Just

One of the important things when you are a writer is to ask for feedback. It’s easier to ask for than receive, but a trusted friend can show you things to which you are blind. That was the case recently. The final reader of my novel’s draft showed me how often I use the word “just.” He was just a parish priest … it was just something he felt he should say… the examples seemed endless, and I’ve been thinking about the word ever since.

“Just” is a filler, a way to put something into a sentence to downplay whatever it is describing. It reveals a timidity of heart. Rather than say something boldly, instead of saying some thing or some one is important, “just” keeps us from getting carried away and saying what we really mean.

While it will be a hard habit to break, the effort is worth it. I want to speak boldly and not discount the people who, and moments that, matter.

It wasn’t just a conversation with my son, it was a conversation that will change things forever.

It’s not just a (stream, wave, or beautiful sunset), it’s a reminder that we live in an incredible world filled with beauty.

She wasn’t just a teacher, she was a person who devoted her life to touching the lives of others.

It’s not just a book, it’s a song of a soul sung for others who might be stirred by its melody.

Stripping away the clutter of our language and the pillows surrounding our tender hearts reveals who we are and what we care about. No wonder so few do it.

Just a thought.

Terminal Uniqueness

I think I might have gotten it wrong. Thinking back to my days in the classroom, I can see how hard I worked as a teacher to get students to see their uniqueness. No matter who it was, I wanted him or her to see that there was no one with the same gifts and talents. I celebrated every time a student claimed their one-of-a-kind nature, but I now see I should have worked just as hard to teach them the opposite lesson: despite our uniqueness, we’re all alike.

I hang out with people who recognize they have the disease of “terminal uniqueness.” No matter the situation, we can make anything all about us. The results are sometimes as hilarious as they are tragic. The magic comes when we stand back and see how similar we are to one another. The fear I have is the same fear the person across the room has; the mistake a person made is just like the one we’ve all made. Slowly, we remove the cloaks of originality and hang them on the hooks by the door and bask in the things we have in common. Everybody’s got their “stuff” (not the word I want to use) but as singular as that stuff may seem, it’s not. Learning this changes everything.

In the bible, it says we are marvelously made, and we are. Out of the clay, each of us was created as a one-of-a-kind work of art, but we were made out of the same clay. We’ve lived lives that, on the surface, look different, but if we have eyes to see and ears to hear, we can learn that we are, beneath the surface, alike. In a world that only looks for what separates or divides us, finding what unites us seems refreshingly new. One might even say, divine.

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.