You’ve probably already seen the brilliant viral shot of the Olympic surfer Gabriel Medina. Some suspected it was AI-generated or Photoshopped, but it was an actual, pure moment captured by photographer Jérôme Brouillet. One article referenced the surfer “pointing to the sky with biblical serenity.” My friend Kirsten mentioned that it was like Jesus if Jesus surfed. I asked my husband, John, to re-create it for me—to Photoshop me with my bike, because why not. I want to walk on water, too. Or hover above.
At present, I’m too heavy. A crushing weight is bearing down on me that wants to keep me below the water’s surface. It might want me to drown. This heaviness comprises different characteristics or functions—one of which is a sense of futility. I consider my longstanding hypervigilant efforts that have ended in so much loss in specific, tender areas in my life.
Earlier today, I listened to a short story Lee Strobel shared in an online sermon which reminded me of something that happened to me a few days ago. In Lee’s story, unbeknownst to Lee at the time, someone other than the intended recipient was within earshot of Lee’s words in an office of The Chicago Tribune, where Lee worked. The target wanted nothing of it. Initially, Lee thought his words fell on deaf ears, which morphed into confusion and a sense of futility about the experience. But Lee didn’t know what Lee didn’t know.
It’s good to remember that I don’t know what I don’t know. Other things could be going on below the surface of an office desk or the water. Remembering this can morph futility into faith, which can be the miracle.
Two days ago: I pushed the button on the fancy remote on my handlebars while yelling hello to my neighbor (James) in his front yard, adding a cursory “How’re you doing?” James never fails to respond with “FANNNtastic!!” As I put away my bike + gear, a white USPS Jeep pulled up alongside the curb between our two houses. The familiar mail carrier rifled through some envelopes, ducked down from his driver’s seat, energetically popped out the passenger side, and greeted James. James most likely knows the mail carrier’s name. (As you can tell, I refer to the mail carrier as “the mail carrier.”) From 0-60 in nothing flat, the mail carrier talked philosophy (Stoicism, to be precise). He used the phrase “memento mori” and explained its meaning: “Remember you must die.” Not to brag, but I already knew.
As the concept is unpacked in this conversation, we ought not to waste our lives on trivial things but rather to be joyfully present to the miracle of our lives. Far from morbid, the spiritual life is lived from the vantage of our deathbed, so it’s wise to keep the image of our mortality before us. Even if it takes a skull or a coin. We need reminders.
I’ve always been curious about the afterlife and, generally, try to operate with the just-below-the-surface knowledge that this life is just a snap of the fingers and eternity is the real thing, the big enchilada, the big show, the feature-length film compared to this current, blurry trailer. I think about dying a lot, but more recently, it’s often from a slightly different, less optimistic bent. I want the pain to stop.
So I need to keep my garage door open.
From my garage, as I gleaned wisdom and encouragement passed from one cheerful human heart to another, I was thankful to have been within earshot. I needed a reminder of the words I love by Mother Teresa:
In light of heaven, the worst suffering on earth, a life full of the most atrocious tortures on earth, will be seen to be no more serious than one night in an inconvenient hotel.
The mail carrier did not know that he had blessed me with his words, I’m guessing, like Lee’s experience in that office with the hidden, accidental gleaner—the beneficiary.
I want weightlessness.
I want the faith to walk on water, to hover above.
To point to the sky with Biblical serenity—in an actual, pure moment—captured for all eternity.
Matthew 14:22-33