May 8: All Were Miraculous, Everyday Miracles, Mundane Fairy Tale

Catching his own reflection in a window, Ives, nondescript in an overcoat, hat, and scarf, judged himself a most pleasant looking, perhaps saintly, fellow.  His face, like a sphinx's in one moment, the next like Saint Paul's, as it might have been when he was stricken with divine light.  With a renewed appreciation he considered the mechanisms of his own body, the littlest turn of his artistic hands, the twitch of nose, all splendid.  To hear, to smell, to see, to feel, all were miraculous.

Ives is experiencing a moment of epiphany.  He has just come away from being trapped in an elevator that plunged several stories, uncontrolled.  For a while, he believed that his life was over.  And then, he was given a second chance.  A reprieve.  He was rescued.  Now, walking the streets of Manhattan a few days before Christmas, Ives has a vision of himself and the world.  A vision of God's goodness.

It's Friday night.  Even though I had a short work week, I'm really tired.  The past four days have been really busy.  I'm adjusting to change, settling into my summer routine.  No teaching.  No long nights of grading.  Just work and more work.  I'm not going to create some grand plan for the summer.  I'm not going to say that I will write a book by the end of August.  I'm not going to read the 100 greatest books of all time.  I'm going to take it one day at a time.

This evening, I'm taking my wife out to eat for Mother's Day.  A little Italian restaurant in town.  Then, I'm going home and cleaning my house.  Perhaps I'll read a novel or work on a new poem after that.  Or maybe I'll just sit on the couch, put my feet up, and enjoy God's goodness.  The quiet of my home.  The warmth of my pajamas.  A piece of leftover garlic bread.  Little, everyday miracles.

Once upon a time, an accountant named John Smith lived in a mundane little kingdom named Mundania.  John never did anything exciting.  He ate the same thing for breakfast (oatmeal), lunch (a Swiss cheese sandwich), and dinner (meatloaf).  He got up every day at 6:45 a.m.  He went to bed every night at 9:49 p.m.

John never thought about miracles or goodness.  He though about taxes, retirement accounts, and mortgages.  His life was a collection of numbers.  Twenty steps to his bathroom.  Brushing each of his teeth 35 times.  4,345 steps to his office.  Eight hours and 27 minutes of work.  4,345 steps home.  Chewing each bite of every meal 43 times.

One day, John Smith died at his office.  His last words were "My Ticonderoga number two needs to be sharpened."

Moral of the story:  meatloaf sucks.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

I'm not talking about this meatloaf