At my best I recognize that the experience of the moment has a long history behind it, that it is one of many, one of many many many.
A reflection by Danny Schweers for August 16, 2026.
For example, it is the rare sightings that impress on me most that a particular animal is more than what I see, that this one creature has a long history, that this possum or box turtle seen in my yard once every twenty years represents generations going back perhaps millions of years in an unbroken line, a species that has faced every challenge and survived against all odds.
When I am at my best, I recognize that history. The experience, the recognition, is one of privilege, to see not the one but the many. I feel honored to bear witness to another generation with forebears going back and back and back. Whatever growing thing I see — the Jerusalem Artichoke suddenly in profusion or a single mimosa tree that seems to have sprung up from nowhere — I recognize that it is not one sudden manifestation but one of many in a long line, unusual in the moment but steady and solid through the ages.
The BIC pen I am writing this with, for example, is one of many. It is a common thing, sixty for $6.99, but it deserves my respect, not only because it is well engineered and reliable but also because it represents the current manifestation of a tool going back many generations. You can still find school desks with holes for inkwells. The inkwells are hard to find, the quill pens harder still. Pen knives may be common but you would have to look hard to find someone who uses one to repair the nib of their quill. Going back further, much further, ancient Greeks used a reed pen; the Mesopotamians, a reed stylus that they pressed into clay, not that different in shape from the simple utilitarian barrel of my BIC.
The time period need not be thousands or millions of years. I experience the same sense of respect for people half my age who seem, at first glance, to be severely inadequate to meet life’s challenges. When I am at my best, it only takes a moment’s thought to marvel that they have made it this far. At my best, I feel honored to be in the presence of someone who, on the surface, seems to be making one mistake after another, who seems to have no talent or ability to learn from experience and yet — and yet — somehow they have managed to live month after month, year after year, unseen by me and yet here they are, worthy of my respect however hopeless they may appear. How did they make it here? How will they make it in the years to come? Has this been going on for generations? It is a marvel too deep for me to comprehend.
I experienced this sense of privileged recognition, of being honored, in church a few weeks ago. A house fly landed on my knee during communion. Instead of brushing it away, I watched it as it sat there cleaning its front feet by rubbing them together. At the same time, up by the altar, the priest was rubbing her hands together in ritual cleansing. Here were two instances of many, many other instances of creatures cleaning themselves, the priest’s going back thousands of years; the fly’s, millions. I suspect that creatures have wanted, needed to be clean for as long as there have been creatures, even this fly, a symbol of filth, decay, and contagion.
That desire to be clean, common to all animals, perhaps of all nature, is at the heart of Christianity. We want to cleanse ourselves of sin, of the filth, decay, and contagion that sticks to us in spite of all the soap and water we may use on our hands. We want to be good and to be recognized as good. Primitive societies recognized that sacrifice was needed — of grain, of animals, even of humans. The Old Testament tells us to make a different sacrifice, a contrite heart. The New Testament says something similar, to let God’s Spirit into our hearts. I marvel at every one who turns away from what is bad and turns to the good. That person is one of many, going back beyond my understanding, a turning around, repentance, as common as rubbing our hands together, as old as souls.
______________________
Photo of a box turtle found in the author’s yard. Reflection 2026-12. Photo copyright 2009; text, 2026 by Danny Nelson Schweers.
Danny chairs SsAM’s Communication Committee. He is an active photographer and writer. Click here to visit Danny’s website and make a comment.
