grace forgets

 

Had a chance some time back to talk with someone named Rory I played basketball with when we were much younger; I had not seen him since then.

Basketball was never quite my sport (more of a baseball and tennis guy myself). I was OK but not great on the basketball court, and I harbored zero illusions that I’d ever progress beyond the basic lay-ups, free throws or jump shots (though I did show potential at drawing fouls).

What was a pleasant yet innocuous conversation took an unexpected turn when Rory began apologizing to me for the time many, many years ago when, out of frustration, he heaved a basketball at me during practice.

You know those mistakes you make, where if you ever get a chance to say sorry to a person you wronged, you plan to apologize (no matter how long after the fact it is)? I was hearing one of those apologies. He profusely expressed his remorse, and said that he now coaches young kids playing basketball, and that he always shares this very story with them when he discusses showing respect on the court, and being a team player.

Here’s the thing: I absolutely remember nothing of this ever happening.

I don’t doubt that Rory’s telling the truth. It’s not even one of those events I forgot, but then remember once it’s brought up. I just plain do not recall a bit of this.

So I’m grateful Rory apologized for something that so clearly anguished him for so long. But I also wish he could have known before apologizing just how much I didn't remember a bit of it.

In all our perpetual, crippling ways in which we critique ourselves, we could stand to reflect on this reminder: people are rarely as critical or as exacting on us as we are on ourselves. We quite naturally zoom in on our perceived flaws. We replay them over and over and over and over and over again. We claw our emotions in self-loathing over something we said that we thought was wrong or awkward. We can too often believe that everyone remembers and replays our self-perceived worst moments as vividly and as often as we do.

But they do not.

It is healthy to apologize for when we’ve wronged others. We could benefit from extending the same grace of healthy forgetfulness to ourselves. Doing this doesn’t feel as natural, but it is more like reality. It’s a relief to eventually truly realize that other people just aren’t watching us in a sort of nitpicky, hyper-critical, waiting-for-us-to-mess-up kind of way.

I remember Rory as a very good basketball player, a friend from scouting, and a decent guy, teammate and classmate. A moment that was a tsunami of regret from his vantage point … was absolutely nothing from my vantage point. It’s a helpful story he shares with his players. I do hope he also shares that he got to apologize to me, and that I remember absolutely nothing of it.

There’s much grace in learning to see ourselves as graciously, and as forgetfully, as others do.

things fall apart

When I started college, I was trying to make a long-distance relationship work. For me, that meant I was at college only physically, and barely mentally. My energy, focus, and heart remained where I had been, working to maintain what was.

During a public speaking course that first semester, a classmate gave a speech on the shakiness of long-distance dating.  I still remember her words: "Presents aren't promises, and kisses aren't contracts." At the time, I brushed this off as pessimism. The presents in MY room told a different story, I assured myself. The letters I received, and mailed back home only strengthened this resolve.

It'll be no surprise to share that my long-distance relationship didn't pan out -- didn't even last the entire first semester. It devastated me the Tuesday night we broke up. I wondered why this had to happen, asked God WHY ME. I was heartbroken, angry, confused, strung out.

I called my parents. I called my friends. I took a long walk. I cried myself to sleep. Focusing on schoolwork took so so so much more effort.

Fear of the unknown can slyly motivate us to hedge our bets. I'd never before experienced such a life change as transitioning to college. I felt apprehensive about making new friends, joining clubs, or embracing the unknown. It seemed like everyone was adjusting way easier than me.

So rather than make new friends or try new experiences, I spent nights alone in my room, counting down the hours and days until I could return home to see her. I hunkered away, and hustled to keep up with had been more familiar. My new life kinda scared me.

For me, coming to college while dating someone from home was *a way* to deal with the angst unknown of starting college (it's of course not that way for everyone, but it certainly was for me ... and maybe for some of you too). 

[For the record, one of my best friends did marry his high school sweetheart -- but their journey followed no linear path. They dated in high school, broke up before college, went to different schools, lost contact with each other, then randomly reconnected at the tail end of college, and got married later. They didn't plan it out, but it is what happened, and they remain happily married]

Sometimes, when God suggests or compels us to let go of cherished parts of our life, it's to make room for what's to come. Baby teeth must first fall out of the mouth before adult teeth take their place. It can feel wrenching to have to let go, and even more agonizing when the letting go isn't what we'd choose -- or how we'd choose it.

In the short run, it was a long, awful night to endure when it it fell apart.

And yet. 

It pushed me forward and forced me to connect in the present place where I was living, and not where I didn't live anymore. The best parts of that year at school for me all came after that relationship ended. In the long run (and even in the short run), it turned out more than fine.

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose." -J. Elliot

finding the jet streams of God

 "The task is not to get God to do something I think needs done, but to become aware of what God is doing so that I can participate in it." -Eugene Peterson

Some time back, I spent some time in Northern Ireland. It's a beautiful place, and Lord willing, I'll get to return someday.

