27¢ part 2

Here’s how the first night’s dream began. I didn’t remember this part until I dreamed it again the second night. The doorbell rang in the middle of the day. My first thought was, “I don’t care what you’re selling. I’m not interested!”

The house was a wreck, as if an epic struggle had taken place and no one bothered to straighten up. I unlocked and opened the door. He just stood there, smiling; no product, no pitch, just a smile. He didn’t have a name badge either, but I knew who he was. I knew because I’ve never been looked at like this before. It wasn’t so much being looked “at” as it was being seen into.

I’ve had people see into me before, but not like this. When others have seen below the surface, their instinct has been recoil. No matter what their mouths say, if you look in their eyes, you see the retreat. Not this one.

In fact, it felt like we were falling into one another; like this being seen – this being known – was an invitation to cease all pretending. I could tell it would have been futile. I felt like a lion tamer hiding a big steak behind my back.

That’s when I started to scramble. My litany of “If onlys” went into overdrive. “If only I’d known you were coming today: I could have finished that DIY den renovation and we would have had a lovely place to visit; I would have prepared Pinterest-worthy hors d’oeuvres to pull out of the oven; I could have read a daily Lenten devotional, so we could discuss it together; or I could have prayed the newspaper, cementing my solidarity with all who have the boot of oppression/injustice on their neck; I would have shaved and put on my best salvage-chic for you.”

I wanted to ask if you’d come back in a few months, or at least tomorrow, so that I could prepare for your arrival. But your eyes said, “Today is the day; now is the time.” Seeing that you weren’t going to give up, I invited you in. As we slowly walked toward the kitchen, I silently rehearsed all of my excuses. “I’m not worthy to be called your child. I’ve wasted so much of that with which you have gifted me…”

Before I could squeeze the first phrase from my lips, you grabbed me and hugged me. I felt the waterfall release, first from my own eyes, down your back; then your own, down mine. I couldn’t tell which of us was holding on more tightly. All I knew is that I never wanted to let go.

Through the veil of tears, I caught a glimpse of my son at the top of the stairs. He was smiling, and then turned to go to his room. A minute or so later, he was bounding down the stairs with one fist clenched.

That’s how the two dimes, one nickel, and two pennies arrived for their dance on the counter. There were no words, at least not out loud. It was as if our hearts suddenly remembered a language all their own; a language I couldn’t remember ever knowing.

Even though my son still seemed to know the language, there were some things he hadn’t yet understood. He was speaking with his heart, but the accents of economy and empire were unmistakable. He may not have known the word "transaction", but he was fully aware of how things worked. Or so he thought.

There was no transaction, at least none in which we could play a part. The rhythm of my heart hesitantly fluttered-out a new word: transformation. We tried it on for size, my son and I, both of us wallowing around inside it like children in their parents’ dress-up clothes. There was no way we could fill it out – at least not now – but it rested well on us in spite of its roominess.

A larger heart percussed a brief message, vibrating us to the core, “It’s a gift, this grace, and all you can do is pay it forward with all that you have, and all that you are, even if it’s 27¢ at a time.” 

This is the thing that God does every day, right before our eyes, whether we are paying attention or not, so we might as well watch.

Photo by Lee Lindsey McKinney

© 2015 Todd Jenkins