The Greatest Miracle in the World

After a rejuvenating spiritual retreat weekend, a dear friend and mentor recommended that I read The Greatest Miracle in the World by Og Mandino. Recommended isn't quite right -- she gave me and the others who joined us on the weekend our own copies of the book, so certain is she of its potential impact. This book is vastly different than what I usually read and talk about here. It simply doesn't fit into the same category as the other literature, fiction or nonfiction, that I usually read. I don't, however, want to give away the plot of the book or any of the insights, as they carry the most weight within the story itself, but I'm desperate to share all the quotes I loved and connected with. So, to have my cake and eat it, too, I need you to go out and read it before reading any more of this post. Go on -- it's only 108 pages, and I'm sure you can find it in any bookstore or online as an ebook. You can probably even download it from your library and read it on whatever you're reading this. So go on -- read it, and then come back, and we can compare notes.

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See, wasn't it amazing?! Aren't you glad you read it before I spoiled all the surprises and told you my insights before you could develop your own? Yeah, I thought you would be. Just as the book is vastly different than what I usually read, so this blog will also be vastly different than what I usually write. Here goes.

Overall, I love the general premise that we are the greatest miracles on earth, each and every one of us. That we are each "the most valuable treasure on the face of the earth," that we are each "the rarest thing in the world" because we are so very unique, and just as importantly, because our Creator is a master at His trade (p. 97). I have no doubt that Mandino is right, that our colossal lack of self-esteem, stemming from a thousand different influences, makes us forget that we are this grand miracle. It blows my mind to think that we, that I am already God's greatest creation, even in my not-so-grand state, and even in the lesser state I am bound to be in some day through this pilgrimage (p. 96).

Since Mandino claimed earlier in the story that the greatest miracle is the resurrection of those who are essentially the living dead -- those whose lives have hit rock bottom and who have lost hope of it ever getting any better -- I was at first surprised that he seemed to change his claim in the God Memorandum. In the end, though, it's all the same miracle, just an ongoing one. That's an insight I keep coming across, over and over again every couple of years, that this miracle of a life full of peace that surpasses all understanding (Phil. 4:7) and joy that is complete (John 15:11) is ongoing, ever changing, a constant ebb and flow. I first discovered this thought while I walked the Pilgrimage of St. James many years ago, that although one day I had learned how to trust God for the physical and emotional strength to continue, I had to keep working on that trust every day. It wasn't like I had downloaded an updated version of my software and all of my doubts and fears were replaced with an impeccable will to trust and walk on; I have to activate that trust daily, hourly. It is my hope that after each valley through which I pass, I travel higher than the peak before, closer and closer to the One who travels with me.

The way that Simon describes the need for Og to read the God Memorandum nightly for 100 nights felt like a gentle shove in the right direction. I have no doubt that we "can actually become whatever [we] are thinking," and that "[w]e can do it for ourselves or others will do it for us" (p. 25). I know that whatever I spend my time doing becomes a part of who I am, that it "affects [my] actions and [my] life," and this reinforced it (p. 46). I hope the look I feel Simon giving Og in this passage comes rushing back to me each time I don't feel like doing something that I know will bring me closer to God -- reading, praying, writing, singing (even out of tune). Simon says it well: "Remember that the most difficult tasks are consummated, not by a single explosive burst of energy or effort, but by constant daily application of the best you have within you" (p. 85).

Those of you who know me might not be surprised that I have often struggled with the thoughts of simply becoming a drone for God -- blindly following rules and expectations because someone claimed God said it was to be so -- something that did not sound appealing to this woman, strong-willed, aware of what she knows and wants and unwilling to merely ask, "How high?" when told to jump. Recently, though, I heard a wise man say that God does not want us to simply act out a major play that He's written, but that instead God wants to create the future with us. Phrases in the book solidified this for me -- that God has intentionally given us the "power to choose" and "complete control over [our] own destiny" -- we are "not a slave of forces that [we] cannot comprehend" (p. 102, 101). Instead, God wants to rebuild the world with us, not in spite of us. I'm glad to hear the same message from two unrelated sources; this reassures me that my power of thought is a gift from God, not part of my nature that I have to lay down in order to pick up the cross and follow Him.

And just as I've relatively recently begun working through that lesson with God, there was likewise a lesson that I've struggled with since my elementary years. Simon calls it "our fear to take chances, to venture into unfamiliar enterprises and territories, and how even those few who risked their future in order to advance still found it necessary to constantly fight that compelling urge to flee back..." (p. 51). I can vividly remember my godmother, who was also my teacher in elementary school, talking about how so many of us would too often rather do nothing than risk making a mistake, and how that was simply not the way to go about life. There have been times when I've pointed out in my mind my own student who is missing out on so much by avoiding the chance for failure, and not long after shaking my head, I find myself hanging back as well, playing it safe to keep my reputation high, even if that means avoiding improvement or some phenomenal discovery. I feel I need to connect this thought with the one above about an ongoing pilgrimage -- why would it need to be ongoing if someone was expecting us to be perfect from here on out? It's easier said than done, but one more reminder is bound to help increase my understanding and application of this learning target.

