I’m following the story of a friend of mine who has donated half her liver to a friend. Today, I read a post by her husband in which he describes the “throw away moment” when they met the neighbor, Suzanne, who–18 years later–would send out a plea for a liver to save her mother’s life.
There was no way to know, back in the summer of 1993, that my friend would meet the family who’d receive half her liver nearly 2 decades later. The husband writes:
“There is a lot to this story, and I’m the first to admit I’ve missed much of it. And I’m sure I’ll miss much of the story to come. It’s hard to see from my vantage point.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not overcome by the little bit of the story I manage to grasp: that somehow, on that humid August night in 1993, something was going on that was bigger than me.
I don’t have to grasp it in order to marvel. I don’t have to subdue it in order to worship.
There are no throw away moments in history because there is a Playwright. And even if you miss virtually all of the connections in your story, you can still stop to thank God for those few moments you see, and, most of all, to thank him that there is a Playwright.
In fact, telling this story makes me pretty stoked for tomorrow. Wonder what “insignificant moments” might come my way in the morn . . .”
All morning, I marvel at what I cannot grasp: today I will have hundreds of insignificant moments that God orchestrates into some grand story–bigger than me, bigger than us all. I might not get to read the story now or even in a decade.
But there’s a Playwright. So that means I have no insignificant–no throw away–moments.
Journal: What insignificant moments have I seen turn into marvelous displays of some greater story?