more than a happy accident

Several years ago a dear friend and I had the opportunity of a lifetime. We were able to sit just feet from our favorite author Annie Dillard, shy recluse who almost never accepts speaking engagements, as she addressed fans at the Chicago Humanities Festival. I don't remember much of what she said until she took questions from the audience. Near the end of the Q&A a woman stood up in the balcony and said in a desperate-sounding voice, "Annie, we can tell from your books that you believe in God. Could you please tell us why you believe in God?"

Dillard's face was hard to read. She paused, sighed, then stepped out from behind the podium, leaned against it and with the slightest bit of irritation in her voice replied, "We met."

Then she passed her hand out over the audience, pulled together a smile and asked, "Anyone else?"

I don't even remember if anyone dared to ask another question. But I will never forget that exchange.

Throughout my teenage life I believed that there was a way to "defend my faith," a magic formula I could spout off to the curious unbelievers that would give them some ah-ha moment where they would clearly see, oh, yes, there is a God. I got nervous over it, self-righteous over it and even sick over it. By young adulthood I wasn't even sure I believed it anymore myself.

Now I'm in my 40s (oh, yes, 40s!) and something has happened to me. Something that crystallized with Annie Dillard's two beautiful and profound words. It is this: I don't have any interest in defending my faith. I can't prove to you that there is a God. I cannot write out a theological reason why I believe in God. And I don't care to argue about it. All I know is that I, like Dillard, have met God and that I continue to meet him. All. The. Time.

The last couple weeks have been anxiety ridden. A huge job that would have solved so many of our money woes was pulled and put on hold indefinitely. More specialist visits for Elliott. Medical bill and expenses that never end. People calling us for money. I started making a list of things in our house we could sell.

To top it off, on Tuesday a client sent me a payment that was clearly a mistake. The amount was more than three times my invoice, making the check a very significant amount of money. But it wasn't mine.

My client was unreachable, directing a documentary at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Of course. I left a message for his wife who cuts his checks and hoped she could rectify the mistake and at least send me the amount I was owed. A day passed and she emailed. She told me she was able to talk to her husband and the check amount was right. His client paid in advance so he was paying me through the end of the year.

I was stunned. I could have never dreamed this up. When I was tied up in knots over how we would possibly make it through the next two months, God showed up.

At our church's Third Tuesday Supper this week, I walked by a table where a women I sat with weeks before was getting ready to enjoy her meal. She had a plate heaped with turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and green beans. She had three rolls, two plates of dessert, milk, lemonade and coffee.

"Judy," I said. "You have a feast there!"

She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and whispered, "It's unbelievable."

That it is. The ways we show up for each other. They ways we care and share and do the unexpected, the unbelievable. That is God. That is all his doing.

Annie Dillard, I do not doubt, met her God in the sunrise, the brook and the birdsong. I meet him in the kindness of a friend, a stranger or even a client. Sometimes it is too much to take in. Like Judy said, it's unbelievable.

Some might call these small miracles good luck or a happy accident. But I know it is more. I can't prove it to you or explain why I believe it. I just know that I am a recipient of grace all the time. I walk through life like Judy, eyes brimming with tears. Because I can say it, too.

We met. Amen.