Did
you ever have a story run through you that was completely out of your control?
It feels like I’m trying to dry my hair in a wind tunnel. Hang on!
It
was the second Thursday in Lent. I know that only because a daily devotional I
read on social media identifies each day that way. I’m quite sure I couldn’t do
that myself. By the third Tuesday in Lent, I’d be so confused I’d already be in
the upper room, wondering why Jesus and the disciples hadn’t shown up. I might,
even if only for and instant, wonder if I’d been left behind.
My
son walked in and plopped two dimes, a nickel, and two pennies that looked like
they’ve been through Hell on the counter. Not the run-over-by-a-train kind of
Hell that kids sometimes do to coins; but more like a dragged through the
coarsest pockets in the roughest places on earth kind of Hell.
My
son is 22 years old now, but here he was much younger. He was at that age where
truth not only comes out of your mouth naturally, but it also flows from your
eyes, your hands, and even your heart, without you even trying. Not that he
doesn’t tell the truth now, but this was before he learned how the truth opens
windows, and before he saw how doors were closed by falsehood.
This
was the age when truth came naturally. If you can’t remember that age, for
yourself or even for children in a younger generation, you should find a way to
hang out with little people whose truth-telling has not been pruned by ego;
people who have not yet learned how to calculate their words. The simple truth,
reflected in his eyes and heart, was that he expected this 27¢ to pay for
everything; to change the world.
The
counter onto which the coins rolled and settled from his hand was marble; a
milky white with brown streaks that could have been warm strands of caramel
stirred through hot milk. The coins made a kind of music and did their own
dance, before prostrating themselves in silence.
I
had no idea what was coming next, but the truth that was emanating from his
whole body spoke clearly to me: “God is going to do something right before your
eyes, whether you are paying attention or not, so you might as well watch.”
That’s what the name of the story should be, but whoever heard of such a
rambling name for a short story?
How
could anyone expect five small coins to change anything? I’ll tell you how: because it was all he had, and he knew that whatever he had was enough.
That’s
your truth for today: it's all I have,
and I know that whatever I have is enough. Take this with you today and
speak it – if not with your lips, at least with your heart – into every
circumstance of your life. You do that, and I’ll go back to sleep again
tonight, in hopes of dreaming the rest of this story.
 |
| Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney |
©
2015 Todd Jenkins
Wonderful story. I don't know you as a person of prose -- I guess you must do sermons that way but this was an eye-opener.
ReplyDeleteYou had me at story. I scribbles the line down as a means to remember. Otherwise I'd step away and ask myself: how did that go again? This was intriguing and now I'm craving milk & caramel (thanks). I might even go grab $.27 to tape to a card as a reminder. Looking forward to part 2.
ReplyDeleteThis resonated with me. Particularly the part about not being able to calculate our words. In the past, I have lamented not being able to have a "poker face" -- it's the same with words...-- and sometimes people think you are completely naive when you speak and you are trying to understand what you think inside... and the story is unfolding (or unraveling?) and you don't know how it will end or if it is "enough" as you write...but you pray with your entire being that it (whatever "it" is) is enough. Always enough. And you hold your children even closer and pray that they won't experience your fears or misfortune the same way. And that people won't take advantage of their vulnerability or inability to achieve a "poker face."
ReplyDeleteIn the end, I think, all we can really do is to let our words speak for us, and remember that others' words are really about them. That's how friends are chosen, or how they choose us, I think. People who can live with the quantity and particularity of our words - without trying to change either them or us - are the ones who stay.
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