On the cross

In this season of the cross I wanted to share a story with you about a cross that is dear to me. I hope it brings a smile to your face as it does me every time I see it. Here goes...

There are three crosses prominently placed in my office. The first is a large crucifix from my parents. The cross is a foot wide and over two feet long. Finely detailed and exquisitely hand-painted, the affixed image of Jesus is almost lifelike. You can see the thorns of his crown and the delicate folds in his loincloth. Its absolutely beautiful. By contrast, the second cross is small and simple, fashioned from a single palm leaf during (yes, during) Palm Sunday mass by my daughter years ago. Now shriveled and brittle and faded a light yellow, it holds a special place in my heart and will till it turns to dust, or I do. But this story is about the third cross, so let's get to it.

The cross is made of plastic. It is somewhat oddly shaped, with squat stubby 'arms', wider in proportion than its vertical post. The post has a sloping top and bottom, parallel to one another, angled such that its hard to prop up without it falling over. Its slightly concave when viewed profile, from its side. The front surface is a goldish color with a black outline and is somewhat shiny, not glossy but more like the satin of lightly weathered brass. Its back is a dull manufacturer's gray, clearly not meant to be seen under normal circumstances. Stretching across it, from above one arm to within the other, is a deep crack, clear through the gold but not the gray layer of plastic. More on the crack in a moment. The whole piece is dirty, spotted and stained, and has been that way since I obtained it, and as such it will remain. It measures a little more than nine inches high and three across, and sits on a window sash between me and a gorgeous spring day outside.

Some may recognize this cross, or others like it, by its nickname - "bowtie". To those who don't, it will become apparent as this little story unfolds, starting with how I found it, or it found me. This story starts alongside a busy highway where we met, this cross and I, not for the first time, but for the first under these new conditions. I had come back to this spot, a place far from home but not totally unfamiliar to me, to reflect on what had happened a few days prior, or maybe to try and make some sense of it. Like an experienced detective, or so I pretended, I tried to reconstruct the scene, finding it not that hard to do so with all the evidence left behind. But before I do, let me first play it for you "real-time".

Sunny.... noonish.... happy.... secure.... all of us excited to see everyone.... (then all in 5 seconds).... BANG.... what was that?.... hold on!... silence.... BAM.... bam.... bam.... bam.... BOOM.... POW!

Real-time off.

Alright, here are the tire marks. Here's where we must have left the road. On cruise control going sixty five at the time, this is where our coaster ride began. A moment earlier we had been slammed from behind by a DUI driver (the BANG), jolting the rear end thirty degrees left. Now regaining their traction, the rear tires left dark rubber marks as they propelled us off the highway out of control. Then nothing for a hundred feet or so until lots of scrapes on a flat rock dome halfway up the embankment. The pitch of the roadway and shoulder had catapulted us airborne (the silence) till landing on the rock (BAM). Now a clear path cut through a bramble of bushes and small trees, all laid flat like crop circles (bam.... bam.... bam). Then the bigger tree, pulled out by its roots from the thin rocky soil (BOOM) activated the air bags (POW). Only wounded till then, it was here that the Suburban gave itself up in defense of our family. After taking down the tree, and with it most of our momentum, I could see where the crippled truck had slid back down the embankment and come to rest in a muddy ditch alongside the roadway. The Suburban was now long gone, never to be seen again, towed off somewhere to be stripped for parts. But we were safe - sore, shook up and still a bit in shock, but safe.

As I surveyed the scene one last time before leaving, my eye caught an unusual shape underneath the toppled and mangled tree, the one that killed the truck. As I got closer a muddy piece of gray plastic appeared. I picked it up, brushed it off and turned it over to find the front emblem from the Suburban's grill. The Chevy bowtie. The cross with the crack, now gracing my window sill. The cross that led us through this ordeal and kept us safe.

Now years later, as I look at this piece of plastic, as I am now, it reminds me of how we were protected that day. It reminds me of how the cross protects us every day. It reminds me and I smile.

