I’m old enough to remember the television show Colombo, where the cigar-smoking
detective with no first name seemed to know from the instant he arrived on the
scene who committed the murder. Over the course of the two-hour episode he
would wear the suspect down, conversation by conversation. The murderers, without
exception wealthy and brilliant, were often victims of their own hubris,
imagining that this bumbling little man in a rumpled raincoat wasn’t up to the
task of uncovering their crimes. But the amiable detective would conduct an
interview, start to leave, and then turn around with one more question. His
catch phrase, “Oh, and one more thing…” was the signal that he was on to
something, and in these questions—these after thoughts—were the points at which
he gleaned the most information.
I am living in a season of “one more thing,” a time when the
small irritations are mounting and wearing me down. As mother, I have claimed
the spot as the emotional hub of the family, so compelling me to feel the feels
of everyone in my circle. I might even feel them more intently than the
original feeler. Someone I love will get hit with some minor disaster, and just
when I’ve kind of moved on from that, another small but painful thing will occur.
It feels as if, due to our own mistakes or just the nature of the world, we try
and fail, try and fail, try and fail. We’re a little short on good news lately,
and without a few upward ticks to balance things out, I feel weighed down with the
accumulation of “one more thing.”
Sometimes a crisis of faith comes after a major blow from
which there is no coming back: a death, a tragedy, an injustice. But more
often, it’s the pebble in the shoe that pulls us off the path of hope. We gimp
along, or maybe we stop to remove the pebble, but a few steps later the stone
is replaced by another small pain, so we stop again. These small stops and
small wounds accumulate until finally it feels that no progress is being made
at all, and it becomes tempting to give up altogether. We lose faith that
anything can be gained by attempting to move forward. There will only be more
blisters and bleeding, and no reward for perseverance.
Sometimes it’s okay—even necessary—to sit and think and
wallow (just a little) and maybe even cry. But then, even if there are still tears
in my eyes, I have to stop focusing on my feet and lift my gaze a little, and I
start to move. Maybe I will notice that I’m on the wrong path and decide to
change direction. Or I will see something promising just around the next bend,
and I know I’ll never get there if I don’t go forward.
If it is the small things that can bring me down, the small
things can also lift me up: a brilliant oak tree dressed in the rich gold of
autumn, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, an email from a friend, a bowl
of warm soup and homemade bread. There truly
is good in each day. Even on the days when “one more thing” is heaped onto the
pile, even on those days when I feel stuck on the side of the road, my life is
blessed beyond measure.
It’s time to empty my shoes and be on my way. The journey,
even when it’s difficult, is beautiful when we remember that there is always
reason to hope.
