Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

I never thought the subtly inscribed words on my rearview window would have theological meaning until a recent class assignment had us plot out our life events. Looking back, those events (and people) that, at the time, seemed random began to weave into a meaningful fabric. The objects in my rearview mirror were closer than they appeared, closer to a overall plan.

So often, I quickly try to make sense of the people, places, and events of my life, to place them in the “good” or the “bad” boxes, and move on. I do this so I don't have to think about things, and, if I’m completely transparent, don't have to feel things. Life is safer when lived as a fast-moving car, keeping our eyes on the road and foot on the pedal. Life remains vibrant and exciting . . . and rather shallow. I now know that there's much more to life than making it through. There’s more connectedness and meaning than is apparent at the moment. Only by looking in the rearview mirror can we see such connections and meanings.

The woman who survives a brutal divorce only to find a career she never knew existed.

The student diagnosed with a learning difference who becomes an innovative educator because of his learning difference.

The child who loses her sight only to become a famous composer.

The laid-off banker who finds previously unknown significance in non-profit work.

The examples abound, each particular, but what they have in common is the miracle of new life often seen in hindsight. Objects in the mirror are, in fact, closer than they appear . . . closer to a story not of our own making. For that, I am growing grateful. 

Dragons

Where are your dragons? You know, those beasts that loom large even when cloistered in caves. Skulking in the dark, they cause fear and trepidation even in the bravest, and we avoid them at all cost. The problem is, though, each dragon rests upon a mound of gold. There’s no getting to the gold without facing the dragon.

Dragons have many names (embarrassment, failure, ordinary, weak, less-than) and roar in countless languages (“You’re not good enough” “How dare you let your family down” “You should have done more with your life by now” “What do you mean, you can’t afford to have . . .”) , but the fact is dragons are the pains we spend our lives avoiding. No wonder we stuff them in caves where we don’t have to see them, cover our ears so we do not have to hear them. Who cares if they sit on gold? The pain is simply not worth it.

Or is it?

I have explored this imagine and the ways I’ve avoided my dragons. I’ve designed spacious caves big enough to house my countless pains. I’ve designed circuitous routes to avoid such caves, ways to travel without having to feel pain or smell the fear used to remind me of their existence. When those caves and routes didn’t work, I used other forms of protection, but pain is patient. Fear hangs in the air for ages. Together, they can sing a life-long song. They will wait for the perfect moment to make themselves known, leaving us running for cover once again.

What if we faced our dragons? What if we stopped letting fear paralyze us and made our way toward the caves? What if we faced the pain, knowing the gold is, in fact, worth more than our comfort? What if we picked up the phone and called that estranged friend? What if you spoke honestly to our spouse . . . parent . . . bank . . . employer? What if we followed our hearts even if doing so meant major changes?

I wonder if our arrival would cause the dragons to slither away? Yes, they may rise, throw forth a blaze of fire, but such fire and smoke do not last. If we remain, I believe the dragons will wither from their stance and climb off the mound of gold like a cowed dog. I am not sure, but I’m convinced a life full of caves is no life, one lived in fear of dragons is partial, so maybe we should all use our fears to locate our pains, then head straight towards them and slay every one.

Let's go find a sword!

Ball Marks

I was born into a family whose daily refrain was to make a difference in the world, to leave a mark, so this brushstroke could read as if I’ve changed the song. I haven’t, but something on my dresser reminded me that an important way to leave a mark is to not leave a mark.

At first glance, it’s simply a golf tool. Given to each player in hopes that he or she will use it to repair ball marks on the greens left from approach shots, the device helps lift indentations so the greens have a chance to remain smooth for others. Beside the brand name was the marking “X 2” which suggests players should repair not only their own mark, but one left by another as well.

“Therein lies the sermon,” I thought.

What a different world it would be if we all repaired our ball marks, let alone a mark of another! Think about how wonderful our travels through life would be if people replaced or poured grass seed in their divots. As a benefactor of the city of Winston-Salem passes along, we need to leave sand traps better than we found them.

The ways of saying it go far beyond golf images, but the truth they have in common is worthy of our reflection no matter the language. Where are our ball marks? . . . in the hallways at work . . . at the committee tables at which we sit . . . within the self-esteem of our children . . . in the conversations we have with loved ones?

No matter how softly we hit the ball, there are always ball marks. The question is whether we have the humility to use the tools we’ve been given to repair such marks, and, while we’re at it, repair a mark or two left by others.