On salads

I'm a big fan of salads. All kinds, but especially homemade ones. When I work from home, which is quite often, I usually make a salad for lunch. Same for the weekends. When my wife is around we turn it into a tag-team affair, she sprinkling on nuts and fruit and me slicing cheese and meat. We've gotten quite good at it if I may say so myself. Anything edible is fair game for these salads, with leftovers from prior dinners always finding their way into the bowl. On this particular day my salad includes romaine lettuce, swiss cheese, fresh turkey - from a whole turkey breast we had for dinner last night and which will supply us for at least a few more days, walnuts, chunks of pineapple, sun dried cranberries and olive oil and vinegar dressing. Mmmm, mmmm, good!

Have you ever really looked at a salad? Really studied one? I'm staring at mine right now. What color would you say my lettuce is? Green? Maybe at first glance, but not really. Green is the color of that Crayola crayon that says GREEN on it. My lettuce is a thousand shades of green, sometimes more white or yellow than green. And its texture, how would you describe that? Crispy? Yes, but its more complex than that, as varied as a hundred fresh leaves collected on a walk in the woods. The walnuts look like bits of brain with their folds and creases, not one like the others, and they too can't be described as just BROWN. (I don't really know what brain bits look like, but walnuts are what I imagine they would look like.) The pineapple has a distinctive grain, a tight grain, sort of like oak, and it cuts a lot easier with the grain then against. The cranberries are sort of like reddish raisins, only they don't stick together as much and you won't find any vine stubs. The turkey is mostly white-ish, the kind of white you'll find twenty different hues of at the Benjamin Moore store, the kind of white writers call bone or cloud or china. It also has a grain, not like wood but like the smooth, curvy lines a receding tide leaves in the sand. The swiss cheese looks like little post-it notes haphazardly spread around a disheveled desk. I can't make out the words scribbled on them, cause the lettering is so small, but actually because the letters are really dots of salad dressing. The dressing carries these tiny specks of seasoning all over my salad, which look like a horde of hungry ants at an abandoned picnic as the oil and vinegar slides into every nook and cranny.

But the real sight to behold is the whole salad, the whole bowl. Its how all the different ingredients, all the colors, textures, aromas, tastes, contrasting and complimenting each other, come together to become something bigger and better then themselves. And as I say my blessing... Bless us Lord and these your gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen... it hits me like a thunder clap. I am staring at thy bounty! This salad in front of me is the Lord's bounty! There it is, sitting in the bowl right in front of me. It is the amalgamation of His gifts into something bigger and better - bounty. But it is so much more than that, because this big bounty salad is screaming at me! Its shouting at me that we are supposed to stop and stare at our gifts, in ourselves and others, and take a moment to appreciate them - the hue of your lettuce, the creases of my walnuts, the grain of a friend's pineapple, the lettering on a stranger's Swiss cheese. And beyond that, we are being called to intermix these gifts, to combine them, blend them, to pool, join and commingle them, and in so doing to reveal the Lord's bounty for all to see and smell and taste. Where to start you ask? That's easy. Make yourself a big salad for lunch tomorrow. It will tell you what to do next.

On airports

While traveling back from Washington recently I was reminded of what remarkable places airports are. Let me explain. After a couple days of business in DC I was anxious to get home in time for the big game. I arrived at Dulles in plenty of time for my flight, checked in at a United self-service kiosk, and quickly headed for the security checkpoint. Roller and computer bags in hand, I turned a corner and ran into a sea of people waiting to get through security. 4 lanes wide, the lines weaved back and forth for what seemed like eternity. Disney would have been jealous.

I was in for at least an hour of hell. I was being herded into a long queue like cattle, creeping along at a snail’s pace, no control over how slow the ID checkers were, and stuck alone in a mob of strangers all trapped in the same fate.

All very true, except for the hell part. Actually, it was an hour in heaven, a gift unexpectedly given to me by God. An hour so filled with wonder and magic that I had to share it with you. I will not do it justice in describing this gift but here is my feeble try.

My pulse is up from dashing through ticketing and when I get a glimpse at the security line my anxiety level jumps to match my heart rate. As a seasoned traveler, I do a quick calculation in my head at the odds of making my flight. It doesn’t look good. I pop my headphones in and turn on my iPod. Maybe the music will make the line go faster. I notice a young family of 4, their dress tells me they're foreigners, probably returning home from a vacation based on the new rag doll the little girl clings to and the clean baseball cap worn by the boy. A calm comes over me as they remind me of my own family and the vacations we’ve been fortunate enough to have, especially when they were young like these 2 little ones. I turn down my music to eavesdrop on their conversation, and even though it’s in their native tongue and I can’t understand a word, I get the gist of it from their playfully interaction.

