Going Back

I made my way up the snowy road to the house trying to hide my apprehension from my daughters in the car. Summoning my inner little-engine-that-could, I tried to will our way to the top of the hill, but the wheels began to spin and the car skid during our final ascent. I knew we were in trouble, so I stopped the car before it slid into the ditch and told the girls to get out and walk the final stretch while I tried to figure something out. I reversed the car and knew I could backtrack and take a longer, more gradual route to the house, but I then thought I should try to make it one last time, only to slide the car into the ditch. 

I was more frustrated than frightened, but as I looked at the car leaning into the hill I realized it was an experience well worth my contemplation, particularly when beginning a new year. I wanted to make it, I wanted to go forward and reach my destination, but the road was too steep. I was given the chance to back up and go another way, but I second-guessed that choice and tried to force my way forward, only to slide in a ditch. A new year is so often about setting goals and moving forward, but in our determination, we sometimes forget there are other ways to get there and that we might need to reverse rather than plow forward. Whether in a relationship, a business venture, or even our faith, we might need to go back before we can go forward. The most direct route may be too steep. 

I’ll find a way to get the car out, just as I’ll find a way out of whatever ditches await me in my personal and spiritual life, but I could also seize the opportunity to go back and take the longer, more gradual route before I’m in the ditch, That way, I can spend my time on more productive things.

Christmas 2020

“Grow up!”

It’s something all of us have heard and, perhaps, said. Some were more successful than others at following the advice which often sounded more like a reprimand. Like the day I cut my hair and bought a suit two weeks before my college graduation, sometimes we think we can grow up in an instant. Whether in how we behave, the kind of relationships we have, or the work we do, there’s no end to the places in which we can grow up. Faith is another area, but at this time of year I miss the child-like faith I once possessed. 

There was a time when I closed my eyes and breathed in the wonder that is Christmas. I sang carols as if God was the only one listening. I gave without restraint and opened gifts with eyes opened so wide it’s a wonder they didn’t fall out.

More important, I listened to the Christmas story without dissecting it with logic. I took my place besides the shepherds as if I belonged, and welcomed the wise men, eager to see what gifts they bought. I looked out the stable windows and gave thanks for the star and tried to catch Mary of Joseph’s eyes as if to say “This is outrageous!” It was the night of nights, the moment when the course of history changed just because of the child lying in a manger.

Of course, I was told to grow up. Whether by more sophisticated friends or a world that suddenly became too complicated for a child’s faith. It was to be expected, I’m suppose, but on this day more than any other I give thanks for the time when my faith said, “Of course,” and my arms opened without hesitation to welcomed God-with-us. 

Advent IV: Room 71

There was nothing more the nurses and doctor could do. He’d soon be a number added to the other 300,000, but to his wife and children he was so much more. The machines and tubes were unhooked and an orderly pushed his bed down the hall to Room 71. It was the room reserved for one purpose. It was where his family would finally be able to see him, touch him, and say good-bye. It was an all too familiar liturgy, but the staff never took it for granted. 

Clinging to one another, the family crossed the hall from the elevator and entered Room 71. His daughter gasped as she saw the shell of the man who used to hold her on his spacious lap. Her daughter, his granddaughter, placed the drawing she’d done of them walking in the woods on the blanket draping his legs. His wife mustered what little strength she had to break the silence. Reaching for her husband’s hand, she thanked him for their many years together. She spoke of their first date when he spilled the red wine all over their food because he was so nervous, the moment they held their first born in this same hospital, and their honeymoon trip to England which they could only afford ten years after their wedding. The others around the room added their own memories and said what they loved most about the man lying before them.

Because it was Christmas, the moment felt particularly cruel. The season of joy was everything but. The season of light was unusually dark. Where was God? Couldn’t God perform a Christmas miracle? The man’s hand suddenly gripped his wife’s before releasing and turning cold. 

In a way that made no sense to any of them, a strange peace filled the room and wrapped its arms around everyone assembled. He had gone, but gone where? All they could do was say good-bye, but it felt as if he was now saying hello. Room 71 had become a door to someplace else for him, and, because of that, for them, as well.

Still huddled together in the elevator, someone uttered words from long ago: “Those who walk in darkness have seen a great light.” The words didn’t dry the tears, only transformed them, but that was miraculous enough.