Last week, I was caught in afternoon traffic driving home from a retreat. When the school bus ahead of me reached a red light, two little girls flattened themselves against the back window. How cute, I thought—followed by, Why do we let this precious cargo ride like loose eggs in a box? Both thoughts were chased from my mind, however, when that precious cargo began mugging and gesticulating at me. Whacky faces, strange hand gestures . . . what the heck?!?
Kids today, I muttered, striving to keep my eyes averted and my face impassive.
I don’t know what made me peek at the girls again. (Holy Spirit, perhaps?) When I did, I noticed that they weren’t trying to get my goat; they were trying to get me to play Rock-Paper-Scissors! I grinned, made eye contact, and gave the familiar one-two-three hand gesture. They jumped with delight, and we got three rounds in before the light turned green and I needed my hands back. We continued to play at every light until our paths diverged and we had to wave goodbye.
This month, my IVC Virtual Community is reading a chapter of Greg Boyle’s Cherished Belonging called “The Blindfold.” That’s Boyle’s image for whatever prevents us from seeing one another as God sees us. “When this blindfold falls,” he says, “we focus on what is precious in the soul of the person in front of us” (p. 65).
When this blindfold falls, we focus on what is precious
in the soul of the person in front of us.
Playing Rock-Paper-Scissors with those precious girls was (in the words of a woman I met at my American Pilgrims on the Camino gathering last week) the kind of “joy snack” that could keep me going for the rest of the day. I had been judging the kids’ behavior so harshly, on so little information. I’m glad the blindfold dropped in time!
Wishing you at least one eye-opening experience this week.
Christine
P.S. Typing the phrase “get my goat” above made me wonder about the origin of that expression. Curious? NPR has your answer!
School bus image by Taken from Pixabay; Rock-Paper-Scissors by HeungSoon from Pixabay
Christine Marie Eberle 