Tommy was his parent's pride and joy.  A very bright, creative and contented little boy, he began kindergarten with his parent's certainty that he would flourish.

At the end of the first week, Tommy brought home pictures he had colored. His mother and father beamed at their son's obvious talent.  Although, they were a little curious as to why every single one of Tommy's drawings were done in black crayon.  Even so, they said nothing.

Another week passed.  Tommy brought home more pictures, technically correct and endearing.  But each of them still in black.

"Perhaps he is color blind," his father said.  "We should get his eyes checked."

"No," his mother responded.  "Tommy could name all the colors by the time he was two.  But I will take him for a check up."

The pediatrician said, "There's no need to worry. Tommy is healthy in every way."

As the weeks passed, and the pictures continued to come home in black crayon, Tommy's mother felt unglued by anxiety.  She made an appointment with a child psychologist, who conducted numerous tests, referred Tommy for brain scans, but in the end, finally, resigned baffled.  "Your son is a precocious learner.  Perhaps he needs more challenging activities."

 
By Thanksgiving the refrigerator displayed Tommy's black pictures, black dogs chasing a black ball in a black field, black houses, black suns, black airplanes and a black turkey.  Everything black.

Tommy's grandmother, visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday, noticed (of course) all of her grandson's black drawings. She immediately asked Tommy, "Honey, why are all of your drawings done in black crayon?"
"That's easy Grandma," the boy answered.  "My chair is at the end of the table, and by the time the box of crayons gets to me, the only ones left are black."

I like this story because it is cute, and I like it because it made me laugh out loud.  We need stories that invite us to laugh out loud. There is ample anxiety in a world already wired a little tight.

And I like this story because it is a reminder (at a deeper level) of how easily we can be derailed and victims of our presuppositions.

Whatever is honored will be cultivated. -Plato   

For whatever reason...

We honor (or prefer) "life in a box"

We find comfort in diagnosis (or sound-bites)

We find disquiet in uncertainty

We hope for refuge in a destination

We grow impatient with the journey

Speaking of crayons, Lord have mercy if you are caught coloring outside the lines, regardless of the Crayola you choose.

And we carry these expectations (more often than not, unknowingly) about people or life, into our relationships, encounters and endeavors.  These expectations become our paradigm for life.  Our lens, by which we determine "reality."  (In the case of the story: Pictures with black crayons are abnormal and therefore a sign of a troubled child.)  (Or; If you want to get to the bottom of any story, ask Grandma.) 

"Blessed are the poor in spirit," Jesus told the crowd.

And Simon Peter asked, "Do we have to write this down?  Are we going to be tested on this?"

It's not too far from the truth.  Jesus unnerved his disciples.  (But then, what he said still unnerves people today.)  He spoke in parables (which translates, grappling with opposites).  After the parable, the disciples would ask, "That's a nice story, but what does it mean?"

You know, life would make more sense if we "understood" it completely.  Or at the very least, could explain it.

But what if the parable is not about "getting" the truth?

What if the parable is about letting the truth "get you?" 

Or in some way, allowing this grappling with opposites (an invitation to mystery) to enter and transform our world.

What would happen if we honored mystery instead of certainty?

Listen to Thomas Moore's thoughts about intimacy. "The soul is always complicated.  Most of its thought and emotions could never be expressed in plain language.  You could have the patience of Job and still never understand your partner (or friend or lover or family member), because the soul by nature doesn't lend itself to understanding or to clarity of expression.  We may have to enter the confusion of another's soul, with no hope of ever finding clarity, without demanding that the other be clear in expressing her feelings and without the hope that one day this person will finally grow up or get better or express herself more plainly."

Is that enticing or what?  The problem is that Moore is spot on, and what he is saying messes with my assumption that everything (or everyone) is a fixable problem.  And--of course--we all know who's to blame.  (Fill in the blank here with your favorite villain.)

As long as we have an internal mechanism that honors or values; tidiness over chaotic; certainty over ambiguity; normal over odd; we will fear whatever is unknown or unfinished or different or in some way askew.

Or even worse, we will ask, "What's wrong?"  Seeing every flaw as an indictment.  Or perhaps, a catastrophe waiting to happen.

I suppose, if I 'fess up, it comes back to my need to be in control.

It's another way of saying that I need to let go of something...

...my need for answers.

...my need for closure.

...my need for a villain (or an enemy of any kind).

With life in a box, we see what we want to see.  We hear what we want to hear. And as soon as we make the choice to demand certainty or closure, we are quick to judge, and quicker to dismiss.

Back to the Crayola story.  Here's the deal: When I am unable to see the sacred in the mystifying, the puzzling, the messy, the unruly and the meager, it is to the detriment of my heart.

Dahl wrote that "those who don't believe in magic will never find it." Speaking of magic... did you see (or, maybe bask in) last night's super moon? After dark, I lean out the upstairs window. The front lawn is dusted in silver light. There's a breeze, and the perfumed fragrance of Lathyrus odoratus--Sweet Pea--floats and graces the night air.

I love the fact that it never occurred to Tommy that he might be "abnormal." So he never stopped coloring. It tells me that maybe there's room on my fridge door for a depiction of a sacred moment from my day.  I may even render it in black crayon.