Important lessons in unlikely packages.

She was wearing Tory Burch sandals with newly painted toenails, but above her left ankle was a cumbersome black device wrapped around her leg. In an instant I recognized the unsightly adornment as a court-appointed tracking device. I’d never seen one before, but the bright footwear and dark anklet was too rich a contrast to ignore.

What struck me first was her willingness to let it show. She could have worn long pants, but, instead, left the device for all to see. I also reflected on the captivity the device represented. Because of it, there were places she was required to go and others where she was forbidden. When she spoke, I learned yet another important lesson. Expecting a long saga about her misfortunes, she spoke of deep gratitude. Struggling to get the words out, she told us that she was allowed to see her granddaughter for the first time in a year later that afternoon.

Looking back, I can’t remember the topic of the meeting, but I'll never forget the lessons of the day.

I have spent a lifetime trying to hide my imperfections. So insecure about the opinions of others, I have worn many costumes and masks like long pants shrouding all the things of which I am embarrassed. How I wish I had the courage of the woman sitting across from me.

I have no court appointed anklet, but I, too, am held captive by many things. My thoughts and behaviors bind me as much as any device. Because of them, there are places I need to go (like the meeting I was attending) and other places I cannot. Her visible captivity only reminded me of my own.

Her words of gratitude, despite her circumstances, also served as an inspiration.  She could have focused on what was wrapped around her leg, but instead thought of her granddaughter wrapped around her heart. Too often, I look down at the little things instead of out at the big.

The lessons of life, the ones we really need to learn, are sometimes disguised in unlikely packages. That morning, what I needed to learn was not in a book or a well-designed meeting, but in a woman with a devise attached to her leg.

Eyes on the road

It’s a running joke in my family that while driving I am incapable of looking away and remaining in my lane. In the days of children in car seats, it was a real risk for me to turn and assist a disgruntled child. Today, looking at something off to the side or behind me is to beckon the familiar rumble from strips designed to awaken drivers who have veered off course.

Recently, after illustrating this weakness once again, my daughter smiled, shook her head, and kindly suggested: “You know, you could just keep your eyes on the road.”

Of course, she was right. Her advice, though simple and full of common sense, seems to speak about more than driving.

If I look honestly at my life, I can see how I struggle in the same way. There have been and continues to be distractions on my left and right, just as there are countless reasons to look behind me at things past. Whether it’s an unkind remark or action that causes me to look away, I sometimes respond with ones of my own. When focused with great excitement on what could be, I am reminded of mistakes in the past and lose all enthusiasm.

In other words, each time I look away I veer off course. It is hard enough to navigate when looking straight ahead, but looking away makes it almost impossible. Just like when driving, I am incapable of looking away and remaining in my lane. My daughter’s simple advice seems to speak once again: “You know, you could just keep your eyes on the road.”

How difficult and true is such advice for us all. 

Grace

Wiffle Ball was a daily occurrence in my backyard growing up, and players arrived before 4:00 regardless of what school they attended. Skill levels varied, but no one was superior to Grace. She moved to the neighborhood from California mid way through her fourth grade year and established herself as a superstar within a week. There was not a pitcher who could get a ball past her, nor fielder who could catch the missiles she launched. More than all of that, she was the nicest person I’d ever met.

I remember one particularly ferocious game when our team was enormously grateful to have Grace on our team. It was a Sunday afternoon, which meant the winners had the much sought after bragging rights for Monday morning homeroom. The score was tied as the evening light faded and threat of being called in for dinner grew.  Because of a fielding error, we were able to get a player on base. The next two batters did not fare as well, to which one team member responded: “Don’t worry, Grace bats last.”

Just the words provided comfort to us all. Knowing no matter what we were or were not able to achieve Grace would bat last provided a sense that all would be well. She did not seem to mind the pressure. In fact, when she heard the comment she spread her arms wide, tilted her head back and closed her eyes and smiled as if to say: “Bring it on!”

I didn’t know it at the time, but we were all being given a profound theological lesson that day. More than any sermon or well-designed Sunday school class, waiting for Grace to bat taught us all we needed to know. Yes, we were a part of a team. Yes, we would each have to stand at the plate, take our turn, and do the best we could. More important than all of that, however, was the fact that Grace was going to bat last. She would take whatever we were able to achieve (or not) and make it all right. It was remarkable to be sure, but what was even more impressive was the fact that she did so with no thought of herself. It was just who she was, it was just what she did, and we were all the better for it.

I often think of Grace. To know she was behind me, ready, able and willing to hit “clean up” would make all the difference as I approached the home plates of today. Sometimes I wish she was still on my team. Maybe she is.

(Written with apologies and/or gratitude to Annie Lamont)