[Been thinking about Mercy and her subtle, and not-so-subtle, ways of kindness today. So here's a classic Siders House post on Mercy from 2009 for your Saturday. Enjoy.]
The night
before his first triathlon, Murphy and his Law were riding my brother’s bumper
just to watch him sweat. He could barely take the tiny, almost purposeful,
mishaps: the broken swim goggles, the triathlon gear haphazardly strewn about
the dining room, the painful, resurfacing image of himself, splashing and
flailing helplessly across Lake Shawnee while all the other triathletes glided
gracefully past. He was a veritable mess, but all I did at first was remark
sarcastically about his about his propensity for hearing about impossible
things and doing them because someone said he couldn’t. He obliged my psychobabble
jabbing in exchange for a favor. He needed new swim goggles, and he wanted me
to go get them. Although I agreed to the task, he soon realized I hadn’t quite
picked up on his sense of urgency. “Maybe I’ll get them myself,” he quipped so I
would feel bad about my dawdling. Suddenly I felt unnecessary. I wanted him to
need me at least a little so I offered to go to Wal-Mart for racing snacks. He took
me up on that one.
While he
scurried about the kitchen, cursing at the unfortunate series of events, I
pondered the idea of going with him. Maybe I could calm him down before the
race tomorrow. The thought of him splashing around pathetically with no one to
tell him he was okay at the end made me a little sad. On the other hand, what
if what he really needed was to hit the ground hard, crash into his limits and
feel the pain of over-commitment and under-preparation?
I wondered
what Mercy would do in this situation. And without actually asking Mercy what
she would do, I offered to go with him, just to feel it out. He seemed relieved
at the idea, but suggested that I probably didn’t want to get up at 3:00am. I
couldn’t convince him that I did, but we both knew maybe it would make things a
little better.
John with the other half-clad males. He's on the far left, goggles on, scanning the water. Excuse the poor photo quality. It was taken on my phone. |
Soon I
started thinking about the times Mercy rescued me in her strange ways.
Sometimes she lets me flounder and flop so I won’t crash quite so badly next
time. And then there are times when, maybe out of pure pity for my ignorance,
and she throws out a life raft and the circumstances tilt ever so slightly in
my favor. Where a moment before I was running uphill with the wind in my face,
suddenly I’m coasting on a downhill slope with a breeze coming up from behind.
After my
many run-ins with Mercy, I can tell one or two things about her character
though. One of her favorite things to do is be really nice when we don’t
deserve it. This sort of behavior totally pulls the rug out from under our
Pavlovian rug of rewards and consequences. It totally busts the if-then formula
we learned about good and bad behavior back in grade school. Mercy chuckles to
herself when we stare awestruck as kindness melts over us right after we just
got into an argument with our spouse or lied to our boss about our vacation
time or cut someone off in traffic. It’s when we are the most unloveable and
mean and wretched that we are also most vulnerable to Love and Mercy sneaking
up on us with their treacherous goodnesses.
I have to
admit though. These means are quite effective. While I’m in the middle of
kicking myself for being an ass, I’m completely unarmed when it comes to
defending myself against Mercy. I am forced to realize that Kindness just
tackled me for no reason except that she loves me, I guess, because I sure did
not earn it.
Mercy
seems to have this bizarre pleasure in making me very uncomfortable. But it
works. Like the summer I was raising money to be in full-time ministry. After
my cousin’s wedding one Saturday night, I drank my grandpa’s whiskey in the
basement with a few renegade family members until I blacked out. I said all
sorts of inappropriate things I wanted to deny except one of my cousin’s got it
all on video. The next thing I remember was my face in the toilet, my hair held
back by one of my brothers, the other one held me steady. That was the night I
lost my right to be self-righteous about how much they drank and I didn’t. I
woke up guilty, sunken and hungover, slumped into the queen bed in my bedroom
at my parents' house. I sprawled there marinating in heaps of shame, a Satan,
my own voice accusing me.
The LeSabre, Not mine, but a close relative. Crushed red velvet interior and a front bench seat. And on this terrible day, sparkling like almost-new. |
Soon I saw
my car, the "legendary" Buick LeSabre, pull up in front of the house.
And I wasn’t driving it. When I inquired about the strange behavior of my
vehicle, my mother informed me that my father had taken it out and cleaned it.
And it was sparkly, as sparkly as an ’86 Buick LeSabre could be, with a full
tank of gas and everything. It was horrible. When I knew what I really deserved
was to be excommunicated, here comes Mercy, my Teacher, sidling up next to me
with cookies and warm milk, taking me out of the cold, and erasing my latest
black mark off the whiteboard. When Mercy wins, she kind of loses, at first, so
I can win. I can’t say that I understand it fully, but all I know is, this is
the only way we both get what we want in the end. I turn around, tearful,
repentant and grateful, and she gets to welcome me home.
This is
the sort of thing Mercy loves to do. And this is why I am not Mercy. But I can’t
deny she’s good at her job.
PS: The
good news for John: he participated in the triathlon anyway, despite all the
obstacles, or in his case, because of them. He ended up with an excellent time
and to his own chagrin, he will probably end up doing a couple more. And if I
know him, he may not even train for them.
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