For almost the whole day. Almost.
It started early this morning, when I awoke in my hotel room at 5 am (VERY out of character) with an idea. I suddenly knew how to solve a problem that had frustrated me for hours yesterday, and had been hanging over my head for six weeks. I got up, logged in to my computer, made the appropriate modifications, and watched it work - exactly as I knew it would.
Off to such a good start, I went ahead and got showered and dressed, and drove into work. The long list of unsolvable problems that had been handed me just yesterday now seemed like a simple grocery list. I ticked off the items as the solutions emerged, as if lined up on the shelf awaiting my grasp. Fielding phone calls, text messages, emails, and instant messages from coworkers and customers in four different states, I never lost my momentum. Even the nervous urgency of the phone call that interrupted my lunch - a high-level client with an unclear request and an unrealistic deadline - didn't distress me; I knew I could help him, and I knew I had enough time. And I did... with five minutes to spare.
But it wasn't just that the tasks were going well; it was the relationships. In fact, it was primarily the relationships. Every heavy conversation also included levity, every sad truth was accompanied by comic relief, every concerned frown was transformable into a relaxed smile. And I felt at every moment that I was surrounded by friends... and I was. Serendipitous interruptions of electronic encouragement, playful thoughts punctuating a continuous connectedness, a virtual cloud of camaraderie and fellowship followed me throughout the day.
And it got even better. A short 90-minute drive on a warm, moonlit evening brought me to a half-way point where I met our oldest son, Ryan, for a long and jovial steak dinner. He had had a really good day, too. In his own words, the best day he could remember. I can't remember every seeing him this relaxed, confident, and thoroughly happy. It was wonderful to be able to share this day with him.
It was a terrific day. Almost all of it.
On my way back to the hotel, I heard from a close but far-away friend who wasn't feeling well. Chest pains, with shoulder pain, too. Wasn't at all clear how serious - somewhere in the broad range from "take two asprin" to "call 911". I tried to offer encouragement and wise counsel, but I won't know until morning what course events have taken. It's a very helpless feeling, to be so far away, so powerless to solve the truly important problems, unable to provide the help that is really needed. Everything I had accomplished today suddenly felt small and insignificant. Thoughts and prayers gush out, with hopeful confidence that God will protect and sustain. But God knows that we still feel helpless and weak; God knows our hearts.
And then there's my hat. It's embarrassing even to mention it. Trivial, silly, inconsequential - especially in the context of what is happening with my friend. But... I think I may have lost my hat. You know the hat - the one Debbie got me for Christmas. It's a Tilley. I wasn't sure I would like it at first, but it grew on me quickly. I've never gotten more compliments for anything I've ever worn. The security guard at work tells me every single morning, without fail, "Nice hat!" And Debbie picked it out, because she thought it would look good on me. I actually feel handsome, when I'm wearing my hat.
And I think I may have lost it. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time. A few weeks ago my secretary was kind enough to retrieve it from the restaurant where our staff has lunch every Monday. Debbie has picked it up a couple of times, at church or a restaurant, after I have walked off without it. I think it is my own absent-mindedness that is so embarrassing, so humbling. As many complex mental tasks as I tackle and resolve each day, you would think I could learn to keep up with my own hat.
I called the restaurant where Ryan and I ate tonight. Twice. A very kind and patient young lady explained that they had looked everywhere, even under all the benches, and the hat is not there. She took my number anyway, just in case. I called the gas station where I stopped for gas, thinking maybe I left it in the men's room, though there's no conceivable way I would have set that nice hat down in a gas station men's room. They checked; it wasn't there. I drove back into work, thinking maybe in my excitement to go meet Ryan, I could have left it there. I even prayed on my way that it would be there, as if asking God to put it there, even if that wasn't where I left it. It wasn't. Next I drove by the Mexican restaurant where I had lunch today. It was already closed. I tried to peer through the windows to see if someone had left it at the cashier's stand, but I couldn't tell. I'll stop by and check tomorrow. I really hope it's there. Really.
How fragile a thing a good day is. Three days ago I stood and preached about how all the "stuff" in the world was worthless rubbish compared to the joyous privilege of being a child of God. And today, here I sit, anxious about a hat, like Jonah fretting over his withered gourd. Perhaps the hat is a symbol, a metaphor of sorts. It represents all the good things in life that I would like to keep - knowing all along that all things perish. It represents the things that I would like to keep track of, to stay on top of, to remember always - painfully aware that I often forget. And, in a way, it represents the people I care most deeply about, and who care deeply about me. And if I can't even do what it takes to hang on to my hat, then how in the world... well, you understand.
Before I send this to June tomorrow, I'll check in on my friend, and let you know what I find out. And then I think I'll go by that Mexican restaurant.
I know. It's just a hat.
-- Brother Tom
Next morning: my friend is doing okay.
God is good.
(Still don't know about the hat.)
