I was driving home from a soccer game tonight, doing some thinking. (Truly, some of my best thinking time is while driving. If I could write and drive at the same time, I would.) Thinking about an idea I've been building on for years. It's always bothered me that, say, missionaries will come home from their 2-year missions SO EXCITED about the country/state where they served. "The people are so nice/generous/humble/teachable." "The landscape is beautiful." To hear them talk, apparently everything about the place was Amazing. The people, the place, the food, the shops, the public transportation. Everything.
What bothers me isn't that they think the place they went was amazing. They should think that. What bothers me is that they don't seem to realize that this love could be--and SHOULD BE--translated to every other people and every other place on earth. They didn't love Mexico before they went there. Why do they love it after living there for 2 years?
Because it became a part of them.
As I was driving home from my game, passing ordinary, non-special Cincinnati places, I checked for a sign that always has something funny written on it only to be disappointed to see it blank. I was interested to see if there was traffic at a particular corner, because there's always traffic there, no matter what time of day, and that kind of stuff interests me. I checked how many cars were in the Kroger parking lot--it was late, what were people still doing at Kroger? I noted that there weren't any cars parked in the right hand lane that sometimes is a parking lot and sometimes is a lane--a few years ago, there were always a few cars parked on the road, in front of an apartment complex, but those people must have moved away because the lane has been car-free for a while.
Why do these non-special details matter--to me, if to no one else? Why do I look for them, think about them, wonder about them? Because they're a part of me.
There are people in my life. Non-special people by nearly every standard of judgment. My brother who is my best friend and can nearly read my mind. My husband who is the rockbed of my sanity. My children who keep me on my toes and in touch with laughter. My neighbors who have been so good to my children. My friends who listen to me and I listen to them.
These non-special people matter because they are a part of me.
But more than that, I am a part of them.
I think part of what we're looking for in this life, is validation that we exist. (Okay, this is part of what I'm looking for, and maybe everyone else knows that they exist and they don't spend a moment thinking about it. But go with me here.) These people, these places, these things... they are special to us because they tell us that we Are. We have memories of these places. We have shared experiences with these people. We can think back on times that were. We have carved our existence into a particular time and place and people, and those particular times and places and people become special to us because they tell us that we Are.
I try to remember that when people talk about their kids or their vacation or their native land. These things are special to them because they know these things, and are known by these things. These things are no more or less special than the people, places and things are in my own life, but those things are Theirs, and that makes them Special.
I don't think the lesson we should learn is that nothing is truly Special. I think the lesson is that we ought to open our hearts a lot wider, because so many things, so many places, so many people, are special and wonderful and good. The world is a big place, and we're each experiencing a little piece of it. We share some of those pieces with many others, and we only have few pieces in common with others still.
I think God did that on purpose.
No comments:
Post a Comment