“Even the hairs of your head are all numbered.” (Matthew 10:30)
On the Tonight Show many years ago, comedian George Gobel jokingly posed this question to long-time host Johnny Carson: “Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”
People laughed, of course; however, I’d wager that more than a few hearers could personally relate to that experience of feeling different from others, about which Gobel had spoken.
I have a “brown shoes” kind of story to share, but it actually involves a different kind of apparel – namely, a favorite red sweater I had as a child. First, however, I must provide a bit of context.
I was a pious little boy. Faith came quite naturally to me; and, obedience to God and my parents defined my sense of normalcy. Innocent faith, however, can often be stretched almost to the breaking point as life becomes more complex.
During my teen years, my first family began a slow and agonizing process of disintegration. I need not divulge specifics, but it is necessary that I admit of a uniquely painful gulf that developed between my father and me. Eventually, I came to seriously doubt his love, which is a torturous experience for an adolescent boy.
As my parents’ marriage crept steadily toward divorce, and as I wrestled with the associated emotions that seemingly invaded every fiber of my life, I also began to question, for the first time, the goodness of God. Honestly, I felt betrayed by the One I had always trusted. My best friend seemed to have turned a deaf ear precisely when I was most desperate for God’s consolation.
Disillusioned, my heart strayed from God for quite some time. Strangely, I never stopped believing; yet, bitter experiences had numbed my faith and (seemingly) rendered it irrelevant in my life. This spiritual state of confusion persisted through my college years… until God resuscitated my soul.
In my early twenties, I met my future wife, Marianne, fell in love, finished college, and proposed marriage. There was much cause for hope, yet, when alone, I was persistently sad.
One day, I woke up feeling particularly distressed but unable to identify the cause. The malaise worsened as the day went on; so, desperate for some solitude, I decided to take a walk. In the midst, I began to feel an interior sense of longing that I could not squelch. I kept walking… and awkwardly lifted up a prayer.
At one point, I found myself standing in front of a rectory. Had I purposely come there? I don’t believe so; but, once there, I felt an overwhelming urge to ring the doorbell. I resisted for a time, unsure of what I’d say, but then I reluctantly consented. That concession to grace has made all the difference.
A young priest, Fr. Bob, welcomed me and invited me into a private room where we could talk. My mind blanks on the specifics. I remember only a rush of thoughts and words, a sympathetic listener, a reassurance of God’s love, and an invitation – for both Marianne and me – to the prayer community that met on Thursday nights in the Parish Center.
When I told Marianne of my experience and of my inclination to accept the invitation, she graciously agreed to accompany me; so, the following Thursday evening found us among a group of strangers, who would quickly become instruments of God’s healing in both of our lives. Marianne and I were married (by Fr. Bob) shortly thereafter.
At one Thursday gathering early on in our experience of the group, Peter, an intense yet obviously tender-hearted man, gave me a book about the Holy Spirit and said that he hoped it would bless my life as it had blessed his. I accepted his gift knowing full-well that I’d need to report back to him about my experience of the book and, therefore, would actually have to read it.
I felt strangely at home in the pages of that book. The content seemed to tap into the dormant piety from my past. Again, I experienced an interior longing, but this time the longing had an object. I wanted God again.
Then, however, I reached a chapter in the book that stopped me cold. It was a chapter on reconciliation that was based upon these verses from the Sermon on the Mount, found in Matthew 5:23-24:
“… if you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.”
Immediately, I sensed that God wanted to be admitted into the relationship between me and my father. I felt nothing but desperation and fear. The wounds were indeed very deep.
For days, I could read no further in the book. I felt as though an obstacle was now in my path that I had no power whatsoever to overcome. Would my rediscovery of a spiritual center in my life end here?
Then, one evening, I sat on my couch trying to pray. Marianne walked into the room and could see that I was distressed. She asked what was going on and I told her about the book… about the obstacle… and about my failed attempts at prayer. She wisely asked if I had done any listening during prayer, and I admitted that I hadn’t. I’d only been pouring out my heart to God.
