Small Wonder (But Not the '80s TV Show)

I’m not going to write any more quasi-spiritual posts this month, because, as I said, I got dropped from God’s Friends and Family plan last fall. If God were speaking to me at all, He/She’d use the answering-machine voice of my Texas grandmother: “Hello? Are you there? It’s your grandmother. Well....I see you’re out again. I‘ve tried to call several times. Let us know you’re alive, if you can spare a few minutes....” Thank goodness for unconditional love and a shared affinity for “Grey’s Anatomy.” My grandmother’s, not God’s.

But before I go cold turkey (cold dove? cold sparrow? eh, no...), I’ll say this: lately I’m impressed by the accessibility of miracles. Obviously, New Orleans isn’t the Mecca of water-walking at the moment. I’m pretty sure if Moses wanted to part Lake Pontchartrain, he’d have to deal with the levee board. No burning bushes, either -- the humidity’s way too high. I’m thinking of small miracles. Unimportant, in the grand scheme. Fortunately, the etymology of “miracle” is not “to be knocked flat by a monumental act of faith,” or even “to be really wowed.” Apparently, “miracle” comes from the Greek “meidan,” meaning “to smile.” Smiling is easy enough.

Except when it isn’t.

I mean, don’t actors often prefer tragic to comedic roles? Happiness can be hard work. I’m looking at the January 26, 2006 issue of Rolling Stone, in which Steve Coogan (“Britain’s Larry David”) describes his TV characters. He says, “I like people who are generally aspirant but feel cheated or malcontented. You do a lot of contemptible character, and that produces a lot of comedy. What’s hard is trying to do a character who’s basically a nice guy.” Contentment is, let’s face it, kind of boring to watch. And (to me, anyway) it’s impossible as writing material. How many posts did I generate while dating Friend? How many during/after/about the break-up?

Of course, I’ll admit to being more neurotic than most. Which is why I started looking for small miracles in the first place. It’s a strategy I employed in the Delta, when malcontent peaked. (“Aw fuck, Lamarcus....you made our teacher cry, again.) Toward the end of my second school-year, I attended a few services at UCC Congregational Church in Memphis, and though I didn’t “get saved,” I resolved to quit whining for awhile.

April 18, 2004 I wrote in my journal: Today’s sermon was about the soul-killing power of ’if only.’ ’If only I were a tougher teacher with a more svelte figure and matching purse/shoes....’ I could ’if only’ my life away.

April 20 I decided to bitch and moan less and appreciate more. It worked for exactly twelve days.

April 22: Thank you, God, for this day during which I had a delicious bowl of Grape Nuts, taught a calm social studies lesson and worked with a student at my house for an hour. April 27: I am grateful for hugs from Lindsay and Seth, good grades on the _Hatchet_ test, a 4-mile run followed by “American Idol” and Morningstar chicken with rice. May 2: I’m not trying very hard to find the joy in life. May 11: I’m about to go to school, but I’m so depressed I can hardly breathe. So much for appreciation.

My record for miracle-seeking has not improved with time, and my motivation, er, spotty, at best. Today, though, minimal effort required. Hence, this final vaguely religious observation:

It happened on my walk home from the gym. Usually, I walk with a soundtrack: Diana Krall on introspective days, 50 Cent if I’m upbeat. Kris Kristofferson for Delta nostalgia, or Justin Timberlake for Honesdale (ask Mary). But today, for some reason, I wanted silence. Or not silence, but lack of constant noise. I got the birds, the lawnmowers, the omnipresent Mexican workers chipping tile. A few blocks from my apartment, I smelled grilling or wood burning. It’s a familiar scent, but not one I get to experience often, as I never grill or burn wood -- no tofu on the barbie.

These two things -- the comfortable noise and smell -- would’ve suited my desire for minor miracles. Pleasant sensory stimulants generally don’t come without strain: hours of food prep or make-up application. But as I crossed onto my street, I glanced right, and there it was. Meidan. A toddler sitting on a porch swing peering at a book, and next to him, his dad. Or it might have been his granddad. Based on certain age discrepancies within my family, I find these relationships hard to judge. In any event, the boy was reading, or sounding out words, and the father was smiling. Also drinking a Michelob Light. In the half second it took me to walk past, I remembered my porch swing -- Memphis, 1985 -- and how my dad sat next to me.

Sometimes we read. Go Dog Go was my favorite, with its treetop pooch party on the final page.

Other days, Dad brought out his guitar, and we sang “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” You probably know the tune. Will the circle be unbroken / By and by, Lord, by and by / There’s a better home a’waitin’ / In the sky, Lord, in the sky.

Deep stuff for a 5-year-old, I suppose. In my preoperational bliss (Piaget, oui), I didn’t fully grasp the significance of “unbroken circle.” It reminded me of Family Circus comics, since they were printed in a circle. Family Circus comics made me smile. Sitting with my father, swinging, singing off-key, made me happy. If, in some way, this snapshot constitutes a miracle, then I’ve been blessed from the start. And if that isn’t miraculous, well, there’s always Grape Nuts for breakfast.