1/25/23: Leaving the bleachers

I heard the crowd from far away. There were waves of cheers and laughs, and I’m sure some sobs if I got close enough to hear. But I stayed at a distance. There was something about the place, something about the game and the crowd that intimidated me. I was glad they were assembled, but I didn’t feel the need, nor did I have the desire, to join them.

Then, I had nowhere else to go. I knew the time had come, and I walked toward the stadium. The sounds were familiar, and I recognized a few faces making their way to the game, but when I saw the place and approached the gate, I wanted to turn back. Somewhere deep down, I knew if I entered the arena, I would not be able to return to life as I knew it. With a deep breath, I pushed the gate and entered.

The sounds were louder from inside. I could hear what people were saying. Although I was surprised by the size of the crowd, there were still plenty of seats in the bleachers. I took my place in the back, toward the aisle in case I needed to leave. But I didn’t. I thought about it a few times, but instead of leaving, I moved down and sat closer the others. Still, I was happy in the bleachers. From there, I could look on. Like the others, I could comment on the performance of those on the field, question a call, and lift my arms in disgust when someone made a mistake.

“At least they’re on the field,” someone muttered loud enough for me to hear. I looked around but couldn’t identify who’d said it. The words haunted me. No longer was it satisfying to talk about the game or judge those playing. Eventually, I knew I had to stand and walk onto the field.

“Don’t,” the person next to me said as he grabbed my arm. “It’s much warmer up here.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” added another. “You might get hurt. You might make a fool of yourself.”

It was all true, but I continued down the stairs and onto the field. The players who were grass-stained and sweaty smiled and came over to greet me. A few hugged me and got my clothes dirty. Seeing the look on my face, they laughed. “Just wait,” they exclaimed with a smile as the pushed me onto the field.

After seventeen years in the bleachers, it felt good to get on the field. Yes, I’m bruised and muddy, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I wish I’d done it long ago.

Additional inspiration

https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7-it-is-not-the-critic-who-counts-not-the-man

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hCoAF2G6wQ

The link for last week’s brushstroke was incorrect. Here’s what it should have been:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsYnhVITf9E

Lunch

It was just lunch, but it turned out to be one that would change the direction of my life forever. I was in New York City for a work event down near Wall Street, but I arrived early and asked a friend to meet for lunch up around 86th street. He was the Rector of a local parish and always seemed interested in what I was up to. A man of faith, he was also innately creative, and I’ve always found that combination intriguing.

We talked about things before and during lunch, but as we waited for the check, he smiled, put both hands gently on the table between us, and looked directly at me and asked, “So, when are you going to decide.” I claimed not to know what he was talking about, but I did. He wanted to know if I was going to become a minister.

I don’t remember how I responded. I’m sure I stuttered my way through something, deflecting such an intimate question, as always, but when we said good-bye, I pulled my overcoat tight and began walking south. I thought I’d walk a few blocks before hailing a cab but ended up walking the length of Manhattan.

My boss noticed my red face and glistening eyes when I finally arrived. “What’s happened?” she asked. Again, I don’t remember my response, but I knew the look on my face was not just because of the long walk in the cold. I gave her my notice two weeks later and began a different kind of walk in a completely new direction.

A few days ago, the man I met for lunch died. While his obituary mentions countless achievements and honors, our lunch was not be mentioned. On the scale of all his accomplishments, it was just a lunch. For me, it was much more than that.

I feel blessed that I was given such a mentor, someone who showed genuine interest and sincere concern. So often, we focus on the big things people do, but it’s the small moments that sometimes make the biggest, most lasting, changes. A note, comment, or gesture can have more power than we can fathom.

Fortunately, I had the chance to thank him. As I expected, he didn’t remember the lunch nor what he asked. Maybe that’s as it should be. Forever, I will be grateful to him and look for ways I can pass that interest and concern to others. I invite you to do the same. I’m not sure there’s a better use of one’s life.

Digging Tunnels

Sitting in the room with others recently, I was reminded of one of my favorite childhood summer activities. After swimming in the ocean for hours, we were pulled from the sea and told we need to take a break. Rather than just sit around, we would play in the sand. One of my favorite activities was digging tunnels. My cousin would start at one end, me at the other, and slowly, one handful at a time, we would begin digging. His arms were longer than mine, but, still, we dug toward each other. Eventually, we’d get close. The packed sand would soften until it collapsed. When our hands would touch, it was a moment of success, of connection, and, with some final cleaning out, the tunnel was ready for a tennis ball to roll through or wave to fill with water.

I still like digging tunnels, but my days of kneeling in sand are all but gone. Now I do it when sitting with others. I reach down and begin taking away the sand between us. I share what life has been like for me, the good and the bad, one handful at a time. Usually, the person I am with starts digging, too, and before long our hands meet at the middle. It takes willingness and effort to dig. It also takes a desire to reach far and dig deep so hands can meet. Then we realize, as if for the first time, that despite all our different life experiences, we have many things in common.

Just ask the two couples who’ve lost a child; listen when divorced souls share their experiences. Watch when a child finds another who knows exactly how he or she is feeling. It’s like watching hands meet. Contrary to what was written last week, about how each of us is unique, digging tunnels has shown me how alike we all are. In paradoxical glory, both brushstrokes are true.

Much of my early life was spent looking for, and accentuating, my uniqueness. Now, I’m more interested in what I have in common with others. There’s nothing like that moment when two lives share something important in common. It’s like the kingdom of God draws close. Don’t believe me? Next time you’re with someone, try digging a tunnel.