The line I’m in merges with the one to my right and I see 2 business men, from the UK by their accents, graciously let a large group merge ahead of them. I find their smiles contagious as they joke with one another, seemingly oblivious to the wait. I put my iPod away and start paying more attention to those around me. I notice an expectant young woman, just outside the security lines, talking to 2 men in the line next to me. I suspect they are brothers by their similar build and features. One is obviously her husband because every time the line snakes near the outside edge of the queue, they smooch and hug and giggle together. One such time I find myself right there between them, she reaching over from the farewell area and he from the line inside mine. She is rather loud and animated, somewhat sad but happy too. I first feel like I am intruding on a private moment, but soon feel more like I am sharing this special minute with them. Another foreign language, but their faces speak volumes, hers especially. Her eyes remind me of my wife's, not by color or shape or size, but with that I-can’t-wait-till-you-return look. I know that look. For an instant, but what seems forever, I am transfixed by their loving exchange. They, like so many others in this very public and noisy place, are sharing a very private and personal moment, and in so doing enriching my life as well.

Because the 4 lines u-turn back and forth and move at different speeds, every few steps I take results in new neighbors and more delicacies for my senses. I no longer glance at the clock and don’t mind at all that my line seems to be moving slower than the others. A woman in military fatigues occasionally waves to a small group outside the security lines, most likely her parents and sibs. She’s quietly crying, but trying to be strong at the same time, and the lady she’s waving to has a hanky in her hand. She’s out of earshot, but I can see a few strangers around her offer comfort. Somehow, I feel comforted too. A young man towards the front of my line compliments the security guard checking IDs on the fine job she is doing. It’s undoubtedly a very stressful and thankless job, and I can see her literally straighten up as his kind words lift a big load of stress off this woman’s shoulders. And as a big smile comes to her face I can feel my stress being lifted too. This is a truly amazing experience, to have a total stranger, with his back to me and talking to another stranger, lift my spirit that way.

And so it went for over an hour, miracle after miracle, gift after gift, given to me unknowingly but openly by total strangers, in a loud and crowded airport, on a cold and blustery day outside of Washington DC. These people, all nameless, came to that place on that day to lift my heart and my spirit, to enrich my life while asking nothing in return, to bear a gift from God to me. God is wonderful, God is great. And, yes, airports are remarkable places.

PS. I made my flight and was home in time for the game.

On baseballs

He placed each baseball carefully into their packages. As he did, it brought back memories of that wonderful summer day, back in his youth, when he flagged those two foul balls during a day and night double header at Yankee Stadium. His Dad had even waited with him after the games at the locker room door, well after his bedtime, to get them signed.

A week later the small brick ranch was abuzz. The twins were eight today, practically men by their reckoning, and they couldn't wait for the post-dinner festivities to begin. Mom brought out the cake, with '88' lit up in candles, and everyone - even the twins, joined in the singing. The presents were all wrapped in fancy paper except for the two small square boxes with postage, which the boys saved for last. "A baseball" said Tommy. "Me too" said Pete. Dad explained the story behind the balls, for he knew how precious they were to his father. "Wow!" Tommy interrupted, "Roger Maris!!" "Geez, Mickey Mantle!!!" added his brother.

It was a crisp, bright autumn day, perfect for a family gathering even though it was a funeral. Now in their mid-twenties, the twins had been pallbearers. The casket was simple but bore the markings of someone who had been dearly loved, with little mementos placed among the flowers on its top, more meaningful to the givers than anyone else would ever know. Among them were two small cardboard boxes.

That night Grandpa came to Tom in a dream. "Hello Tom. Thank you for the baseball. Its as perfect as the day I sent it to you! You have taken very good care of it. I will think of you when I look at it. Love, Grandpa."

He also came to Peter. "Hello Peter. Thank you for the baseball. I hardly recognize it, its so worn and tattered! Please take it back, and continue to use it, for it brings me great joy. My eyes squint when you look into the sun to catch it, my elbows tingle when you swing away to hit it, my hair flickers in the breeze as you round the bases, the sweet smell of cut grass surrounds me when you glove a grounder, and my heart leaps for joy when you taste victory. I am so proud of you and am with you always. Love, Grandpa."

The baseball is life. Pick yours.