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.

Original Art

“For we are God’s handiwork (masterpiece) . . .” Ephesians 2

He was just fooling around. Playing, really. Dipping his brush in the paint, he let it go in this or that direction until there was an intriguing, unique piece of art on the canvas before him. Unlike other pieces he’d done, he didn’t judge this one. He let it be. Later that semester, the art student painted over the spontaneous work and created something assigned. It was conventional, like the others in the class, and he was commended for his efforts. Many years later, once a successful artist, the man found the old painting. Using the most current techniques and chemicals, he removed the painting he did for class and found the spontaneous work beneath. There was something about it, something that made him smile, and he framed the piece and hung it in his studio.

The story speaks to my life and, perhaps, yours as well. I believe we were all unique works of art, made in a spontaneous creative moment by God, the divine artist. Rather than celebrate our uniqueness, we strove to be like others. Whether by wearing certain clothes, following conventional career paths, going on the same vacations, posting the same pictures, or living in specific neighborhoods, we did our utmost to look like others (and then tried to be unique in all our sameness!)

I believe the time comes when we long for something more – not more of the same, but more of the one-of-a kind. Deep down, we long for our unique, authentic, original selves. We know he or she is in there, somewhere! The problem is there are layers of paint we need to remove. It takes work, spiritual work, to remove the layers of paint, and that work requires patience, and trust. It might take longer than we would like, cause reactions we’d rather not hear . . . but when the hunger is great enough so will be our strength.

May this be the year we stop adding, and start removing, the layers. Deep within us all is a unique piece of art. May we begin the work of finding it today.