Waiting for the Miracle

For all intents and purposes, the game was over. Behind and with no time left on the clock, the quarterback scrambled to avoid the eager defensemen. Although half a field away from the end zone, he planted his feet and sent the ball sailing into the air. The ball was tipped into the hands of one of his players who took it in for the score. The announcers went as crazy as the crowd. Soon the field was full of students, who I imagine are still drunk.

Of course, this was just the most recent example of an improbable ending, but it made me think of the old AA adage: “Don’t leave ‘till the miracle happens.” So often I think I know what the result will be. With time running out, I begin to pack my things and head to the car. Then, as I open the car door, I hear the roar of the crowd and know I’ve missed something special.

It makes me wonder how many improbable endings have been missed because we thought we knew how the game, or story, would end. How many jobs, marriages, investments, achievements were left too soon (or not even tried). How many athletes took off their uniform, actors walked off the stage, graduate students closed their books before seeing things through. Yes, logic, or the odds, would say the game’s over, but what if . . .?

I wonder what our lives would look like if we waited until the end. I wonder how different the endings might be if we stopped thinking we were in charge, that we knew how things would be. Instead of packing up our things, maybe we should plant our feet and heave a pass into the air trusting that a power greater than ourselves can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. Maybe we’d be surprised. Maybe a miracle would happen. 

Climbing Down the Ladder

I didn’t see it until someone pointed it out. In a writing class, a teacher spoke of the “ladder of abstraction,” and encouraged us, as writers, to descend. “Climb down the ladder and write specifically,” the instructor said. “Instead of saying someone is sad, lost, or confused, make the reader see the sadness, feel the loss, and experience the confusion in tangible ways through gestures or actions.” The more familiar adage is, “show don’t tell,” but the ladder is a helpful image, not only for writers but for all sorts of people. 

It's easy to say you’re a father (high on the ladder); it’s another thing to show up when you have other things you need to be doing (low on the ladder). It’s one thing to say all people matter (high), and another to stand with others outside a courthouse protesting injustice (low). Promising to love one another “for better or for worse” (high) is easier than holding hands after an argument (low).

The same dynamic exists in the life of faith. How easy it is to keep one’s head in the clouds when we speak of loving God (high on the ladder). It’s another thing to spend time each day in prayer and meditation, devoting time to reading and studying, and looking for God deliberately (and specifically) in the world around us (Low). How easy it is to keep one’s head on the clouds when we speak of loving one’s neighbor as oneself (high), and another to spend time with people who are different from us, forgive people who hurt us, or love those who live lives we don’t understand (low).

Climbing down the ladder of abstraction is difficult, but down on the ground is where things get real. It’s where we show-don’t-tell the world who we truly are and what we care about. It’s where water becomes wine, loaves feed, and strangers and enemies embrace. No wonder God “climbed down” long ago. No wonder God continues to climb down every day.

Blankets

I grew up in a drafty house. Whenever it was windy, the breezes came through the windows and doors as if they weren’t there. Our only remedy was to use blankets. Wrapped in their warmth, we watched TV and did our homework. Only when our parents turned up the heat, which was rare, were we able to discard the blankets.

Looking back, I can see how often I’ve reached for blankets of one kind or another when winds blew. Sitting in the reading circle in third grade, knowing my turn was coming and not being a good reader, I grabbed the class-clown blanket. After messing up on the soccer field, I wrapped myself in the it’s-not-a-big-deal blanket. When I drank too much and said something I shouldn’t have, I used the I-got-this blanket to shield me from my embarrassment.

I don’t use blankets as much as I once did, although they’re all folded neatly in the corner waiting, in case I change my mind.  

There’s nothing I can do about the wind. All I can do is look for healthy ways to seek warmth. I can surround myself with authentic friendships, sit closer to others by being real, present, and vulnerable. More than anything else, I can focus on ways to rely more on a power greater than myself.

It is when I do these things that I find the warmth that keeps me from looking for blankets.

(Written in gratitude for Melody Beattie, the author of Codependent No More)