It's already long past departure time. I'm standing near the gate, waiting for the inbound passengers to deplane. There's nowhere to go, and the plane will depart when it departs. Even so, the passengers (including me) are beginning to huddle, as if our hovering will speed up the process. We form a makeshift column, all of us wanting dibs on the precious above-seat-cargo-space.
Standing nearby, facing the now open jet-bridge-door, is a uniformed soldier. He stands with nervous energy, conveying a restless and eager air. He watches the door intently. With him, a friend. In his right hand he holds a large poster board sign, now hanging down by his side, hand stenciled in magic marker, "Welcome Home! I love you!"
Since he has been allowed to stand at the arrival gate (past airport security), it is evident that he is waiting for an "unaccompanied minor." The passengers from the inbound flight spill from the doorway. She is the final passenger to deplane, accompanied by a flight attendant. Around her neck, a plastic packet hangs with her documents. She is, perhaps twelve or thirteen, although still childlike with two perfect braids. She scans the faces; sees her father, and her smile is radiant and luminous.
There is a moment. A pause. And she catapults herself into his wide-open arms. His hand-lettered sign has dropped from his hand to the floor, now immaterial, and as his daughter leans into his chest, he clutches her tightly and kisses her head. Those of us lucky enough to witness this scene know the healing power, and blessedness of this embrace.
No. We do not know their entire story. How long since their last visit? Why have they been separated? Has he been deployed and in "harm's way?" Does she live in another state, unable to frequently visit her father?
But this we do know: Every single one of us in that departure lounge wished to be in that embrace.
Here's the deal: in that embrace, the little girl was at home.
There is a similar story (about an embrace) told in the Gospel of Luke. A young man leaves home in order to explore and experiment. And "find himself." It doesn't turn out like he planned. He squanders his inheritance and his opportunity, and lives penniless. So he decides to return--full of shame and regret--willing to be his father's servant, as some kind of penance. And then this sentence; "But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion for him; he ran to his son, threw his arms around him and kissed him."
His Father's reaction? Wrath?
Hardly. Just the opposite. His father throws a party. He calls for rings on his son's fingers, shoes on his feet, and says: "Kill the fatted calf, and let us eat and be merry. My son was dead, and he's alive, was lost, he's found." And they do indeed have the best of all parties, with music and dancing and everything else.
In real life, it doesn't always turn out this way.
A fifth grade boy (in a Texas school) wrote about his "very first dad."
I remember him
like God in my heart, I remember him in my heart
like the clouds overhead,
and strawberry ice cream and bananas
when I was a little kid.
But the most I remember
is his love,
as big as Texas
when I was born.
His teacher explained, "He's not a very good student, although he tries. But he's never done anything like this (the poem) before." She went on, "He never even knew his real father. The man skipped town the day the boy was born."
Even so. In all of us, there is a yearning. A hunger.
A need to know that we count.
That we matter. So we scan the "crowd" for that gaze. And the embrace that follows.
That someone knows us, and sees us, and is willing to open their arms wide no matter what.
The reality of true Grace is that it does not waiver or diminish. It does not depend upon our
response, performance, attitude, faith or checkered past. It just is. Why? Because Grace heals not by taking shame away, but by removing the one thing our shame makes us fear the most: rejection. In my experience, it is easier to talk about grace, than it is to embrace it. Just as it is easier to talk about God, than to experience God.
You want certainty?
Okay. Here's what I know for
certain:
We will not always learn from our mistakes. We will check our phone messages even while on a silent retreat. We will never fully understand the opposite sex, even if we compare them to planets.The Chicago Cubs will never win a World Series. (I may get phone calls about this.) Dancing is always good for whatever ails us. Regardless of our best intentions, we will hurt the people we love. Regardless of our pain, spring will always give us irises. And. It is not easy to fall into the open arms of love. However. We will only know grace through the open arms of one another.
And it is so easy to shut down. In an interview about her book The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison says, "It's interesting to watch what happens when a child walks into a room. Does your face light up? When my children used to walk in the room when they were little, I looked at them to see if they had buckled their trousers or if their hair was combed or if their socks were up; you think your affection and your deep love is on display because you're caring for them. It's not. When they see you, they see the critical face. What's wrong now? Let your face speak what's in your heart. When they walk in the room my face says I'm glad to see them. It's just as small as that, you see?"
A young boy had nightmares. The kind that make you go to mom. (No use going to Dad, who will tell you, "Go to mom.")
"Okay," the mom tells the boy. "Go back to your room. Kneel down by your bed. Pray to Jesus and he'll fix it."
Back to his room. Kneels down by his bed. Prays. And. . .more nightmares. Back and forth to mom. The sixth time. "Mom, I'm having nightmares." "Okay honey, here's what. . ." "I know mom. I'm going to my room, and kneel down by my bed and pray to Jesus. But before I do that, can I just
lay in your bed and have you hold me?" "Yes, honey, why?"
"Because, sometimes I just need Jesus with skin on it."
The moon is full again, and on cloudless evenings, my patio and garden are in sepia tone around midnight. It's been a full week. From team building in Oklahoma, to a lecture on creating sanctuary gardens here in the PNW, to a day with unstinting chaplain and hospice workers in a Seattle area Hospital, to a night of revelry celebrating Robert Burns. Here's what I learned; it doesn't really matter the venue, we all are looking for wide open arms. Yes, we do our best to pretend that we have our act together, or that we are above overtures of compassion. But inside something gnaws. You see, we don't trust our own goodness. So we reach out, at every opportunity, looking for mercy. I think what we have failed to see, is that the embrace we seek, is an embrace we too, are able to give.
Wherever you turn your eyes, the world can shine like transfiguration. You don't have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see.
