Overwhelming Good

Today, a five-year old came up to me and asked me quite inquisitively, “Why do you have yellow teeth?”  His mother sputtered for a split-second before graciously correcting: “No, no, he doesn’t have yellow teeth–it’s just the light in here.”  Now, I know I take good care of my teeth.  I brush at least twice daily, I floss nearly as regularly as I should, I go to the dentist twice a year, and I never drink soda.  I eat pretty healthfully, and I followed all my orthodontist’s directions.  But somehow the weight of all that seems lessened under the tinted light of the restaurant…

The first time I heard the Serenity Prayer was towards the end of high school at my first Al-Anon meeting.  Al-Anon is a companion group for Alcoholics Anonymous, or AA.  Al-Anon was designed for friends and family members of alcoholics.  It’s a support group for some of the toughest problems an individual can face.  Feeling helpless watching a loved one drive nails into his own coffin with the meticulousness of a master carpenter or the fervor of John Henry is an extremely exhausting and trying experience.  And, for AA and NA, breaking the iron grip of an addiction only to feel that same hand laid upon your back for the rest of your life–these are some of the most unevenly-stacked trials in life.  And all these meetings incorporate the Serenity Prayer.  Many even open or close with its first four lines.  So when I was asked why and how I could stay so calm in times of anguish, it came as no great surprise that the Serenity Prayer was the very first thing to pop into my head.  It goes something like this:

God, grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Now, read it again.  I’d recommend out loud, even if just whispering to yourself.  It’s a powerful message, in no small part because of the assertions it makes:

1. There are things I cannot change. This alone may seem pessimistic at first, but it’s really a tremendously empowering statement.  It admits and readily accepts that there are and will be unchangeable facts of life.  The real clincher in accepting this fact is that accepting the existence of these constants allows us to move past them.  Refusing to accept the existence of a toll booth on the highway wont let your car magically pass through the yellow steel gate, but accepting its reality allows you to address it, figure out how to deal with it, and move on to bigger and better things.
2. There are things I can change. This is the shining angel of hope.  Amid the dark spectral qualities of addiction or any other immovable hurdle in life, there exists possibility.  All is not lost!  I have the ability to influence my life–not all control is relinquished to that oft-frustrating spirit in the sky.
3. It’s hard to tell the difference. Here’s the curveball at the end.  It’s the Kevin Spacey moment, when you suddenly realize everything wasn’t so simple as it initially seemed.  It’s not always obvious what can be changed and what can’t.  The angels and spectres of hopes and hurdles will often look similar.  You must be deliberate, purposeful, and evaluative in your decisions.  The wisdom to know the difference is by no means easily obtained (and is something requiring constant vigilance), but, when honed, it can open the doors of possibility.

This week for me has been tough.  I’ve had some great successes, but also more than a few hardships and stressful situations.  Last night, I rode in a bicycle marathon around Chicago that started around midnight.  I scraped myself near the beginning of the course in a last-ditch (and thankfully successful) attempt to avoid a crash, but other than that, the ride went without incident, and I was flying high, feeling energized with vivacity pulsing through my veins.  In the last five miles, I was far beyond excited, pedaling with all my might and singing at the top of my lungs as I zoomed down North Beach.  And with three miles to the finish, I abruptly realized that I had a flat tire.

I asked if anyone knew of a bike repair guy nearby.  None to be found.  I was forced to walk my bicycle for the last three miles of the marathon (fortunately with the companionship of the Probity team + Zach).  And when we finally reached the end, still with no mechanics in sight, I was overcome with the sad realization that I would not be able to do what I had looked forward to the most about this trip: the sunrise over the lake as we cycled back to Hyde Park.  Instead I was relegated to a bus, a mile away from the lake.

As I sadly watched the sky brighten from the window of the bus, and while happiness faded into sleep, I found myself feeling strangely soothed.  As I watched the stops go by, I realized I wasn’t angry at the bicycle mechanics who decided not to be present at the end of the race.  And as I unloaded my weakened bicycle from the front of the bus, I realized I wasn’t resentful towards the people who had broken glass on the beach the day prior.  And as I began to trudge back from the bus stop to my destination, happiness still fuzzy and half-asleep, I felt strange.  Calm.  At Peace.  Serene.

And strangely, bizarrely, and completely unexpectedly, I felt a small smile climb up onto my face.  Because contrary to everything that I had come to expect from the night, I was doing what I could; I was walking.  And so I smiled, because that was good.

So today I am happy.  Today I see the hurdles and I do what I can.  I don’t know if everything I do is right, but I’m doing it.  I doubt I’ll stop going to Mexican restaurants with yellow-tinged lights anytime soon, but today starts with brushing my teeth.  And flossing.  And shaking my head at the little boy who reminded me so much of myself.  And maybe, just maybe, nearly unseen, a little subtle smile.