Making Space to See Clearly

three unique things in two days

We drove our second car with a large crack in the windshield for a very long time.  We drove like this for over a year and just got used to seeing through the crack.  We had full glass coverage in place for the vehicle, but life simply felt too busy to investigate what it took to make a claim and have it fixed.

Once we did, it is laughable how easy it was.  Our agent gave us a number to call and the company they work with was willing to come to us.  The very next day.  It could be fixed in our driveway or while we were at work. There was no paperwork and no cost to us.

For days afterward, when I sat in the driver’s seat and looked out, the world felt remarkably sharper.  Clearer.  Crisper. We had gone so long with the crack impeding our view, we became used to it always being there.

[Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash ]

This past week, I had three unique things happen to me that helped me see things more clearly. The first two were comments others said to me that helped me see myself more clearly.  They were amazing in their simplicity, but the impact was as if a Rubik’s cube color row lined up and snapped into place with satisfaction.  I wondered why I didn’t know these things about myself already, and why I needed someone else to say them.

The first was from a new colleague, at my first staff meeting in my new parish.  We were asked to share a highlight of our summer.  Of course, I said getting a new job was an obvious highlight for me (it is huge) but also mentioned the two family trips we’ve had this summer.  I shared how we rent the same cabin up north each summer and rent the same beach house in Duluth each summer.  I mentioned that not only do we go to these same places each year, but we do the same things with the kids once there: we go to the same place for ice cream, for pancakes, and for mini golf.  We always visit the Headwaters of the Mississippi, walk the same boardwalk, climb on the same rocks, and walk over the same lift bridge.  I said I don’t know what that’s about.  A colleague quipped, “It means you love liturgy.”

That was a lightbulb moment.  Of course he’s right.  I do love liturgy.  Catholic liturgy is familiar.  Predictable.  Rote. Universal.  I can go to Mass anywhere on any given Sunday and know what the readings will be, what will happen next, and participate fully in the responses.  I can show up tired or weary, stressed or preoccupied, and let liturgy wash over me and do its thing. 

Maybe there is a tie between how we vacation and how we worship—that I value routine, familiarity, tradition, and predictability. That there is a sense of belonging and home in it all. I would love to explore more places with our children someday too, but with the limited means we have, this is what we do. I love that traditions are being engrained in them and in us.

That same night, I headed back to my former place of employment for a summer social with the ministry I held most dearly in my pastoral care work—Emmaus Ministry, rooted in the national BeFriender Ministry.  I returned as an alum because, as luck would have it, this summer we invited our alumni to join the current ministers.  I could mingle, share a meal, facilitate a small group discussion, be in a large group photo, and then be blessed and sent by tender, smiling faces as I took leave of this ministry.  At the start of the night, a Board member from BeFrienders read a letter from the Executive Director.  In it, she wished me well as I left my ministry and began a new tree ring.

This hit me with the same stark clarity as the earlier comment from my new colleague.  In BeFrienders, there are powerful symbols we use as we reflect on our ministry: Cup. Tree ring. Assumptive world.  In all the grieving and letting go I had been doing in the month before I left, why did I not think about the transition this simply: I was adding a new tree ring to my life’s story.  It was right there within me the whole time.  I just needed someone else to point it out and help me to see a little more clearly.  May there be much space between this ring and the next, indicating a time of much growth and flourishing, with little scarring.

This would have been enough to savor and reflect on. 

But the third unique thing happened to me the next day.  It was an act of kindness that helped me see humanity more clearly.  Our family had tickets to see the MN Twins play at Target Field in Minneapolis. Rather than drive and pay the high cost of parking ramps (or walk a great distance to save on parking costs) we decided to take the light rail. We thought it would be a fun experience for the children and relished the idea of avoiding rush hour traffic and being dropped off at the gate.

Imagine our family of four, decked out in our Twins and Harry Potter gear (it was, after all, Harry Potter night at the field!), holding our clear stadium bag and an armful of blankets because it was unseasonably cool, standing at the ticket kiosk next to the tracks trying to buy four tickets and having a blinking light saying cash only, no credit cards accepted.  We were dumbfounded.  We both checked our wallets.  Nothing.  Not a single bill to be found.

The family behind us asked if we were trying to use a card. We stepped aside, relinquishing our spot at the kiosk, and they said the same thing happened to them—they just returned from walking back from some hotel or restaurant to get cash because they didn’t have any either. They smoothly inserted their green bill and hopped on board the waiting train. We stood by the kiosk talking about where we could walk to find an ATM machine.

Then the dad in the family turned around and handed us a $20 bill. 

He didn’t say a word.  Just handed it to us and got on. We were stunned.  Dumbfounded.  As my husband started operating the ticket machine again, using this precious piece of green paper that our economy runs on, I stuck my head through the open doors of the train and said, “Thank you! Thank you so much!”

In no time at all, the machine spit out four tickets, a receipt, and ten one-dollar coins as change.  I took those coins and promptly returned them to the family and said we’d find a way to get cash before leaving the stadium and thanked them for their kindness again.

Our family found seats and sat in anticipation of the trip.  I was overcome with gratitude. I had new clarity about being the one to need help and what it feels like to accept kindness and charity from others. I felt a determination to pay it forward. And I knew that this was a reminder that people are good, despite how divided and heated the world often seems—especially less than three months from a huge election in the United States where the stakes are high. 

May we all Make Space to see the normal, everyday things around us just a little more clearly.  Perhaps there are cracks or pits in our vision that need to be healed to help us see anew. Maybe parts of us have been shattered and left jagged. As we grow, we need to hear the wisdom and voices of others to help us know ourselves better. Or maybe a perfect stranger will come along and blow wide open the normal ways we care for ourselves and are self-reliant—until we aren’t.

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