The gift of clear
They were men, that day, our boys who ran, and fought, and flew through the air like we had never seen them do before. And I remember thinking to myself, "Remember what this looks like. Remember how beautiful he is, my son, as he runs, and how fluidly they move together, each boy knowing his position, his place on the field, like a perfect wave that curls and crashes, then recedes and comes back again, always knowing exactly what form it should take. Remember this now."
But the thing that seemed most clear about that game was the pattern of the blades of grass at my feet, and how hard it was to find a place for my water bottle to stand up straight on the sloped, uneven ground. Maybe because the ground was easier to look at in those moments when the game hung on a split-second decision, a reaction, a moment's lapse of concentration.
Or maybe because they were too much to look at, those men-boys who played for us. How could we look at them without seeing all of them, the ones whose shorts hung below the tops of their shin guards, the ones trying to take control of limbs too long and skinny for their bodies, the ones with tow heads and missing teeth smiles, as if see-through skin contained each of the ages they had ever been and each of the games they had ever played. A gift of clear that makes them bearable and unbearable to watch.
Is this how God sees us, with clear Jesus skin? Us, but filtered through the image of His beloved son? How much dirt and shame and loathing does that clear skin filter out? Enough that we can look down at our hands, our feet and see what could be, now that they bear that unbearable likeness?
We are the gift of clear in those places where there never seems to be enough hands and feet to do the work. If only we would see ourselves clear. What could we do with hands and feet and bodies so light they bear the touch of God? Or maybe the dirt is easier to look at.
But the thing that seemed most clear about that game was the pattern of the blades of grass at my feet, and how hard it was to find a place for my water bottle to stand up straight on the sloped, uneven ground. Maybe because the ground was easier to look at in those moments when the game hung on a split-second decision, a reaction, a moment's lapse of concentration.
Or maybe because they were too much to look at, those men-boys who played for us. How could we look at them without seeing all of them, the ones whose shorts hung below the tops of their shin guards, the ones trying to take control of limbs too long and skinny for their bodies, the ones with tow heads and missing teeth smiles, as if see-through skin contained each of the ages they had ever been and each of the games they had ever played. A gift of clear that makes them bearable and unbearable to watch.
Is this how God sees us, with clear Jesus skin? Us, but filtered through the image of His beloved son? How much dirt and shame and loathing does that clear skin filter out? Enough that we can look down at our hands, our feet and see what could be, now that they bear that unbearable likeness?
We are the gift of clear in those places where there never seems to be enough hands and feet to do the work. If only we would see ourselves clear. What could we do with hands and feet and bodies so light they bear the touch of God? Or maybe the dirt is easier to look at.
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