New Thing- Riding a metaphor up to 3rd gear
Inspiration: The Allens, The Motorcycle Safety Course
Time: Hard to say
Bottom Line: Let there be light
Reflection:
Today was one of those life-changing days when the
unthinkable happens. As I was
walking into work, I got a phone call from Matt who told me that Frank and the
whole Allen family had been in a plane crash in Alaska where they had been
vacationing. They were out sightseeing when the plane went down and, although
they were mostly alright, one of the other people in the plane was killed. I
was stunned. Absolutely stunned. The emotions and the realizations poured into
me like a tide coming in. That they survived a fatal plane crash was—at the
same time—terrifying because of what could have happened and yet awe inspiring
because they were miraculously still alive. I wanted to do nothing but sit and
pray and process all the information at once, but there was only time for the
prayer as we all began to talk about the realities and how to minister to the
congregation.
To be honest, the day went by in a numb blur. I had to keep
my mind focused on the tasks at hand to keep from having the emotional
breakdown that was lurking around every mention of the event (which was, as you
would imagine, all that we were talking about). And then, somehow, the day was
over I found myself at my silly motorcycle class again. It seemed altogether
too ordinary and self-indulgent to be doing anything as mundane as learning how
to ride a motorcycle. But here I was, trying to ride around in a circle in a
giant parking lot while mastering new bits of biking technique like shifting
gears. The night before, this had been fun and exhilarating. Tonight, it was a
totally different story. I kept stalling—both literally (I was just not getting
the hang of gear changing) and metaphorically, as my head and heart were heavy.
Squeeze the clutch; worry about the parish. Ease it out and give a little gas;
think about the crash. Shift into 1st; My God, they almost died!
Stall. Start again.
The break came and I went to sit in my car and I couldn’t
hold it back any longer and I wept. Truly wept. I wept for the congregation and
the spirit of shock and confusion that we were all in as we thought about our
Rector and his family in such danger and fear. I wept for my friend who was
going through something awful and life altering. I selfishly wept for myself as I thought about what life
would have been like if they had died—what a hole it would have left. I wept in
confusion and frustration as I tried to “get-it-together” since they were not
dead, and this was not the dark moment that it could have been. But the tears
still poured forth. And I prayed as I wept. It was the kind of prayer that
doesn’t come out of a person all that often. A prayer mixed with lament and joy.
When I could finally see again. I picked up my phone and
started to re-read some of the old texts that Frank had sent to me over the
last few days (finally my bad habit of not clearing away old messages came in
handy). They were the stuff of life: work stuff, garden stuff, jokes and the
like. I finally scrolled through
them all and found one from him telling me to go out and look at the beautiful
moon that we had a week ago. Just a simple note from my friend to remind me to
look for the beauty of God’s works. It was a note of grace—to focuses on what
is and not what isn’t, as Frank describes grace.
I realized I was focusing on the darkness—on the nighttime
of the moment. I was letting myself be overwhelmed by the fear and terrors that
come with the dark when we dwell on it instead of seeing the light. I was only
seeing the empty sky without rejoicing in the beauty of the moon and the starts
and all the grandeur of the heavens put in place by the hand of a loving God.
As the psalmist says, “If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the
light around me become night,’ even the darkness is not dark to you; the night
is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you.” (Psalm 139:11-12)
“Look at the moon!,” he said. “It’s amazing.” I had written
back.
“Look at the miracle of this moment. Look at the light of
Christ!” God said. “It’s amazing.” I finally replied.
Then I picked up my helmet and got back on that bike. Let there be light.
No comments:
Post a Comment