Simply Amazing

I am watching Dreamworks’ “The Prince of Egypt” for perhaps the twenty-seventh time.  It is a marvelous movie, full of beautiful artwork and some of the best music anywhere.  Currently I’m at the scene with the burning bush, and it makes me think.  God introduces Himself to Moses as “I Am.”  That’s always been a confusing statement from God, at least for me.  Every time I heard this story, my impulse after hearing that statement was to ask, “You are what?”  I didn’t expect the God of the universe to introduce Himself in such a simple way.

But now that I think about it, there is no better way to do it.  That simple statement is the summary of self-awareness.  To say “I am” is to say that you know of your own existence.  This is something that we take for granted, but if you think of it, there are millions of living things in this world, which is one of millions of worlds in one of millions of galaxies in a universe too big for comprehension.  And only one species we know of has truly realized where we are.  That, in the words of John Green, is “the miracle of human consciousness,” and it really is rather miraculous, whether or not you believe in a God who gave it to us.

I’m not really trying to figure out this miracle, or answer any big life questions.  I just think it needs to be said more often.  I am.  And it’s amazing.

Deep and Wide

Tonight I attended a recital by a good friend of mine.  She was part of my student recital last year, and so I felt I should be there, but more I wanted to go and support her.  And she was playing Debussy, and I’m always up for some Debussy.  She did very well, a beautiful performance.  Afterwards, I spoke to one of our teachers for a while, and she mentioned just how much work goes into such things.  I remember it well—the practicing, the scheduling and the decorating and reception-ing.  With this in mind, I looked around and I saw just how many people there were helping with the recital.  Someone had brought lights, and someone was turning pages, and someone was reading the French poetry, and someone had made the food.  So many people were there to help and support my friend on her night.

Thinking back to my recital, I remember that I did most of the work myself.  I bought and prepared the food for the reception, wrote the notes for the program, purchased flowers and arranged the stage.  I had a pair of friends to help me with what I absolutely could not do alone, but for the most part it was me.  Now, part of the reason it happened this way was that I am a bit of a perfectionist (gasp!) and I wanted to make sure everything was just the way I wanted it, but the other part was that when it was suggested that I get a few helpers that evening, I couldn’t think of many options.  On a night that was special to me, in a tide of emotion that was all mine, there were very few I wanted to share in what I was feeling.

This makes me think about the friendships I have with others, and the nature of those friendships.  I think of them in two ways: their width, or in how many a person is able to welcome into her heart, and their depth, or how far these people can penetrate.  Some people, like my friend from this evening, have the gift of friendships that are both, and they allow many, many people deep into their hearts.  My friendships tend to be one or the other.  I care for a lot of people—friends from work, friends from high school and college, friends from church—and I want them to be happy and am concerned when they are not.  But when it comes to my unhappiness, my needs and desires and loves, I keep these people out, hiding what I think behind a smile or a few half-true words.  There are precious few friends who truly share that with me, who have worked their way into my guarded heart.  I can probably count them on one hand.  Well, maybe two. 

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love the wide world.  But I do hope that when I do love, I love deeply, and that those I love know just how precious they are.