He Had a Hat

​A grandmother is watching her grandson play on the beach.
All of a sudden, a huge wave comes and takes him out to sea.
She looks up and pleads, "Please God, save my only grandson. I beg of you; my life has no meaning without him. Please bring him back.
And a big wave comes and washes the boy back onto the beach, good as new.
She looks up to heaven and says: "He had a hat!"

My sister, Claudia loves this joke. It’s one of her favorites. And she uses it perfectly when she’s trying to remind me of the grateful places of our lives. She uses it to gently nudge me back into a more grace-filled place where my lens isn’t so skewed and isn’t so out of focus. She uses this to reopen my mind and imagination, to reboot my heart.

What is it about human nature that causes us to continually react judgingly? How is it that we so often continue to want more and more and then possibly some more? What is it about me that I am surrounded by lovingkindness, in comfort and safety and yet  and still I’ve got things on a (odd) list that would (miraculously) make things better? Easier? Maybe faster? 

In these growing darker days, nature is with us. She is always with us. Ever the guide, nature is right there to tell us to slow things down. She is right there to offer help and support to slow us down. In these growing darker days, nature is inviting us to take heart and be mindful with moments, to (perhaps) do less. Sure, we can easily ignore this unsought message; we can fill up our days and then our nights with hurrying and scurrying. And many of us do. But/and there is less light outside, colder air outside - both - inviting us to add a sweater or curl up with a blanket, light a fire or a candle. The natural world invites us to stop. To breathe. To pay attention and to breathe again. And then to welcome wonder.
 
It is never helpful to explain a joke, but for this writing, it’s important to imagine ourselves in the shoes of the grandmother on the beach. We begin with peace and balance and possibly gratitude. And then tragedy strikes, followed soon by deep grief. I felt myself pleading in anguish along with the grandmother for God’s mercy. And celebrating the miracle with her that came. AND I wish I could say, I’ve never asked for a bonus to be added to a miracle, but I have also done that very thing: “He had a hat.”
 
In Advent’s final week may this be a loving nudge for all of us. Look around, pay attention. Celebrate the miracles that are given. Breathe in deeply lovingkindnesses when they come our way. Welcome wonder with each next step.

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