Practice being present to the barren fig tree

National Catholic Reporter, March 24, 1995 by Mary Lou Kownacki

"Sometimes our light goes out, but it is blown again into flame by an encounter with another human being. Each of us owes the deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light," wrote Albert Schweitzer.

The profundity of the quote makes one leap automatically to an encounter with a great soul. And certainly in my lifetime, brushing shoulders with a Dan Berrigan, a Joan Chittister, a Cesar Chavez, a Dorothy Day has had this effect.

But would you believe a light being rekindled by a 6-year-old boy? He came into my life as unexpectedly as Isaac to Sarah or John to Elizabeth. Except that a police siren, not an angel, announced the coming of abused and damaged Scott.

He came into my home with his mother and two brothers, fleeing a violent man and in need of safety. He lived with us for a while and then we found the family a home in our inner-city neighborhood. He came at a time when I was so absorbed in self-pity and despair that self-centeredness could have easily engulfed and paralyzed me.

He certainly didn't look like a gift from the gods: prone to raging temper tantrums; very slow in school, diagnosed as suffering from attention deficit disorder. As if that explains a little boy who crawls behind furniture and shouts, "I hate myself. I want to kill myself."

How I loved this boy. How I wanted to be a "big sister" to him. (Well, it's closer to being a big grandmother.) He was a challenge as well as a spark of meaning in a dark period. It looked like I was reaching out with a magnanimous heart, but he was really holding me up, giving me purpose and a reason to greet the morning sun.

And slowly, slowly Scott is leading me on the journey from self-centeredness to presence, to true affection, attentiveness, relationship. And there is no journey more important.

It's easy to do good works, to do charity but it's so difficult to be attentive, really present to another. At least it is for me. I may look like I'm there but I'm mentally impatient. Sometimes I'm with a person who is talking to me and I'm picking up the phone to call someone else or paging through my time-management organizer.

Sometimes I look like I'm listening to someone but in my head I'm planning the next issue of a magazine I edit. The person's concerns or needs don't seem that important compared to my timeline. How I lust after what Simone Weil calls the virtue of attentiveness. Why? Because I know it is the mark of sanctity.

To be fully present to another means you can set aside your own needs for awhile and enter compassionately into the needs of others. To be lovingly attentive to another means that you are transcending self and the need to be center of the universe.

Attentiveness to the other -- that's what Scott is teaching me. When I curl up on the couch to watch "Jeopardy" or Due South" and he calls -- "Can I come over for homework help?" -- I practice attentiveness. When my calendar says I should go to the office on Saturday morning and finish a proposal, but Scott wants to go fishing -- I practice being present. And I can't fake it with him. I am more fully present to his simple questions and corny jokes than to trying to get a new idea for a poem.

There are rewards, of course. After four years of tantrums, of trips to psychologists, allergists, social workers, after four years of my crawling after him behind sofas and under tables to talk and talk and repeat over and over, "I love you, Scooter. I care about you." After four years of hug upon rejected hug, he came into my study one afternoon and handed me a homemade valentine on which he scrawled, "I like your help and love for me." Now isn't that worth a lifetime?

Not that I'm sure I'm doing right by Scott. When he goes into those black holes and becomes a raging, uncontrollable stranger, I fear that Scott is beyond my capability.

But then I remember the gospel of the barren fig tree. Most of the time Scott is like that tree with no fruit, no intoxicating spring blossoms or luscious figs, a tree that everyone wants to give up on. But the gardener refuses the temptation to quit, the gardener says to give it another year. The gardener knows something about presence and attentiveness and new life. The parable of the barren fig Not that I'm sure I'm doing right by Scott. When he goes. into those black holes and becomes a raging, uncontrollable stranger, I fear that Scott is beyond my capability.

But then I remember the gospel of the barren fig tree. Most of the time Scott is like that tree with no fruit, no intoxicating spring blossoms or luscious figs, a tree that everyone-wants to give up on. But the gardener refuses the temptation to quit, the gardener says to give it another year. The gardener knows something about presence and attentiveness and new life. The parable of the barren fig tree insists that I keep doing the little I can, being present to Scott with all the love I can muster. If and when and where the fig tree blossoms is God's business, not mine.

Anyway, whether Scott is changing is not the only question. The other question is: Am I changing? Do I know how to be fully present to another human being without any expectations on my part, any hoped-for rewards? Do I know how to be present to a barren fig tree just because it deserves my total presence? No other reason.