ONE HOUR THAT CAN CHANGE YOUR LIFE
Condensed from CATHOLIC DIGEST,
Barbara Bartocci
It was my birthday, that morning in February 1978, and I felt harried as I
grabbed my briefcase and headed for a business breakfast. Life had been a
good to me overall. My small advertising agency was thriving. Husband and
children were well. Yet something seemed to be missing – something that
didn't even a have a name. I felt it only as a small emptiness inside.
At the restaurant I joined Don Campbell, a tall, lantern-jawed man of
60-odd years. He was a successful marketing consultant with an unusual
empathy for people. I was always struck by his calm, peaceful manner.
Over poached eggs we discussed an advertising project and then, business
behind us, I mentioned my birthday and confessed to my nagging feeling of
emptiness.
"Want to fill it?" Don asked.
"Sure."
"Start your day with an hour of prayer."
"I don't have time for that!" I gasped.
"Exactly what I said twenty years ago. I was president of a Chicago ad
agency and running every which way just to keep up. I couldn't find time
for it. I had the sinking feeling that my life was getting out of control.
Then a friend told me I was going about things backward.
“‘You’re trying to fit God into your life,' he said.’Five minutes here,
ten minutes there. You need to fit your life around God, and you do that
with a commitment. An hour a day – now that's commitment.' The idea is to
take a chunk of time big enough to mean something to you – and then, give
that chunk to God."
Don's eyes twinkled. "I thought my friend was off his rocker. To find an
extra hour for God, I'd have to get up an hour earlier. I'd lose sleep and
ruin my health." The twinkle turned into a grin. "But I haven't been sick
in twenty years."
Twenty years!
I left the restaurant in turmoil. An hour of prayer? Preposterous! Yet I
couldn't get Don's idea out of my mind.
Saying nothing to our three teenagers or to my husband, Bill, I set my
alarm for 5 a.m. We live in the Midwest and oh, it's cold and dark at 5
a.m. in February. I wanted to curl back under the blanket, but I forced
myself to get up.
The house wrapped around me, dark and gloomy. I tiptoed to the living room,
ignoring Burt, our Labrador retriever, and settled on the couch. It was
peculiar being alone with God. No church rituals. Just me. And God. For an
hour.
I glanced at my watch and cleared my throat. " Well, God, here I am. Now
what?"
I would like to report that God replied immediately, but there was only
quiet. As I watched the first tinges of sunrise I tried to pray, but
thought instead of my son Andy and the fight we'd had the day before. I
thought about a client whose business had hit a rough spot. I thought of
inconsequential things.
Yet gradually my erratic thoughts slowed. My breathing slowed, too, until I
sensed a stillness within me. I grew aware of small sounds – the
refrigerator hum, Burt's tail slapping the floor, a frozen branch brushing
a window. Then I felt the warm presence of love. I know no other way to
describe it. The air, the very place in which I sat, seemed to change, as
the ambiance of a house will change when someone you love is home.
I had been sitting for 50 minutes, but only then did I really begin to
pray. And I discovered I wasn't praying with my usual hurried words or my
list of "gimmes."
All my life I'd been told God loves me. On that cold February morning I
felt his love, and the immensity of it was so overwhelming that I sat in
quiet thanksgiving for nearly 15 minutes. Then Andy's alarm went off and
Burt gave a small woof. The ordinary day had begun. But all through the
rest of that day, I felt warmed by the memory of that love.
The next day morning the house seemed even darker and colder than before.
But, shivering, I did get up. One more day, I thought.
And the next day, One more day.
Day by sing day, six year passed.
There have been plenty of crises in those years: difficulty with one of our
teenagers, marital turbulence, a big financial loss. Through every crisis,
I have found a quietness of soul in that hour with God. It gives me time to
put things in perspective, to find God in every circumstance. Once I find
him, there seems to be no problem that cannot be resolved.
Some mornings, I am quickly filled with the wonder and glory of God. But
other mornings, I feel nothing. That's when I remember something else Don
Campbell said: "There will be times when your mind just won't go into God's
sanctuary. That's when you spend your hour in God's waiting room. Still,
you're there, and God appreciates your struggle to stay there. What's
important is the commitment."
Because of it, my life is better. Starting my day with an hour of prayer
has filled the empty space – to overflowing.