The flight to Dublin surprised me; I thought it'd be at least eight or 10 hours in the air. To my happy surprise, flying Chicago to Dublin only took six hours. Due to seeing too many Mercator map distortions in school, I incorrectly presumed it'd be much longer.

So on the return flight back to Chicago from Dublin, I was all prepped for the nifty six-hour flight. Next to me on the plane sat next to a well-dressed business person with breath that smelled faintly of stale hangover, cheap cigarettes, and pub food. Not an immediately noxious odor, but its cumulative effect could reach that point. "Ah well," I thought. "It's only six hours."

Actually, the flight took seven hours and change. From Dublin, to Chicago. The resilient bad breath next to me had me positing that perhaps I hallucinated, and the flight only felt longer. But no ... it really was a longer flight flying westward than it was traveling east.

Why? It was the jet stream. 

Jet Stream (n): "a narrow variable band of very strong predominantly westerly air current encircling the globe several miles above the earth."

Flying to Dublin, we piggy-backed into the pre-existing jet stream. Yet on the flight back, we had to fly against this wind. It added that extra time to our return flight.

I think about this reality of the earth whenever I come across the Eugene Peterson quote: "The task is not to get God to do something I think needs done, but to become aware of what God is doing so that I can participate in it." -Eugene Peterson

It reorients my perspective on pursuing God's will in day-to-day life. What if there's a jet stream of God-work happening all the time; if so, how can I cooperate with that flow?

What has God already been showing and doing with this person, or this situation, or this place? Where has God been working with me? How can I reflect and discern what that is, and how can I best pitch in and cooperate? This reframing helps me:

-This reframing reminds me move more thoughtfully when seeking to show God's love to others. I want to participate in however God is at work, but I first gotta take time to figure out what that work is. Part of getting to help out on a project is taking the time to discern the long-term plans for the project, and where it's pointed.

-Gives me some relief. I don't have to forever creatively find new stuff to do, or new ways to help out. The odds are quite solid that God already has some plans in motion.

-This reframing reminds me I do *not* have to provide it all. Not every burden I come across is de facto mine to hoist. How, where, and through whom is God already providing in this situation? How is God already equipping others and them to handle a burden, and to help make it lighter?

-This reframing frees me from arrogantly presuming I have a huge role to play in everyone else's life. WAY WAY more often than not, I'm a walk-on cameo. You are too. Walk-on cameos have such importance! They can utterly change a trajectory of a story. But it is the Lord's story, and the Lord's plans.

How is God inviting y'all to take part in stuff he's already been working on? How might God be calling you toward participating in his kingdom work of making all things new? How does this free you from feeling like you gotta start from scratch in showing love and care for others?

-----

"Make me to know your ways, O Lord

teach me you're paths.

Lead me in truth and teach me, 

for you are the God of my salvation;

for you I wait all the day long." -Psalm 24:4-5

talk talk

Some of us feel more at home in "deeper" conversations -- the talks where we bare our souls - where we excavate the depth of life's meaning, of love, of music lyrics, of unicorns, of faith, of personality profiles, of political theory, of metaphysical aspects of trees and how they sometimes speak to us. 

But it's the "small talk" many of us disdain. 

Small talk: the informal discourse about nothing seemingly important. It's the 'how's the weather' and the 'how's your week going?' or the 'it wouldn't feel so cold without this wind' sorta chatting.

Small talk can seem like the air in a bag of unopened potato chips. Small talk is the kiddie pool when we want the high dive. It's the appetizer when we're hungry for the main course. It's that little pocket on our jeans, you know ... the one behind the right front pocket. Does this even have a use anymore?

This is not how God thinks of small talk. This is good news for us, even if we don't like small talk. It's not that God sees "small talk" as more or less important than 'deeper talk'; it's that nothing about our lives so boring to our Lord as to is wear him out.

When we engage in small talk (even when we feel like we stink at it) we acknowledge this truth: God regards all aspects of our lives as worthy of his attention. Therefore, when we likewise show similar interest about the 'little stuff' in each other's lives, we reflect something of how God first loves us.

Think about it: the people you trust most were, at one time, strangers to you. You shared a class in high school, or you worked together, or you went to the same church, or played on the same team. Eventually, you started talking about something "seemingly" trivial. Maybe you discussed about a mutual love of tacos, or why you love the smell of paint (admit it, some of y'all do -- there's no way that's just me), or your favorite music when you were a kid, or the particular way you eat a roll of Smarties (yes, there are particular ways).

The innocuous chats lead to deeper ones. We can't swim the ocean without first wading in the shallower water at the shoreline. We almost always learn to trust others with the weightier parts of ourselves by first discussing the lighter parts. And it's not like our talks with trusted friends only swim in deep water once they reach that point: they meander from deep to shallower, from sad to ridiculously funny, from plain to joyful, from amusing to endearing.

It turns out that small talk works more like mortar between bricks. It's the cartilage situated around our body's joints. It's the marinade for the steak. It's the (environmentally-friendly) straw that stirs the drink. It's the echo that comes after hearing a joyful noise. And we get better at it (and it gets easier) as we keep at it.