Do you ever find miraculous the little ways God surprises: preparing and foreshadowing in use of our own words, and others, toward moment we’d never expect?
It happened to me yesterday.
This past Sunday, I saw a friend at Mass. His is one of the first friendly faces we met at the church on moving to our town. He and another friend—a friend named Jim—were ushers at Mass and would sit behind us in the last pew before the choir when our children were only babies. For years, they entertained our children—and themselves—making faces and causing laughs and squeals and games of peek-a-boo and, to this day, they are some of my most cherished moments of church and Mass. Mass is as much of fellowship as it is of message; for if there is no share or communion of spirit, what purpose is the faith?
Years have passed since then, but his smile is still the same—wide and bright of mouth and eyes enlarged through broad and full-framed glasses that expand and enliven his expressions. He points to our oldest son as he passes down aisle in return from Communion. The little baby with whom he once played peek-a-boo now stands above us all.
Life goes. Time moves. Things change.
When Mass ends, walking out, I’m beside my friend again. Life goes. Time moves. Things change—our friend Jim has passed and his memorial is next day.
My mind is in the past, to the times my friend and Jim played with our kids when they were only babies, and I’m not thoughtful in the present.
Knowing our friend is gone, remembering both together then, I speak as we say goodbye, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watch as my words create a change, slight recoil and pause in response before he gives an answer—perhaps a guilt I didn’t mean.
“Probably not,” he answers, eyes down and away where before they were direct in smile.
His wife is sick, and he tends to her not knowing how or what each day will be.
Life goes. Time moves. Things change.
I feel sick myself, condemned and selfish for the words and way I spoke.
There is a weight on my heart, judgment and guilt for what I spoke only in intent of friendship that sounded more obligation and expectation of another.
That isn’t how I meant, and I think and feel it the rest of day: guilt and weight upon my heart.
I want to apologize, but don’t.
Next day, I attend the service of our friend Jim. It is not a completely Catholic Mass for his wife and family were not Catholic. Neither is my other friend’s, another commonality they shared.
Our friend Jim was 92, and beyond knowing him from Mass, he is one of my grandfather’s best friends—his last living friend from when all of them were boys. Ninety-plus, they still had drinks each Friday. My grandfather would go to Jim’s until, just this year, he too had trouble getting around.
My grandfather sits in the front with family. I sit with my mother, aunt, and uncle further rows behind.
After service, we intend for lunch at diner on our small-town square. Instead, we wait. My grandfather wants to go to the cemetery, to be with and to say goodbye to his longest friend for one last time.
I don’t go. I leave cemetery, moment, and ceremony to whom it means the most.
I go home. My daughter’s there, and I invite her to go to lunch with us after ceremony and burial are through.
She does, and we go.
We go to the diner on side of square. We sit. We order, then in through door, our friend and his wife appear.
I follow as they move to place in booth across the space of room. Settled into seat, looking up, he makes notice too of me.
He shoots his big smile, waves across room, as we keep to our tables and worlds.
We have our time. We have our meals, but when both are ended; our moments in synch, we rise and seek each other.
Handshakes, smiles, and words, we greet in enjoyment of surprise and in I speak what we both know, “I’ve never met your wife,” I speak in hope of finally having privilege.
“Well…” he draws out slow, “I’m not sure you want to,” in tone of false-dread and humor that makes my daughter laugh at table in hearing, same laugh he’s caused since before she could walk.
Then to his wife we go.
Her spirit is full and bright. We meet, greet, and speak, and my friend tells of the prayers we’ve prayed for her as Knights of Columbus and she counters—as good natured, humorous, and spirited as her husband—in emphasis that he can use as many prayers as she, for being with her through it all.
I never spoke an apology for day before. There was no need. There was only goodwill. So many times, I’ve felt God this way: burdens lifted, guilt removed, and in their place—where we expect judgment to be—we find a welcoming.
Small moment lived, we say goodbye. I reach to shake her hand.
She doesn’t take it but extends to me and takes me into hold. “I’m a hugger,” she tells and my spirit lifts the more.
“I am too,” I answer as I feel the warmth of joy wet-shining in my eyes.
Life goes. Time moves. Moment ends—but I am grateful.
Driving home, I am silent, and my daughter sees I am in thought.
“What are you thinking?” she asks as we go.
I tell her. I tell her of the day before, the words I said and how guilty I felt after speaking. I told her what it meant to me to see him today, what it to meet his wife, and how God prepared it all with words through me in a way I couldn’t see.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow…” God made it so—greater and better than I could imagine.
I spoke the words in expectation of mourning. Instead, we encountered one in joy, and I cannot help but think and see how, so many and so often times, God surprises us this way—true to our own word.