The Spirituality of Small Things

We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop.”
—Mother Teresa

Sometimes the small things matter most.

Last Sunday evening, after a long day at church, after meeting with the Coming of Age Group and attending a memorial service in Boston, after our High School youth group had ended their evening meeting of deep sharing and much laughter, after I had sat down to a late dinner with my partner, Jim—Late last Sunday evening, I stepped outdoors into a white world of snow and stars. If you remember, last Sunday morning had greeted us with an early December snowfall, and now I finally set out to lose myself in its moonlit simplicity.  The town clock struck 10 PM as I walked with my dog Tucker along silent streets, under a cold sky.  That weekend had brought more than snow with it, for now we walked amidst houses decked out in Reading Holiday regalia.  It had clearly been a weekend of outdoor decorating, as if a rainbow had dripped droplets of color over bushes and trees, gutters and windowpanes.  Bright Christmas lights blinked and beckoned eyes to dance amidst their multi-colored merry-making.  I found myself smiling.  A huge light-up nylon snowman, inflated by an electric generator, dwarfed the front porch of a house on the corner, looking a bit too much like a bloated Frosty the Snowman on steroids.  A block later, an almost life size plastic light up Nativity Scene caught the attention of Tucker.  He stalked and sniffed the Holy Family, then, to my utter horror, sacrilegiously lifted his leg in canine salute to the silent, unmoving plastic lawn ornaments of Mary and Joseph.  Tucker barked twice as a brown baby Jesus flashed on and off, on and off, his blinking blessing no doubt the result of worn wiring.  Usually, I am a sucker the bright, the garish, the gaudy, and even the tacky.  The lights of Christmas, the sights of the Solstice, the green pine roping and the red ribbons—it all wraps up within it big childhood memories and adulthood hopes.

But sometimes the small things matter most.

Last Sunday night, it was not the heavily decorated that took my breath away.  It was the small house at the end of the street that caused me wonder.  There were no lights strung in the bushes.  There were no plastic reindeer up on the roof.  There was only a single candle burning in the window, one tiny eye shining out into the dark.  The simplicity was exquisite.  Even Tucker sensed he was in the presence of spiritual elegance.  He settled quietly in the snow, face towards that small shining pinprick of light.  We became watchers in the night.   Words from the Christian scriptures whispered through my mind: “You will do well to pay attention . . . to a light shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts.” (2 Peter1:19)

A single light burning in the night.  Sometimes the small things matter most.

Yesterday afternoon, I stop at the Burlington Mall.  I find myself pressed in tight against a crush of harried holiday shoppers.  Outside of Filene’s, one woman catches my eye.  She is unavoidable.  Her face is as tight as the hands that hold the handles of seven stuffed shopping bags.  Stress screams from her shoulders.  As we pass each other, our eyes meet and she sighs so loudly I can feel her breath against my skin.  A moment later, I look back to see her slump, exhausted, onto a bench. She rests for just a moment, and then is on her feet again, in search of the next perfect gift, propelled by her need to make this season so full of so much.  I think about the words of poet Wendell Berry: “I lack the peace of simple things. . . and that has bent my mind and made me think of darkness.”

The holidays can be a time to symbolically bring soft light into a dark season of the year, a time to seek out spiritual illumination in the midst of shadow and ice.  But so often, the holidays just become an excuse to over-schedule our already demanding lives, a time to dangerously draw down an overextended bank account, to endlessly search out the biggest and the brightest and the boldest.  The miracle of holy lamps burning on in the Temple is dwarfed. The angel’s subtle song of “Peace on Earth, Good Will To All”  is drowned out.  Kwanzaa’s affirmation of heritage and home is forgotten.  The Solstice sun’s returning warmth passes unfelt.  The simple magic of this season’s myths are so easily lost in the mania of the moment.

As I battle the snarled traffic moving slowly up Rt. 128, I think of a friend, Mary Theresa.  Mary Theresa once received a gift that couldn’t be bought at any mall, that couldn’t be stuffed into a shopping bag, that never appeared on any holiday wish list.  And yet, what a gift it was!  Mary Theresa’s mother had been transported through a December snowstorm to the small hospice near the center of town.  Mary Theresa couldn’t remember much else about the week that followed; it all felt a toxic blur.  She would wake up early in the morning next to her mother’s bed, her mouth dry and stale, her eyes feeling like course sand paper.  She’d look at the fragile figure huddled under the blanket.  Her Mom was still breathing.  To pass the time as the days dragged on, she spend long afternoons counting each labored breath . . . 3003 . . . 3004 . . . 3005.

The moment the counting stopped, the moment death came—Mary Theresa broke down and wept.  An hour later, as she dragged herself down the hospice hallway toward the exit, Mary Theresa wondered how she would keep going on.  She’d just lost the most important person in her life, she’d lost her best friend, she’d lost her whole world.  And then it happened.  A woman she had seen once or twice before—a woman whose job it was to mop the floors and scrub out the bathroom—a nameless, silent woman passed by her.  For the briefest of moments, two bright brown eyes met Mary Theresa’s red weeping ones.  And the nameless woman smiled.

“It was so strange,” remembers Mary Theresa.  “It was just a smile from a stranger.  And yet, I felt that smile deep in my heart, deep in my soul.  That smile told me that there was still something good in the world.  That smile told me I was not alone.  That smile gave me back life.  It was the greatest gift I have ever received.” 

A smile from a stranger.  Sometimes the small things matter most.

Rabbi Jory Lang, the spiritual leader of the Beth Moshe Congregation in North Miami, writes: “We are conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.” (Yom Kippur Readings: Inspiration, Information, Contemplation, Edited by Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins, p. 10)

Rabbi Jory Lang goes on to share this story, a story once told to her by a member of her congregation, a story that has since been retold often at this time of year:

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away. But, I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair. "How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life. I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?  On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. (Ibid, p 8-10)

Sometimes, the small things matter most.

My friends, this holiday season, will we lose ourselves in all the details, or will we find ourselves in something small that makes all the difference.  Will we put a single candle in a frosty window?  Will we share a smile with a stranger?  Will we offer ourselves to someone who needs to reclaim life one more time? 

Will we take the time to become a gift rather than buy a gift?

A gentle journey through the memories of a lifetime.  Sometimes the small things matter most.

My friends, this holiday season, will we lose ourselves in all the details, or will we find ourselves in something small that makes all the difference: 

--a single candle in a window? 
--a smile shared with a stranger? 
--a stop on a snowy night

This holiday, rather than buy a gift, will we take the time to become the gift?

Sometimes the small things do matter most.

May it be so.  Blessed Be.  Amen.

Copyright 2005 Rev. Tim Kutz