My initially dreaded two-day a week 32 minute work commute to the Children's Hospital has yielded some unexpected treasures. Every Wednesday and Friday midday, I step up into the baby blue Pilot and close the car door and the world out for 32 minutes. I hear no ringing phones, no crying, no whining, no requests, no "Honey do you minds," no Little Einsteins, no crashing, no breaking glass, and no little knocks on the bathroom door. For the first 10 minutes, I soak in the silence. I soften my breath sounds.
After listening to and thinking about nothing, my routine has become to enjoy a syndicated feature on a local radio station called Storyboard. This feature has provided tens of thousands of Americans the opportunity to step into a recording booth and etch on tape and into the archives of history a slice of their story. Astounding stories abound. I listened tearfully to a mother recount sending her second son to fight in Iraq after the first returned home surrounded by pine and flags. I laughed as a young accountant recounted his decision to leave a corporate job to become a clown. I marveled at a man in his 80's as he retold his adventure of how he and his wife built their home from materials they found in the surrounding land. How interesting and extraordinary were the lives of these people.
As the storyboard segment faded into an advertisement, a leftward twist of the volume control restored the silence. It was then that I often contemplated my own story. If I were to stumble upon one of these storyboard booths, what compelling anecdote would I tell about my life? At first glance, my life has been rather ordinary and predictable. My current snapshot reeks of commonness. I'm married with two kids, a mortgage, a part-time job, laundry, too much caffeine, and not enough sleep. It is the same story told a thousand times over. Right? It was at this moment that I became aware of the miraculously ordinary life I have been given.
When I find myself in the Storyboard booth, here is the story I will tell about my common life. I'll tell of the blessing of eight years of marriage to the most patient, kind, and loving person I know. I will recount a chance meeting unorchestratable by anyone other than a divine being. I'll orate about surprise lattes in the morning, nightly back scratches, and knocking on the pediatrician neighbors' door late at night just to assure an anxious new mom that her four month old doesn't have mouth cancer. I'll rave about lying exhausted next to an equally exhausted man while listening to a crying baby and hearing the words, "I'll get him honey." I'll talk about all of my blaring imperfections couched with a love without precondition or expectation. This is my miraculously ordinary husband.
I will tell about the birth of my first son, Will, and how I could hardly breathe when I first held him in my arms. Every day I notice his ten toes, ten fingers, his daddy's lips and butt in miniature form on his little face and body. I listen to his questions about hurricanes, fire fighting, and all his elaborate verbal attempts to make sense of the world around him. I sneak into his room at night and watch him sleep while cuddling his "greeny" and sucking his middle two fingers. How could I have been apart of this creation? This is my miraculously ordinary Will. I then will tell of my second son, Ian. I will describe the sweetest face. I will tell of a two-year-old that will often break into an original rendition of jingle bells combined with boomer sooner. I will speak of a heart so tender that even the slightest raising of mommy and daddy's voice will elicit a stream of tears. I will tell of his tiger eyes and his sweet high pitched often unintelligible verbal utterances. I'll tell of a gentle and sweet spirit that makes certain his brother gets a special treat, too. This is my miraculously ordinary Ian.
My miraculously ordinary life has been granted, sustained, and blessed by an incredibly extraordinary God to whom I am humbly grateful.