(Readers' Digest – September,1988)
When you meditate as above it means you are listening to God because
When you are praying it means you are talking to God
Condensed from CATHOLIC DIGEST,
Barbara Bartocci
It was my birthday, that morning in February 1978, and I felt harried as I
grabbed my briefcase and headed for a business breakfast. Life had been a
good to me overall. My small advertising agency was thriving. Husband and
children were well. Yet something seemed to be missing – something that
didn't even a have a name. I felt it only as a small emptiness inside.
At the restaurant I joined Don Campbell, a tall, lantern-jawed man of
60-odd years. He was a successful marketing consultant with an unusual
empathy for people. I was always struck by his calm, peaceful manner.
Over poached eggs we discussed an advertising project and then, business
behind us, I mentioned my birthday and confessed to my nagging feeling of
emptiness.
"Want to fill it?" Don asked.
"Sure."
"Start your day with an hour of prayer."
"I don't have time for that!" I gasped.
"Exactly what I said twenty years ago. I was president of a Chicago ad
agency and running every which way just to keep up. I couldn't find time
for it. I had the sinking feeling that my life was getting out of control.
Then a friend told me I was going about things backward.
“‘You’re trying to fit God into your life,' he said.’Five minutes here,
ten minutes there. You need to fit your life around God, and you do that
with a commitment. An hour a day – now that's commitment.' The idea is to
take a chunk of time big enough to mean something to you – and then, give
that chunk to God."
Don's eyes twinkled. "I thought my friend was off his rocker. To find an
extra hour for God, I'd have to get up an hour earlier. I'd lose sleep and
ruin my health." The twinkle turned into a grin. "But I haven't been sick
in twenty years."
Twenty years!
I left the restaurant in turmoil. An hour of prayer? Preposterous! Yet I
couldn't get Don's idea out of my mind.
Saying nothing to our three teenagers or to my husband, Bill, I set my
alarm for 5 a.m. We live in the Midwest and oh, it's cold and dark at 5
a.m. in February. I wanted to curl back under the blanket, but I forced
myself to get up.
The house wrapped around me, dark and gloomy. I tiptoed to the living room,
ignoring Burt, our Labrador retriever, and settled on the couch. It was
peculiar being alone with God. No church rituals. Just me. And God. For an
hour.
I glanced at my watch and cleared my throat. " Well, God, here I am. Now
what?"
I would like to report that God replied immediately, but there was only
quiet. As I watched the first tinges of sunrise I tried to pray, but
thought instead of my son Andy and the fight we'd had the day before. I
thought about a client whose business had hit a rough spot. I thought of
inconsequential things.
Yet gradually my erratic thoughts slowed. My breathing slowed, too, until I
sensed a stillness within me. I grew aware of small sounds – the
refrigerator hum, Burt's tail slapping the floor, a frozen branch brushing
a window. Then I felt the warm presence of love. I know no other way to
describe it. The air, the very place in which I sat, seemed to change, as
the ambiance of a house will change when someone you love is home.
I had been sitting for 50 minutes, but only then did I really begin to
pray. And I discovered I wasn't praying with my usual hurried words or my
list of "gimmes."
All my life I'd been told God loves me. On that cold February morning I
felt his love, and the immensity of it was so overwhelming that I sat in
quiet thanksgiving for nearly 15 minutes. Then Andy's alarm went off and
Burt gave a small woof. The ordinary day had begun. But all through the
rest of that day, I felt warmed by the memory of that love.
The next day morning the house seemed even darker and colder than before.
But, shivering, I did get up. One more day, I thought.
And the next day, One more day.
Day by sing day, six year passed.
There have been plenty of crises in those years: difficulty with one of our
teenagers, marital turbulence, a big financial loss. Through every crisis,
I have found a quietness of soul in that hour with God. It gives me time to
put things in perspective, to find God in every circumstance. Once I find
him, there seems to be no problem that cannot be resolved.
Some mornings, I am quickly filled with the wonder and glory of God. But
other mornings, I feel nothing. That's when I remember something else Don
Campbell said: "There will be times when your mind just won't go into God's
sanctuary. That's when you spend your hour in God's waiting room. Still,
you're there, and God appreciates your struggle to stay there. What's
important is the commitment."
Because of it, my life is better. Starting my day with an hour of prayer
has filled the empty space – to overflowing.
(Readers' Digest – September,1988)
When you meditate as above it means you are listening to God because
When you are praying it means you are talking to God
NDE
YOU Never Die you pass over
YOU Never Die you pass over
|
|
|