At the rental car desk on Oahu, the Father was told, "We're sorry sir, we don't have the economy class car you reserved."

Unnerved, the Father shouted, "Don't even begin to tell me that. Do you have any idea what this means?" While steam visibly seeped from his shirt collar. "It's okay sir," the agent interrupted, "to compensate you for your inconvenience, we'd like you to drive this new SUV."

Arriving at the Maui rental car desk, de ja vu. "Sorry sir, but we don't have the economy car you reserved." "This is unbelievable," the Father responded, now apoplectic. "But to make this right," the agent told him, "we'd like you to enjoy your vacation in a Mustang convertible."

On both Kauai and the Big Island, more "bad news." "We don't have the car you reserved, but we'd like to offer you a luxury car for your time with us."

The family vacation plans went awry.
Best laid plans and all that.
And yet. The family spent three weeks taking pleasure in unaccustomed extravagance.

A month after the trip, the family reminisced over photos, each talking about their favorite place or experience. "What about you Dad?" "It was okay," the Father replied, "but it still really annoys me that I never once got the car I reserved."

We see what we want to see.

Here's the deal: when we hang on to our perceived "control," we miss the bliss of feeling the wind in our hair, cruising the islands in a Mustang convertible.

We sure like our need for "control." I heard of one parish that cut the Epistle reading from the liturgy; (are you ready for this?) in order to end the service "on time."

I watched a high school baseball game with a good friend in Southern California. A businessman (and father of another player on the team) sat near us. My friend says, "Hey, I thought we were having lunch." "Someday," the man answered, "But I'm still looking for a window of time." He went on. You know, life so busy, so hectic and demanding. (I guess that means, "Until I get that window I will be unavailable, or occupied, or unable to connect.")
I get it.
I really do get it.
We're all frantic at times.

Or distracted. Or distressed.

Back to the ballgame. Here's the puzzling part. This man, (with Bluetooth in his ear during the game; you know, I need this thing in my ear to look important and goofy, just in case I get that all-important-call which is far more important than you, or my son's baseball game), spent over two hours sitting.
Just sitting.
And watching.
Which means, not working.
In other words, he had a window.

Like the man with the Mustang convertible, he didn't know what to do with the gift of life.

So when someone says, "Look, there's nothing out there," what we are really saying is, "I cannot see." (Terry Tempest Williams)

And for whatever reason, we don't look at our world--the world around us--as place where God could possibly live.

I know this for certain: When I determine where (or when) I will see or experience life (or happiness, or the divine, or the sacred, or contentment, or an opportunity to reach out, to connect, to love and repair), I will almost certainly miss those blessed containers. And my preconditioned expectations blind me to wonder, surprise, grace, awe, astonishment and friendship.

If it is true that "all of earth is filled with heaven, and every bush aflame with God," (Emily Dickinson) then all moments around us are alive and pregnant with the possibility of wonder.   

My son is trying to buoy my spirit walking the garden taking photos with his iPad (see the columbine photo above). So I walked the garden with my coffee, grinning when I see the early rose blooms on Penelope, the color of a young girl's blush.  And our crimson red poppies, blooms exaggerated, like the skirts of flamenco dancers, showing off in the far corner of our garden, make me laugh out loud. No, I did not make up for last week's unfinished checklist. But that's okay.

I did find a slice of heaven.