Last week, I flew up to our nation’s capital for a short but
important meeting. Although the focus of the trip was a much-hyped discussion
on potential changes to the structure and governance of the Episcopal Church, I
knew that other aspects of the journey would bear fruit as well. I chose a connecting
flight that would enable me to sit next to a friend and colleague who was
travelling to Washington for the same meeting. I made arrangements to stay at
the seminary where I finished my studies because I knew I would get to see a
friend who has just begun his time there and because I expected to cross paths
with some of the professors who had helped shape me for ordained ministry.
Also, the seminary campus abuts a boarding school, where a member of our youth
group has recently started high school, and I thought a quick breakfast or at
least a cup of coffee together might be possible.
Soon, however, those hopes began to evaporate. Mechanical
problems on two different airplanes prevented my friend from making the trip,
so I ended up sandwiched between two strangers instead. When I saw the agenda
for the church-wide meeting, I discovered that it was scheduled to run later
than I expected, and I was not sure whether my friend would be able to stay up
long enough for us to visit. When I saw one of my favorite seminary professors
and approached him with a big grin on my face, he returned my offer of a
handshake, but I could tell that he could not recall who I was. Then, my ride
back to the airport fell through, which meant I would need to call a cab, which
meant that I might not have enough time to have breakfast with our parishioner
at the boarding school.
Faced with mounting disappointment and the reality that I
was standing in a familiar place but had no one to share it with, I went for a
walk. Although it had been a long time, I retraced my steps from the seminary
back to the apartment where Elizabeth and I lived when we were first married.
The first few minutes of the walk were very familiar, and I recalled with joy
how many times I had made that trip in the past. Then, I found myself walking
down a street that I knew had to be the right one even though I could not
remember any of houses on it. Finally, I turned a corner and saw our apartment
complex, which prompted me to pull my cell phone out of my pocket and call
Elizabeth to share that moment with her.
Without asking whether she was interested, I narrated my
walk for her as I proceeded down the street to the last row of apartments. Then,
as I turned down the dead-end sidewalk that led to our apartment, a flood of
memories came back. “Do you remember making a tiny snowman in the grass during
that fall’s first snow?” I asked. “Oh!” I exclaimed aloud, “I wonder if the
hydrangea are still in front of our patio.” Finally, as the place we called
home came into view, I said, “Do you remember our neighbor? What was his
name—Mr. Burke? I wonder what happened to him.” Then, suddenly, through the
bushes, I saw something—someone sitting on our neighbor’s patio. “May I call
you right back?” I asked. “I see someone.”
Nine years ago, when we lived in northern Virginia, Mr.
Burke (I think that was his name) was already an ancient man. He lived next
door to us, and he was the kind of neighbor young couples dream of. Always
friendly, always courteous, Mr. Burke loved to smile and wave as he passed by
our front door, pushing his shopping cart toward the grocery store. He shared
dramatic stories of his military service and reminisced about his wife who had
died years before. When I moved away from that apartment, I cried a little bit
because I knew that I would never see that lovely man again. But, when I walked
down that sidewalk last week, there he was—still sitting on his front patio,
even more ancient than before, but just as friendly as ever.
That day, I sat with him for a while, reminding him who I
was and thanking him for being such a wonderful neighbor. I told him that I
think about him often and give thanks to God for what he meant to us back then.
He asked me to keep him in my prayers, and I assured him that I would. As I
walked away, I called Elizabeth to tell her the good news, tears streaming down
my cheeks. I never expected to see Mr. Burke again, and this trip all the way
to Washington had given me another chance to appreciate him and, through that
unexpected encounter, how full of God’s blessings those short nine months had
been.
God does not wait for us to look for his blessings before he
bestows them upon us. In fact, God showers them upon us even if we are
completely oblivious to the fact that he has given them to us in the first
place. As Jesus said, “God causes the sun to rise on the evil and the good and
sends rain on the just and the unjust” (Matthew 5:45). The difference between
the two, however, is what they do in response to those heaven-sent gifts. Jesus’
words are a reminder that it is up to us to count our blessings and give credit
to God for giving them to us.
Sometimes blessings come when and where we expect them to
be—an answered prayer, a scheduled encounter, or a much-anticipated gift. More
often, however, blessings sneak into our lives without us even noticing—a
cancelled meeting, an interrupted vacation, an unexpected reunion. What does
God ask for us in return? Only that we notice how full of blessing our lives
really are. What will it take for us to embrace our blessedness? What will it
take for us to count those otherwise unnoticed blessings? Find time each day to
name before God the many, many ways that you are blessed so that, by giving
thanks, your life might be more fully shaped by the blessings you have been
given.
So true. We never know for sure where a day might take us!
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