Marianne told me that she would give me complete privacy and advised me to sit in silence. She was God’s instrument in that moment, and I will forever be grateful for her loving counsel. After she left the room, I turned off the light and waited for God in the quiet.
What happened is quite difficult to explain; but, it literally changed my life. Please bear with me.
I did not have a vision. In fact, I can’t even be certain if my eyes were opened or closed. Neither was the experience a dream, as I was far from asleep, nor a hallucination, as I had taken no drugs.
That evening, as best I can describe it, God placed me inside a lost memory such that I actually relived the long-ago experience with all of its attendant emotions. Afterward, I remembered that this incident had really taken place, but it was so obscure, so seemingly inconsequential, I had long forgotten it.
I was perhaps six or seven and was in the schoolyard during recess. It had been chilly that morning, so my mother had dressed me in my favorite red sweater, the one with the zipper in front. She had also told me not to remove the sweater. You see, I was a rather sickly child, and she was being cautious.
By recess time, any morning chill had yielded to a hot sun. All of my schoolmates were in their shirtsleeves running and playing. But, I was obediently wearing my red sweater and sitting on the short wooden fence at the side of the schoolyard… feeling quite different and very alone.
Being “brown shoes” is especially painful for a child.
Then, I looked up and saw my father walking past the schoolyard. Instantly, I leaped off my perch and ran to him.
(Since my mother had ordered me to wear the sweater, surely my father had the authority to allow me to remove it.)
I looked up into my father’s eyes and asked him: “Dad, can I take off my sweater?”
Now, when this episode actually happened, I’m sure that the young version of me missed the most important detail. All I cared about at the time was securing permission to remove the sweater, which my father granted.
As a man in his mid-twenties, however, looking through the eyes of that little boy, I saw my father’s expression anew. He looked at me with understanding and compassion. His was a knowing look… the look of one who had, himself, been “brown shoes” to the world’s tuxedo.
His was that look of love that I had longed for my whole life!
Sitting there in my living room, I broke down and wept forcefully.
God had plucked from obscurity an event long forgotten and miraculously revealed its deeper meaning.
When I finally collected myself, the remarkable peace that I felt quickly gave way to darkness and sadness. I remembered feeling betrayed by God in my teens and realized that, just as I had needed to know the love of my father, I also needed to know myself loved by God.
I decided to sit in the darkness again with all of the interior stillness I could muster.
Rather quickly, I was drawn into the identical memory. Again, I was sitting by the edge of the schoolyard, in my red sweater, under the hot sun, feeling different and alone. I looked up and saw my father walking past the schoolyard…
But, this time, Jesus was guiding him there by the hand.
(Tears! Intense healing!)
The moment of grace described above happened nearly forty years ago. Although daily prayer has long been a part of my life, I have never again experienced God so vividly and intimately; and, perhaps that is by design.
That moment is a touchstone for my spiritual life. I return there often when I am in distress to drink in its lessons once again.
The red sweater helps me to understand God’s interest and involvement in every detail of our lives. It makes sense of the promise that even the hairs on my head are counted.
I’m in awe of M as well as the entire retelling of the experience. What wisdom for such a young woman!
I agree, Mary. M is a gift to Roland in every way. In a sense, I think the blog exists for the retelling of this story. Thanks so much for your interest.
Another reminder to take the time and be still and wait on Him. Thank You!
Yes, Ann Marie. Absolutely!
What a beautiful and moving story. Thank you for sharing it with us. I could literally feel God’s love for you as I read the story.
My return to God’s grace was similar, in a way. I had been away from the Church for awhile,, attending Mass only on Christmas and Easter. I felt that God had abandoned me during my father’s illness. I was sitting in church on Palm Sunday, enjoying the soaring organ music and seeing the sun come streaming through the stained glass windows. All of sudden I felt this great calmness and comfort wash over me. I am convinced it was God, welcoming me back to the fold. Since that time, I have never doubted God’s love or his presence in my life. It was a beautiful gift.
I hope you have blessed week!
Thank you for your kind comments and, especially, for sharing a bit of your story as well. I believe that God had a claim on both of us. It was just a matter of time. 🙂
I also wish you a blessed week!