Circus

A Circus

One thing I truly love about this life are “moments”.
These are not measurements of time. They cannot be calculated or counted on a wristwatch.
These moments are when I am in the middle of my every day life. Perhaps I am doing something creative or utterly mundane. I may not always notice them at first. But something – a song or a word or a ray of light – will suddenly ignite my awareness. And I see it. I feel it.
These moments cannot be manufactured. You cannot set out to create one. Sometimes I will go days or weeks or months without them. Then when I am not looking… time will stand still.
Sounds will heighten and colors brighten.
The wind will most certainly blow.
And my heart will surely swell.
I had one such moment on New Years Eve.
Under a rocky overhang in Tennessee.
Sitting on the wooden floor of my very own first house… eating Taco Bell.
Walking through the streets of Atlanta.
Camping in Cave Run.
They always happen when I am being myself. When I am dirty and physically tired. When my bohemian spirit comes to life. When my attention is taken away from the stress and the worry and responsibility.
Last night, it happened again.
I met Larry at the park. My stomach was in knots… fearing being extracted from my comfort zone. A knotted stomach because my fear made me feel pathetic.
I sat down, instantly in awe of my father.
You’d never know he was a hippie.
You only see it if you stop looking. If you lean in close enough to smell the patchouli, or ask enough questions to find out he used to do yoga in the park and rides his bike almost everywhere he goes. If you only knew how he knows how to “cure” a headache by rubbing your feet… or if you had seen him in his white t-shirt and flipflops playing the jimbay. Only then would you know.
You might have thought we were at the circus last night. Jugglers and flamethrowers and girls who danced with hula-hoops. They had dreads and drums and cigarettes and tattoos. The park was filled with smells of sweat and oil. Children ran around everywhere. I didn’t know who belonged to whom—everyone took care of everyone else’s kids. Bikes were propped up everywhere. And they continued to play… an ever-changing rhythm coming from five or six drums at a time.
I just sat and watched.
Watched as a couple of college boys who had been sitting on the outskirts of the circle, walked up and got a free lesson on how to juggle.
As a young woman juggled with fire for the first time.
And as an intriguing redheaded juggler floated in and out and around the circle… juggling and maneuvering glass baubles up and down his arms. It was as if it were magic. (I imagined centuries ago when a young man learned he could manipulate the balls in such a way it made them seem controlled by an external force. Magic. Fluid. I was enthralled.)
The group continued to enlarge as the evening went on. New rhythms. Dancing. Clapping. The ice cream truck came and people were walking around holding juggling pins and blue slushies.
And then the redheaded juggler sat down and picked up a guitar. The guitar was attached to a small amp, but there was no microphone. And he began to sing.
Quietly at first.
I strained to listen above the drumbeat.
And then I didn’t have to strain anymore. Because the others in the circle heard; I want to believe they heard his voice for what it really was… believe that every last man and woman changed the beat of their fingers to help create this moment…
For that’s what it was.
His voice rose slightly as if he had swallowed a little nerve.
A song about rising. Out of the fire. Like a phoenix.
He was quiet about it.
He closed his eyes.
He stopped singing and the moment was over. The drummers who had been playing, slowed and then stopped. Everyone applauded quietly. I think they all knew this was not about the attention. It was not about the recognition. But something that quiet, something that beautiful, had to be acknowledged.
Moments come and go as quickly and simply as that.
A little while later I heard two of the men from the circle talking.
“Look how many have come tonight,” one man said. He wore a fedora and a black vest without a shirt underneath. You could see his gray chest hair and smell the smoke on him. His face was illuminated with a smile.
The other man, short and stout and wearing the same clothes as last week, with long gray hair smiled a toothy grin and said, “it’s happening.”
I don’t think I was supposed to hear this.
But a few minutes later then man with the long, gray hair pointed to the sky. A black cloud was being blown in by a wind that would later knock a tree down at my apartment complex.
Immediately… as if they had been expecting it… the jugglers threw their balls in a bag and the hula-hoopers shouldered the hoops and the drummers picked up their drums.
And the park was quiet as it had been before we got there.
It was happening.
Whatever “it” was.
As I got in my car and drove away, I couldn’t help but think that these people, these mismatched, quiet people had gotten something right that the church hadn’t in a few millennia.
They gathered in a public place.
They did what they do best.
When you walked up to the sidelines to watch, one of them would break away from the circle and extend a hand. “This is who we are,” he would explain their purpose for gathering. He would welcome you. “Come just as you are… bring whatever you have… everyone is welcome.” People on the sidelines would nod their head and follow him into the circle. Others would say no, they just wanted to watch. And he would smile and go back to his drum.
When it was time to go home at night, there were a few souls who were better for their presence.
Take a lesson from the hippies… from the people you might avoid on the streets.
The people who might not claim to love Jesus are showing more Christ-like love in the park than many “Christians” often do.
What if one day we gathered – dancing like fools and singing for peace and the Prince of Peace. And we extended our hands to you. “Come, just as you are. Bring whatever you have.”
And at the end of the night, as the wind – or the God Almighty –whipped through the park with holy force, we could look at one another and whisper.
“It’s happening.”
Finally.
That is church my friend.
It looks a little like a circus.