Pebbles

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.