The Hand-Off

There is a precise moment in a relay race where everything hangs in the balance. It isn’t the gun that starts the runners, and it isn’t the tape at the finish. It is the exchange zone — that short, marked stretch of track where two runners occupy the same space for a few strides, and a wooden baton passes from one hand to another.

Passed too early, the momentum stalls. Thrown carelessly, it drops, and the race is over before either runner realizes what happened. A clean hand-off requires the passer to match the receiver’s pace, to run alongside them for a moment before letting go, and to release the weight at exactly the right second — not before the other hand is ready, not after the moment has passed.

I have not run a real relay race since high school days. But I have dropped a baton more times than I can count, and every one of those drops happened at my kitchen table; not on a track.

The Baton We Carry

Think about the last time you offered a piece of advice nobody asked for. Shared a heavy insight with your spouse in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday. Dropped an opinion into a room that had been, until that moment, quiet. In each of those moments, you were holding a baton — an idea, an interpretation, a piece of truth you were carrying and someone else was not yet carrying.

The question worth asking is not whether the truth was true. It usually was. The question is:

How did you hand it off?

Too often, we don’t hand things off. We drop them off. We sometimes throw our insights the way you’d throw a stone across a yard — expecting the other person to catch it cleanly, regardless of how fast they were already running, regardless of how full their hands already were. We say what we came to say, exactly how we wanted to say it, and then we walk away, satisfied that we were honest. And being honest was enough.

The room tells the truth about what just happened, even when we don’t. A cloud descends. The other person is left fumbling — blindsided, judged, suddenly carrying a weight they didn’t agree to hold. The baton is on the ground, and somehow, it’s their fault for not catching it.

Reading the Weather

I learned this the slow way, which is to say I learned it by watching my own words land wrong more times than I’d like to admit. My instinct, especially with the people I love most, has always been to say the true thing quickly — as if speed were a form of honesty, as if the sooner I handed it over, the more it would count as care. It doesn’t. My wife Sally has taught me, gently and not so gently, that the timing of a truth is not a separate issue from the truth itself. It is part of it.

This is where Sacred Noticing does its quiet work. Before I open my hand, (to pass that baton) I have learned to notice — not the content of what I want to say, but the person standing in front of me. What is their weather right now? Are their hands already full? Have they just walked in from a long day, a hard call, a grief I don’t know about yet? A sacred hand-off begins before a single word is spoken. It begins with noticing and a pause that asks:

Is this person ready to receive what I am carrying?

That combination of noticing and pause changes everything downstream. It is the difference between speaking at someone and running alongside them for a few strides first.

The Open Palm

When the moment is actually right — and sometimes it is, sometimes the weather is clear and the hands are open — a clean hand-off feels almost nothing like a “dumping or throwing” I described earlier. It feels like a gift being offered rather than a verdict being delivered. You match their pace. You offer the thought softly, palm open rather than fist closed. And then — this is the hard part, the part I still have to practice — you let it go.

You do not micromanage how they hold it. They have it now. You do not require them to run the race the way you would run it, at your speed, toward your finish line. You offer what you were carrying, and you let them carry it forward in whatever way it needs to be carried. That release is not indifference. It is trust — the same trust a runner has to place in the stranger-shaped hands reaching back toward them mid-stride.

Notice. Pause. Respond. The same three movements that shape every act of Sacred Noticing shape the hand-off too. Notice their pace before you decide yours. Pause before the release, long enough to ask whether this is your moment or only your urgency. Respond by opening your hand rather than throwing your stone.

A Practice for the Week

The next time you feel the familiar pull to hand someone a sudden thought — an insight, a correction, a piece of wisdom you’re certain they need — try pausing for a single breath first. Look at the person actually in front of you, not the one in your head. Match their stride for a moment before you let go of anything.

You may find, as I so often do, that the truth you were carrying is still true a few minutes later. It usually is. What changes is not the baton. What changes is whether it lands in an open hand or on the ground between you.

A hand-off is not about how badly you need to let something go. It is about whether the person across from you is ready to hold it.

Reflection derived from The Practice of Sacred Noticing: Transforming Your Spiritual Footprint

ART FOR ART’s SAKE? 

In the world of Church and Prayer, we see seeing in a lot of different ways. In the Christian Tradition, particularly that of the Catholic Church, we find ourselves using objects, images and artifacts as a way of communicating with God. 

