The day after Easter is a sweet spot. People from the pastoral staff take potted flowers to those in the congregation who have lost someone in the past year. It involves having a moment to listen to a story about the person who is gone, or to simply sit with them while placing a thing of beauty in arm's reach. 

One of the people John and I spent time with taught me. Not because he was preparing me for a test, but rather in describing how he accepts life on life's terms. He is someone who dwells in nature, and finds wonder in her many moods. 

"I love rain!" he has told me.

"I love wind!"

"I love the sunrise," his voice buoyant with the last dawn he witnessed. 

Spending time outside every day invites a kind of vulnerability. He is not busy trying to outthink, or outdo the elements, but instead accepts them. This mindset, or should I say mindunset seeps into his capacity to be present with people who might think differently. There is no agenda to convince them, nor to defend himself. He works three jobs and finds joy in each of them, convinced that there is something worth finding in any situation. If a presentation you are listening to does not engage you, consider the faces around you, or the music. Each moment offers many gifts, and opening them all leaves less time for grumbling. 

It was my good luck to spend time with him, he whose earthly possessions are few. But there is no shortage of gratitude.