A Touch of Wonder
Introduction
A few weeks ago after 14 days with Covid I finally tested negative. Although much like a flu I did experience a physical dullness that carried over to a spiritual dullness. When I began to regain my sense of smell and taste, I rediscovered an old book published in 1974 titled “A Touch of Wonder” by Arthur Gordon. I remember first reading it nearly 50 years ago and being moved by stories from the author’s life. The book is divided into 8 chapters by various gifts: the gift of caring, shared wisdom, self-discovery, faith, bright encounters, awareness, adaptability, and life.
This book was a balm for my spiritual dullness. The author’s simple yet profound stories encouraged me to recall, with gratitude, meaningful moments from my own life.
Psalm 139 Excerpt . . . You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all of my ways. Before a word is on my tongue you, Lord, know it completely. You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand on me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guild me, your right hand will hold me fast.”
Prayer of a Writer
Arthur Gordon, Introduction to A Touch of Wonder (1974)
Lord of all things, whose wondrous gifts to man
Include the shining symbols known as words,
Grant that I may use their mighty power
Only for good. Help me to pass on
Small fragments of Your wisdom, truth, and love.
Teach me to touch the unseen, lonely heart
With laughter, or the quick release of tears.
Let me portray the courage that endures
Defiant in the face of pain or death;
The kindness and the gentleness of those
Who fight against the anger of the world;
The beauty hidden in the smallest things;
The mystery, the wonder of it all……..
Open my ears, my eyes; unlock my heart.
Speak through me, Lord, if it be Your will. Amen.
The Gift of Empathy
Where does it come from— this capacity to share another’s grief or feel another’s pain? I remember once asking a wise old minister about the most famous of all compassion stories: the Parable of The Good Samaritan. How did the Samaritan get that way, I wanted to know.
“I think,” the old clergyman replied, “there were three things that made him the way he was— qualities latent in all of us if only we’d work harder to develop and strengthen them. The first was empathy— the imaginative projection of one’s own consciousness into another being. When the Samaritan saw the bandits’ victim lying there, he didn’t merely observe him, he identified with him, he became a part of him. This identification was so strong that you might almost say that when he went to help the man, he was helping the compassionate part of himself.
“The second thing he had was courage, and he needed it because it takes courage to care— and to translate that caring into action. The ones who passed by on the other side were afraid, afraid of anything strange or challenging, afraid of getting involved, afraid the robbers might come back. The Samaritan had the courage to push those fears aside.”
“The third thing I’m sure he had was the habit of helping. Through the years he had trained himself to respond affirmatively to other people’s needs. How? In the same way that any of us can do it, not so much by drastic self-discipline or heroic sacrifice as by the endless repetition of small effort. By going the extra mile— occasionally. By giving someone in trouble a hand— if you can. By taking a fair share of civic responsibilities— when you can manage it. These things may not seem to add up to much. But one day you may look around and discover that to an astonishing degree self has been pushed off its lonely and arrogant throne and— almost without knowing it— you have become a Samaritan yourself.”
The Night the Stars Fell
One summer night in a seaside cottage, a small boy felt himself lifted from bed. Dazed with sleep, he heard his mother murmur about the lateness of the hour, heard his father laugh. Then he was borne in his father’s arms, with the swiftness of a dream, down the porch steps, out onto the beach.
Overhead the sky blazed with stars. “Watch!” his father said. And incredibly, as he spoke, one of the stars moved. In a streak of golden fire, it flashed across the astonished heavens. And before the wonder of this could fade, another star leaped from its place, and then another, plunging toward the restless sea. “What is it?” the child whispered. “Shooting stars,” his father said. “They come every year on certain nights in August. I thought you’d like to see the show.”
That was all: just an unexpected glimpse of something haunting and mysterious and beautiful. But, back in bed, the child stared for a long time into the dark, rapt with the knowledge that all around the quiet house the night was full of the silent music of the falling stars.
Decades have passed, but I remember that night still, because I was the fortunate seven-year-old whose father believed that a new experience was more important for a small boy than an unbroken night’s sleep. No doubt in my childhood I had the usual quota of playthings, but these are forgotten now. What I remember is the night the stars fell, the day we rode in a caboose, the time we tried to skin the alligator, the telegraph we made that really worked. I remember the trophy table in the hall where we children were encouraged to exhibit things we had found— snake skins, seashells, flowers, arrowheads— anything unusual or beautiful.
My father had, to a marvelous degree, the gift of opening doors for his children, of leading them into areas of splendid newness. This subtle art of adding dimensions to a child’s world doesn’t necessarily require a great deal of time. It simply involves doing things more often with our children instead of for them or to them.
Recently a neighbor of ours took his two small children to the mountains for a vacation. The very first morning the children woke him at daybreak, clamoring to go exploring. Stifling an impulse to send them back to bed, he struggled into his clothes and took them for a walk. At the edge of a pond they stopped to rest and while they were sitting there quietly a doe and her fawn came down to drink.
“I watched my youngsters’ faces,” he said, “and suddenly it was as if I were seeing and feeling everything for the first time: the hush of the woods, the mist over the water, the grace and gentleness of those lovely creatures, the kinship of all living things. It only lasted a few seconds, but the thought came to me that happiness isn’t something you have to strive and struggle for. It’s simply an awareness of the beauty and harmony of existence. And I said to myself: Remember this moment, put it away carefully in your mind— because you may need to draw strength and comfort from it someday.” Giving his children a new experience, that man also opened a door for himself.
The real purpose, then, of trying to open doors for children is not to divert them or amuse ourselves; it is to build eager, outgoing attitudes toward the demanding and complicated business of living. This, surely, is the most valuable legacy we can pass on to the next generation: not money, not houses or heirlooms, but a capacity for wonder and gratitude, a sense of aliveness and joy. Why don’t we work harder at it? Probably because, as Thoreau said, our lives are frittered away by detail. Because there are times when we don’t have the awareness or the selflessness or the energy.
And yet, for those of us who care what becomes of our children, the challenge is always there. None of us meets it fully, but the opportunities come again and again. Many years have passed since that night in my life when the stars fell, but the earth still turns, the sun still sets, night still sweeps over the changeless sea. And next year, when August comes with its shooting stars, my son will be seven.
Epilogue
There is not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of one small candle…. This inscription was found on a small, new gravestone after a devastating air raid on Britain in World War II. Some thought it must be a famous quotation, but it wasn’t. The words were written by a lonely old lady whose pet had been killed by a Nazi bomb. I have always remembered those words, not so much for their poetry and imagery as for the truth they contain. In moments of discouragement, defeat or even despair, there are always certain things to cling to. Little things, usually: remembered laughter, the face of a sleeping child, a tree in the wind— in fact, any reminder of something deeply felt or dearly loved. No man is so poor as not to have many of these small candles. When they are lighted, darkness goes away… and a touch of wonder remains.