this space right here.

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John the Baptist said if you have two coats, give one away. For some historical reason or another, I’m conditioned to read this and think, “That’s because that one extra coat can help a poor, cold person!”

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That’s simple enough, good, and not wrong. But there’s another side to that.

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I returned to my childhood home after my 14-month Third World tropical camping trip, and all the spiritual richness I felt on that trip got flattened under the weight of my First World suburban candyland closet. (see also: overpacked schedule, social media accounts to keep pretty, 500 acquaintances to catch up with, pressures to comfort the well-meaning “What’s next?” askers with instant plans of grad school, careers, marriage…)

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Yes, there are certainly some people who could benefit from a secondhand coat on a very standard level. But the truest help, should they allow it, comes to the one getting rid of it. And I’m not talking about having extra closet space. I’m talking about the mental space that for some reason decided that we need multiple coats to be happy. The belief that we need multiple coats to be happy is very, very distracting.

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Maybe you are strong and can keep all your coats to believe this. I, however, am weak, so I need to have one coat. And ban myself from shopping, which makes me feel like my own mean parent in moments I feel restless, or sad.

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John the Baptist said if you have two coats, give one away. I had approximately 5 coats and 87 sweatshirts, so you can do the math. If the under-bridge communities of Pittsburgh now resemble some ragtag gaggle of Notre Dame athletes awaiting their steeplechase race at a track meet, or a clique of high school kids who went to every AAU tournament and college visit that ever offered its immortalization in hoodie form, you know the redhead to blame.

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But: I can breathe in my room again. I never remembered to pray there before, but praying bookends the days better than storage bins ever did. Especially in moments I feel restless, or sad.

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this space right here.

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I was in the Heinz History Center gift shop with my cousin last June when Mr. Rogers called me out.

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I picked up a book with his name on it, thinking it would be a comforting collection of quotes such as “I like you just the way you are,” which it was, but I happened to open it directly to a page that said:

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“It’s important to be mindful of the humble and deep rather than the flashy and superficial”

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and that felt like someone slapping me in the chest, through all my coats, which takes a lot of celestial force.

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Fred would never do that. But I think he would approve of the direction that force is trying, should I keep allowing it, to send me down.

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this space right here.

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“So…what’s next?”

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That’s a natural thing to ask. I get it. I ask it a lot too. Conversation is tough.

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Before (and now, when I’m a wee bit un-centered, which is often), I would rush to respond to the query with a plan to make us all feel very comfortable. Well, Terry, I think I’ll apply to this, buy this, do this, go there, do this! Don’t worry, haha! I got this! But this time I don’t have a long-term program to throw in the air, distract the asker for a year or four, while I go run behind the curtain and let her think I’ve figured it all out.

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This time I’m hanging out in a new space. Center stage, spotlights on, just one coat.

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On my second day back, my family lingers after church with a few other middle age suburban couples, and one of the very kind and well-meaning women asks me what’s next. Well shoot, her kid’s already engaged and is becoming a bio-enginerical doctor or something, so I better make this good…

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But, grace lets me pause. What a holy tool, that pause. And so when I speak, it isn’t superficial scaredy-cat me.

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“Uh…well…God only knows. Like… literally.”

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Maybe it’s because we’re in a church. Maybe it’s because no one saw it coming, so our polished guards come down. But would you believe me if I said that everyone laughs together, and something weighty leaves the air?

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this space right here.

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One of the Finca’s more spiritual kids, Dalia, once saw something horribly ugly and painful, and remarked, “Que rrrico,” as in, “How rich!!”

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The horribly ugly and painful thing was my infected right big toe, and I was a bit thrown by the reaction I would normally reserve for chocolate cake.

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(An exchange on the same topic, mid-Mass, with a slightly less spiritual Finca kid:  “Ingrown toenail, huh?” “Yeah.” “It hurts, huh?” “Yeah.” “It smells real bad, too, huh? “Yeah.” He looks at me and I realize the last one wasn’t a question. “Go to the doctor.” “Okay.”)

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Mm, que rrrico. I understand her a little better now. Imagine if your block tower never got knocked down, your favorite singer never got their heart broken, your favorite comedian never had his day go haywire, your egotistical relationship never blew up in your face, or I never fell through the flashy and superficial ice I’d built and into this space that is unknown.

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Enter creation. Enter laughter. Enter stories. Enter forgiveness. Enter friendship. Enter growth. Enter hope. Enter humility. Enter depth. Enter God.

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We haven’t arrived yet, fellow earthlings, and I hate to admit it but we need these things, these rrrico shake-ups that make us shiver, cry, and pray again.

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I am in this space right here, one coat to my name and one wobbly Bambi-legged step in front of the other, one pretty tower of blocks knocked down for the best. I’m not stuck. This fragile train wants to roll in the direction it was created for, and this time I must keep fighting every enticing tug to stuff it with the flashy and superficial, the impressive and safe 5-year plan I’m not called to, the thoughtless busyness that knocks it off track. Instead, I will sit still and wait for each gentle whisper.

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God’s not too big on instant gratification, it turns out. There’s some silence involved. I get squirmy. I slip and order something on Amazon because 2-day shipping is awesome and controllable. But mostly, if I breathe, I’m gently led back to the window seat.

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This space right here is the space before a miracle, should we have the faith to let it be. God only knows. Like… literally. Que rrrico.

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