Many thoughts Mandino addresses apply directly to my work in the classroom. I constantly keep these in mind as I work with students, and it encouraged me to hold on to this mindset as we begin a new school year in a matter of weeks. For instance, I love that Simon wanted to tell people about God through a memo, meeting his audience where they are and in terms they understand -- God does it with us, so why shouldn't we do it with others? (p. 45) Also, I always approach a new task with the mindset to "render more and better service than is expected of [me], no matter what [my] task may be" (p. 99). Most importantly, I always remember that the students with whom I work still want to "reach [their] full potential" regardless of the facade they may display, but it is up to me to convince them that I still care and that their improvement and success is of utmost importance to me (p. 61, 43). After all, "why not try to change the world?" -- because all of these ideas will undoubtedly change the world (p. 66).

The idea that knocked me flat, though, that left me speechless (which, as you may guess, is a rare occasion) was one that I have heard a million times but had never heard put quite this way: "to receive love it must be given with no thought of its return...[that to] love for fulfillment, satisfaction, or pride is no love" (p. 94). While my head is nodding away and murmuring that of course I know this is true, my heart is standing wide-eyed, jaw dropped, stammering incomplete questions about how to truly approach love that way. I'm still working on that one. 

And finally, I think the four "laws" from the God Memo are thoughts I need to read as often as possible, to help them seep into my mindset and out through my actions.

"Count your blessings.

Proclaim your rarity.

Go another mile.

Use wisely your power of choice." 

(p. 104)

Sharing a Watermelon with Grandpa

I've been thinking a lot about my Grandpa lately -- his birthday isn't around the corner, Father's Day last month didn't trigger it...but summer was Grandpa's time.

Memories flooded my entire apartment today as I cut up a watermelon -- memories of sitting on a 90s style lawn chair or, just as often, a 5 gallon bucket in my grandparents' back yard on Sunday afternoon, completely entranced by Grandpa cutting up the huge watermelon he'd picked from his own garden and chilled in his old ice box in the garage the day before we all arrived. We were all there with him, aunts, uncles, cousins, my own immediate family and Grandma, eventually, but not immediately. Sometimes I'd join him in the yard before all the others came out of the house. He'd "plunk" the watermelon with his large, knobby, arthritic knuckles, look at me from under his greasy ball cap and grin. He taught us all that the watermelon had to sound hollow when you plunk it; the more hollow it sounds, the more ripe it would be. And sure enough -- each time he cut a small triangle plug out of the melon to double check its ripeness, he would pull out a deep red flesh, sweet and juicy. Being the first in the yard meant that I got to eat the plug, and I was assigned to hold the other side of the wide cross section while he cut it into smaller pieces, more manageable for the little ones and those who cared about keeping the sticky juice off their cheeks. That rarely mattered to me, and it didn't matter this morning as I nibbled on my own melon while carving it up. We would pass around Grandma's salt shaker, assuring her that we weren't clogging the holes with watermelon juice. I was older than I'd care to admit before I found out many people eat melon without salt. Together the family would transform from a loud, buzzing swarm to a quietly munching group -- until the one feeling orneriest that day would start spitting the seeds, aimed specifically at someone's forehead. I don't remember Grandpa ever teaching us how to perfect our aim, but I certainly don't remember him stopping us either. Grandma, on the other hand, would get into quite a tizzy over our little watermelon seed wars.

I've been thinking of both of them off and on lately, each evening when I take my ice tea glass to the kitchen and hear him saying, "Yes, I put my cup on top the ice box -- I can just use it tomorrow, it just had tea in it, and it will again tomorrow..." and Grandma's immediate and flabbergasted response that it would be washed tonight, just as it always was. But standing there this morning, juice dripping from my wrists, my elbows, my chin, thinking the watermelon will be even better once it's chilled but unable to stop eating it, I think Grandpa was standing there with me, grinning from ear to ear.

A Different Perspective

I just finished Chris Cleave's Incendiary, which I originally picked up because I was so impressed with his Little Bee. I doubt I otherwise would have so willingly read a book about a woman coping with the loss of her husband and son in a fictional terrorist attack in London had I not held so much faith in Cleave's ability to teach me something new in a way that no one else can, and teach me he did. The entire novel is told from the unnamed narrator's very personal perspective, formatted as a letter begging the terrorists to stop. She tells us exactly how she feels, what she thinks, leaving no detail unmentioned. Cleave writes in stream of consciousness reminiscent of V. Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway. She tells us just how grief can paralyze a person, and just how that same person can find the strength to continue on in a world unlike anything she could have ever predicted.

Just like with Little Bee, saying much of anything about the plot of Incendiary would be giving too much away, but I do want to share one of my favorite pieces: "...but you never can squeeze every last bit of pride out of a human being. It's like a tube of toothpaste. You can twist it and you can crush it but there's always a tiny bit left isn't there?" (p. 229).

And I'll end on a final thought, one of the very, very few positive and decent thoughts that Petra, one of our narrator's acquaintances, has to offer: "So be brave" (p. 165).

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Speaking of being brave, I highly recommend checking out Sara Barellies's new album The Blessed Unrest, on which is her newest single "Brave." The video for it is here.  As always, Miss Sara B. has somehow written songs that say what I was thinking three days ago, two weeks ago, the last year, and want to think for the next twenty. I'm considering making one of her lyrics my motto for the upcoming school year as I tackle the grand task of teaching our school's first year of AP Calc, which requires a whole different set of words that I haven't used in about a decade. 

"Show me how big your brave is." :)