Sometimes even our best intentions at spiritual practice become more about us than about God. That morning the grace of a generous God got me off the porch. The walk down the dock became the walk of the wise and, with a nudge from the Spirit into the water, I could let go of my most unwise frustration and redeem the time.

The Rev. Janet Dorman is the pastor of the Foreside Community Church, UCC, in Falmouth. She can be reached at:

jdorman@foresidechurch.org.

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