Ninety Seconds

Central Park South, New York NY

God seems to enjoy testing and shaping my faith by means of tight connections at Boston's South Station. Last winter, the last transfer along a return from Chicago to Worcester involved dashing into a three-minute window between the arrival of an airport shuttle and the departure of a commuter train. Yesterday, the bus I took from New York to Boston left Manhattan late, encountered some heavy traffic, and ultimately took a longer (but delay-free) route. Fortunately, at the end of my hustle from the bus station to the commuter rail platform, the train waiting there was indeed the 3:05 to Worcester, and I gladly hopped aboard with (it turned out) ninety seconds to spare. Though not quite an experience of getting caught up to heaven in a cloud– after all, I was heading to Worcester– I did experience a great deal of relief, knowing that I would arrive home in time for Mass, the community Easter dinner, and the celebration for those in the house with April birthdays.

This episode concluded, with dramatic flourish, a wonderful six-day visit to New York City for Holy Week, as well as a side trip to South Jersey to surprise my parents for Easter dinner. I'll share stories from that stretch of time soon. As those memories echoed in my thoughts and prayers during yesterday's homeward journey, I was struck by how much I enjoyed them– not only in themselves, but also as experiences that I could never have scripted. Which brings me to the major grace and insight of my latest quasi-maddening travel dash– it would have been far less fun, meaningful, and insightful an experience if I had known the outcome in advance. Think about it: would you willingly choose an itinerary that you knew would include an airport terminal steeplechase right out of a movie? Would the sense of relief that attends the successful accomplishment of a frighteningly tight connection be as strong if you knew that you would make it? And, more to the point of the trajectory of Holy Week and Easter for Jesus' disciples, would their experience of Jesus rising from the dead and appearing to them in subsequent days be as powerful, lasting, and faith-inspiring if they had known that his crucifixion and burial was not the end of the story? Paul and the other New Testament writers, in readings heard during the Easter season, speak often of God's set plan for Christ's salvific death and resurrection– a series of events suggested by prior prophecies, and also mentioned by Jesus himself both publicly and privately. Yet these same events– in all of their drama, pathos, violence, and anguish– were experienced first and most intimately by those who never read the script. Whatever they may have believed, whatever they may have felt, it seems abundantly clear that they did not know how the story would end, and that they doubted the potential for any continuation after events so stark and final as those of Good Friday.

As much as I try to schedule my days and bring order to my life's activities, I'm regularly gladdened by the surprises that God generously pens throughout the weaving plot of my spiritual journey. The varied, fluid, and sometimes messy vicissitudes with which God fills my days are far richer and more vital than their containers– the somewhat rigid structures of habit and routine that I strive to keep so neat and crisp. Thankfully, I'm the kind of person who can increasingly relish the excitement of adapting to wrinkles in my plan imposed by forces beyond my control. This Easter season, I also pray that I'll continue to become the kind of person who recognizes, with humble gratitude and cooperative acceptance, the providential influence of a wiser author whose flair for the dramatic rarely fails to instruct, entertain, and amaze me.

Holland Tunnel Entrance, New York NY