(this reflection is from a couple weeks ago, at the novitiate)
A free spot on a couch outside Starbucks in the surprisingly warm early-evening sun of a balmy January day in Colorado Springs. I saw it and pursued it. Vini, vidi, vici, with a venti in my hand. To kick back in such a way, my flannel shirt mocking the unnecessary coats around me, is a luxury that not even South Carolina often provides in the first week of January.
Stolen moments like these are gifts.
Who would have thought in the intensity of silent recollection I would ever have the opportunity to pour over a good history of Germany in front of a Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon? I sure wouldn't have. Moments like these are stolen. They aren't an escape, but a brief detour to collect the good in the day-to-day that would have been otherwise left scattered.
Little bits of grace dust, blowing in the winds or unrecollection until they end up in dark corners.
But these unusual moments, offered and seized, allow me to collect that grace dust. I scoop it up in my hands on that couch and savor it, like a spoonful of Nutella snuck on the way back from a midnight bathroom trip.
Moments of detour from the regularity and discipline of a well-lived life, it is in these where gratitude seizes me most profoundly, reopening my eyes to the electric flow of grace that would otherwise be taken for granted.
These moments are the scenic overlooks in the mountain passes of life's journey. Traversing mountains is a grueling task that requires constant attention to the road ahead. You can't do more than sneak a glance or two in your periphery through the openings in the trees, especially if your eyes have to stay on the constant twist and turn and incline and decline of the road. These glances are brief and incomplete, and frankly they rob the majesty of the mountains their due.
Because mountains are made to be gaped at.
They were designed to steal your breath and make you feel that perhaps you could waste away staring at them, and in doing so you would have somehow accomplished everything that was possible for you on this earth. The half-second partial glances from the road fall short of the very purpose of the mountains.
Enter: the scenic overlook. This is a simple place, a turnoff and a parkinglot next to a break in the trees. But it is in this simple place that you accomplish that impossible task of appreciating the fullness of the mountains. It is here that the magnificence of the journey is appreciated. It is here where gratitude is won. And it is here that you are able to reorient yourself, discovering again why you set out and rediscovering the need to continue the journey.
Even Christ stopped at the scenic overlooks. Think of the most important journey he made, from praetorium to Golgotha. A moment for His mother, a moment for Veronica, a moment for the women, none of these the purpose of the trip, but still necessary stops along the way. The job was to haul the wood up the hill in order to win His life's victory over sin, but He stole a few moments along the way to see those He loved, to accept and give a few gifts, and to put the whole journey in perspective for someone else. In these stolen moments, I like to think that He was able to stop and admire the magnificence of the whole journey, reminding Himself why He was there and maybe even having a little gratitude for it. Yes, in these moments He made the periphery the focus.
And by doing so, He proved that it's ok to do the same.
To imitate Christ is to stop at the scenic overlook. To imitate Christ is to steal a half hour at Starbucks on the way home from voice lessons, that momentary gift of reprieve that can only cause growth in gratitude and resolve.
To imitate Christ is to be in each moment, not to just travel through it.
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