Little Things

Several months ago, a leading cell phone manufacturer released a wildly popular commercial designed to highlight the privacy features offered by its newly-minted phones and to distinguish them from those of its competitors. It was as funny as it was far-fetched. The spot opens with a man announcing to his fellow travelers on a crowded bus that he’d “spent his day browsing 8 websites for a divorce attorney.” Then, in quick succession: a woman in a movie theater tells a stranger sitting next to her the password she uses to “login for everything;” two co-workers openly discuss their affinity for each other and their disdain for a colleague in an adjacent cubicle; a woman in a busy upscale restaurant shares with her companion (and their server) the date and time she “purchased prenatal vitamins and 4 pregnancy tests;” a man in a public restroom stall blurts out to all within earshot that he is “currently reading an article entitled, ‘10 Ways To Keep Sweaty Hands From Holding You Back’;” and a woman with a bullhorn in a bustling public square unabashedly shares her credit card number. It ends with a screen shot that reads simply: “Some things shouldn’t be shared. Privacy matters.”

The thing is, if you walked as many “Air Bud-less” miles as I have over the past decade, you’d realize the underlying premise of the commercial isn’t that far-fetched at all. I’m amazed at some of the in-person and on-phone things I hear from fellow sidewalk travelers who seem completely oblivious or indifferent to the fact that they’re in a public space: husbands and wives (current and ex) embroiled in bitter arguments, whose only apparent purpose is to prove that one or the other is “right”; parents yelling at kids about their latest act of disrespect, disobedience, or defiance; employers berating subordinates over their latest screw-up, almost as if it was intentional; and teenagers cattily gossiping over the day’s drama at school. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all negative. There are plenty of times the too-loud talk is celebratory. News of: the birth of a child, an award or achievement, acquisitions of new “toys” and houses, a good time spent the night before, the details of an upcoming or just-taken vacation, or an unexpected invitation to a must-be-seen-at event. None of it, of course, is any of my business. And so, I walk on, offering only an occasional smile or a simple nod – seldom giving any of it a second thought.

It’s not that there haven’t been times I wanted to stop – to offer a word of comfort, encouragement, hope, or peace. I have. But, never more than several months ago, as I approached a young man half my age in a backwards baseball cap out walking his black lab early one Saturday morning. Even though he was 15 steps ahead, I could overhear his conversation as clearly as if I, rather than what obviously was a friend, was on the other end of the line. I was struck by the sound of relief bordering on enthusiasm with which the man was sharing the news that his wife or live-in girlfriend had “finally moved out” the night before and how “good it was” to wake up in the morning “without the weight of her (of them) and their struggles” bearing down on him. He was rejoicing in what it felt like to be “free” – at last – to “do what he wanted to do, when he wanted to do it” and already talking, with an almost childlike sense of eagerness and expectation about what he planned to do with his newfound freedom. I wanted to let him know it wouldn’t be that easy. That a heart doesn’t work that way – at least not one that has truly loved.

I wanted to tell him it would be the little things he’d miss: Drawing each other close in the morning after a restless night’s sleep: the feeling of her hand in his when he needs reminding he’s not alone; the way their bodies fit together; a soft caress from knowing fingers; her unexpected mid-day call, a familiar voice, and the reassurance that comes from simply knowing he’s being thought of; a comforting embrace in the midst of a bad dream or storm; the rhythm of her breathing when she’s sound asleep; the lingering scent of her hair; the small of her back; whispered “good night’s” at the end of a day that’s been anything but; the first smile of the morning; cranking up a favorite song on the radio; a spontaneous dance in right front seat; the feeling of her head pressed against his chest – her playfulness. For a moment, I even let myself believe it was why I was there, that my overhearing, our paths crossing, was no accident, that I was meant to save him (and her) from themselves, from their short-sightedness, to share wisdom I had to learn the hard way, wisdom I wish someone had shared with me before I made the same mistake – before it was almost too late.

But, I didn’t. I kept walking. And now, every time I see him – alone – which I often do, I can’t help but wish I hadn’t.

https://tinyurl.com/ycky44rk

The Miracle Seedling(s)

“mir·​a·​cle \ ˈmir-i-kəl

a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.”

Oxford Dictionary

I’ll be the first to admit that my view of miracles is probably different than most. It’s not that I believe God is incapable of performing – and often does perform – them on His own. He plainly is and does, perhaps more frequently than even the most astute among us realize. Indeed, the New and Old Testaments are filled with examples of God “going it alone” in the miracle department: the parting of the Red Sea and the Jordan River (Exodus 14:6, 21-31 and Kings 2:14); water from the rock at Rephidim and Meribah (Exodus 17:5-7 and Numbers 20:7-11); causing the sun and moon to stand still (Joshua 10:12-14); raising the widow’s son at Zarephath (1 Kings 17:17-24);  the delivery of Daniel from the lion’s den (Daniel 6:16-23); the burning bush (Exodus 3:3); the turning of water into wine in Cana (John 2:1–11); the calming of the tempest in Galilee (Matthew 8:23–27); the raising of Lazarus from the dead (John 11:38–44); the multiplication of the fishes and the loaves (Matthew 14:13-21); and the curing of the 10 lepers (Luke 17:11-19) – to name only a few of the more prominent ones.