In the most traditional ways, we use statues, paintings, and other objects as ways of reminding ourselves of our relationship with God. From the Crucifix to the Tabernacle, all of these objects are designed to remind us of some aspect of our relationship with God. This relationship we can call prayer. 

In the sanctuary, we consider many of these items sacramentals. Holy objects which help us either enter into or stay in a prayerful relationship. We may not even consider this, but the simple act of blessing ourselves is also a sacramental one, so a sacramental does not always have to be an object, although often it is. 

I want to introduce this prayerful way we look at certain objects or art as a means of understanding how we see things in our everyday life. An excellent study of this process is captured in a book by Stephen Pattison called Seeing Things. In this book, Stephen illustrates how we humans have become used to scanning things quickly from a visual perspective, categorizing them, almost without thinking and then miss the opportunity to understand the relationship or meaning they may have in our lives. 

While no one would consider throwing a rosary or bible down in anything but a gentle manner, we often ignore what is going on in the objects around us in our everyday lives. 

For example, when in an art gallery or museum, we immediately take a different form of attention when looking at the artwork because of its location or the fact it is framed than we do for all the other materials surrounding it. Once informed of its artful nature, we give it the respect it deserves as a result. 

Part of this problem is we often view things in this manner by determining if they are “beautiful” or not. In his research, Pattison notes we often blow by something quickly if it does not fit into this category, and alternatively are willing to “gaze not glance” at objects which meet the first category. By doing so, we often miss many of important items that are a vital part of our everyday life, but are not in the category of artwork or a traditional sacramental. 

So today, perhaps, we can take some stock at the items we have around us, even on our desks or dressers at home, in the kitchen, the toolshed, and see them for their own importance, their function and then lastly, our relationship with them. We often have a haptic (or feeling) relationship with these items which is sometimes not recognized until they go missing from our lives. 

When we begin to notice these other things around us, we may find ourselves drawn into a new form of prayer, one of reflection and gratitude or memories which helps us immensely. We don’t ignore the everyday gifts and objects around us, but are rather thankful for them. 

Art Thou Art

The blank frame stands proudly to attention,

Clearly displaying its nudity by the dust on the untouched wall behind it.

Still they stop and gaze

Thinking knowingly, there is meaning within. 

Meanwhile the author, a simple carpenter, 

Giggles from above,

Watching the security cameras, 

Holding her morning Starbucks fav. 

Later that day she places the sign below the frame.

“Art thou Art?” 

Oncoming

Reflection, poem and image copyright 2024 Michael J. Cunningham OFS

A Drifting Prayer

Sometimes, not that often, we get to experience the feeling our life is drifting on. Not out of control, like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride*, but rather ebbing to and fro like the ocean tide. 

I must admit not having experienced this feeling myself for very long. Personally, I am a bit of meddler, and even if things are going along smoothly, will always be seeking some new challenge, excitement, or meaning in what is happening. Occasionally though, the wonder of just “being” comes over me in a daily routine and that wondrous drifting effect comes over me. 

Moments and experiences like this are the downtime and peace we can enjoy merely resting in Christ. These are the reassurances we need when turmoil has been surrounding the hours and we are called to take a walk on the beach; metaphorically speaking at least. 

These calming moments are often given to us as a gift, something occurs that causes us to move into “neutral”, neither moving forward nor backward, just sitting where we are. The references to these moments are multifold in scripture, as are the many times when God just calls us to do the same. To remain in Him.

I was talking to a friend this week about a contemplative retreat where they experienced centering prayer, then a silent walk in the gardens, and a second silent centering prayer session to follow. This contemplative “sandwich” made me recognize how much a walk somewhere without an agenda, purpose or even intention can be a wonderful way of experiencing a drifting prayer. 

Where the encounter happens is timeless because we are not focused on timing the event. Just the desire to rest in Him.  

Drifting in Prayer

TOWARDS THE LIGHT

Moving from the gray to the light seemed inevitable; 

As the darkness dissipates as if it was never there. 

And eyes adjust to a new way of looking;

Squeezing the daylight out once more. 

Leaving the dark place behind.  

*From the Children’s book Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame 

Image, Reflection and Poem Ó 2024 Michael J. Cunningham OFS