No, the place where I part company with most is in my belief that, when it comes to miracles, God actually prefers not to act alone. Stated otherwise, I believe God would much rather miracles be a collaborative exercise and that, towards that end, He regularly sews miracle seedlings – in plain and not-so-plain sight – in the hope that someone with an open, attentive, and willing heart will not only see, but work with Him to nurture them into a full grown miracle. I’m not suggesting for a minute that God is out of the Burning Bush business. He clearly isn’t. It’s just that I’ve seen and been part of too many highly improbable, difference/life-making moments that involved/required my or others’ active participation to believe that any of them (the exquisitely timed delivery of a metaphorical Life-preserver, the arrival of strangers and old friends at the doorstep of a heart-in-need, an out-stretched hand when it is least expected and often undeserved, etc.) “just happened,” nor were they a by-product of some Cosmic Coincidence. Instead, I’m convinced each had its roots in a whispered invitation from our Creator to join Him in conferring or completing a miracle.   

I’ve written about many of those moments – the times when I’ve been privileged to be a Seedling Recipient or Nurturer: My Christmas Eve detour to an tiny Italian restaurant in the middle of nowhere; my lunchtime encounter with a homeless woman at a local Chick-fil-a; the young woman in the bright yellow dress and the audition that almost wasn’t; countless life-altering letters that, despite been desperately needed, likely never would have been written without the germination of the precious seedlings I’m referring to; and too many unlikely paths crossed with strangers who, in those precise moments, just needed someone to notice their hurt, courage, struggles, and offer a glimpse of hope. On occasion, I’ve also written about some of the times I’ve humbly feasted on the fruit of those seedlings. But, I’ve never written about the seedling(s) that mattered most. And, looking back, I’m not entirely sure why that is.

Maybe it’s because telling the story would mean acknowledging that, after 36 years of trying to make the broken pieces of “us” and our marriage fit together, I’d finally given up hope. Maybe it’s because it would mean revisiting the countless hours I spent flailing around in seemingly impenetrable darkness in the year and a half separation that followed searching for the best parts of me that somehow had gotten lost along the way. Maybe it’s because doing so would mean reintroducing myself to the anger, bitterness, and resentment that took turns serving as unwelcomed companions during that unspeakably lonely journey. Maybe it’s because coming clean would mean ripping the band-aids off scar tissue that only recently has begun to form around soul-deep wounds left behind by others’ indifference. Or maybe, not unlike the Prodigal Son, my silence stems from the guilt and shame associated with having to admit, after a lifetime spent convincing myself I had it all figured out, all under control that I had neither.  

Then again, maybe that’s precisely why I should’ve written about it long ago – and am sharing it now. Because the starkness of the backdrop only serves to highlight how unexpected and magnificent the sidewalk seedling that changed it all was. Truth is: It would be impossible without knowing the depth of the pain and confusion that preceded it – and all that consumed me in that moment – to truly appreciate the profound and sudden sense of peace that came over me and, in an instant, washed it all away or the clarity with which the path forward was presented to me. It certainly wasn’t something I expected or, in my anger and self-pity, necessarily even wanted at the time. It also would be hard to imagine a more unlikely place to sew a miracle seed that beautiful: A barren sidewalk, near a random ATM, on a busy street corner in downtown Coral Gables. And yet, there it was – in plain sight – an invitation to redemption. Still, I suppose, in retrospect, I could have chosen to walk away, to simply leave that seedling to languish and eventually shrivel up and die. We’re all given that choice and, I suspect, consciously or subconsciously, we actually make it a number of times a day.

But, not me. Not that day. Not that seed. No, I picked it up, held it close, took it home – and watered it with a firehouse. And, it changed my life. The thing is: I was bet-my-life certain there were two seedlings on the sidewalk that day – and I made a very deliberate point of picking both of them up …

https://tinyurl.com/2d6hjesr

The Story Of Us

A few years ago, in an especially dark season of my life, I decided to begin organizing several bankers’ boxes full of family photos.

In the past, starting down that path had always been a risky and emotionally challenging exercise, in part because of the complexities that have dotted the landscape of our family’s life over the last three decades, and I was certain, given the state of my heart, that my latest venture would be no exception. But, as I opened and began unpacking the first box something shifted. The pictures obviously hadn’t changed, but my perception of what they depict did – radically. It’s not that I shed any fewer tears or that there weren’t just as many moments tinged with regret over missed opportunities for relationship building, emotional intimacy, a deeper sense of empathy, and growth. There were plenty of both as I flipped through the 1,000 or so images I ultimately organized – a small fraction of the whole. I suppose we all have them. It’s an inescapable part of being human and imperfect, of lacking wisdom and, dare I say, spiritual maturity.

This time around, however, I was struck (overwhelmed really) by the bigger truth the photos reveal: That, taken as a whole, they tell a very different, much more remarkable, uniquely beautiful and joyful “story” of our lives than the one I realized I unknowingly had grown accustomed to telling myself, particularly in that season. It’s a story of courage, of unconditional and, at times, sacrificial love, of compassion, of the power of an unyielding faith in God and each other, of the criticality of a mother’s selfless and tireless devotion to her children, of grace in action and commitment, and of repeatedly overcoming – sometimes against seemingly insurmountable odds; and that’s still what I see. I’m proud of and eternally grateful for us. Maybe there are “pictures” in your own life that are worth a second look.