The Prodigal Hat

This morning I witnessed beauty in action.

While driving downtown to my favorite coffee shop for my morning joe, I was gifted a rare vignette of gallantry. Generally, I prefer to pay homage to the fundamentals of coffee brewing in my own kitchen, but the second hand on the clock had been chasing me from the moment my eyes caught their first peep of fresh morning light. The alarms had done their jobs of multiple snooze . . . still, I had overslept. I dashed through my morning routine: showering, picking out which pair of shoes would dictate the dress for the day, untangling some knots in my hair borne of a fitful dream, walking the dogs, feeding the cats, finding the elusive keys. No time for coffee. Out the door and into the car, my purse and computer bag being tossed into the back seat. Rush, rush, rush.

I caught every red light through the downtown district on my way to connect with some essential caffeine. I learned forward closer to the steering wheel, hoping that I wouldn’t be late by some metaphysical miracle. All of those courteous drivers who were yielding to pedestrians not waiting at marked crosswalks or waving other drivers to get into the lane ahead of them were driving me mad. I was all but gnashing my teeth while muttering a blend of curse words for each random act of kindness.

I was at my 8th red light when a real-world diorama caught my attention on the corner of Holly and State. There were three people waiting to cross at the light: a woman, a young-ish boy, maybe nine years old, and a small redheaded girl, about three, who was dressed in a yellow dress, pale pink tights, and black shiny shoes. She was examining her shoes, and I caught myself marveling that she was at that enviable age where tears can dry instantly, lateness for work was yet to be of any consequence, and miracles still have the power to go unnoticed. The wind was blowing quite fiercely, as evidenced by the woman trying to keep her long brown hair out of her eyes.

Life is all flow at that age. I do remember what it was like to be three years old. So much stuff – the wheat and the chaff – all poured into one innocent vessel. When you are three years old, life is in constant Spontaneous Mode. Entire lifetimes can occur in a single day, a single action, a single moment. Your awareness of needing to feel in control is still underdeveloped. You don’t exactly wonder how things are going to get sorted out. They either do. Or they don’t.

Movement caught my eye as I waited for the go on green. The little ginger was pointing across the street. Her other hand pressed to her cheek, her mouth a perfect O. There, on the other side of the street in the gutter, was a bright pink hat. It was the kind of hat you wear to church on Easter Sunday. A statement piece. The woman was holding the hand of the little girl while pulling back on the hood of the boy’s green sweatshirt. A veritable push-me-pull-you in real life.

It did not require an advanced course in reading lips or body language to be able to hear their conversation . . . a study in exclamation marks. The woman: An emphatic Stop! You, come closer! Wait! You, be careful! From the boy: Let me go! From the little girl: Hurry!

The light changed to WALK, and the woman, after checking for any red-light runners turning the corner, released her grip on the boy’s hoodie. The boy made his dash to the other side of the street. Scooped up the ruby pink hat. Perched it on his head and did a goofy jig. Loped back. Plopped the hat on his little sister’s head all catawampus. The little girl looking up at her brother: My hero! Her hands adjusting her hat tighter to her head. It was going to be a good day after all. Let the dam of tears hold for yet another day.

While watching, I couldn't help but hope that the light wouldn't change so I could see the rescue and vicariously experience the resolve. The driver behind me laid on his horn. His scowl and middle finger in my rearview told me that I hadn’t been paying attention to the light, the traffic, or my state of hurry. I had been transfixed by the story unfolding before me.

Me: the one in the big rush, the one who had been cussing at courteous drivers, the one who had been tailgating law-abiding drivers.

Me: holding up traffic while watching something random and amazing.

The best part about witnessing a certain type of miracle is when it occurs in slow-enough-motion so that you can absorb its entire essence.

The colors: the blue sky; the red hair and the pink hat and the yellow dress; the baggy green hoodie and crayon-purple stocking hat. The rescue: the heroes in this life that rescue and restore happiness in the form of a joyful reunion. The lesson: life does provide the chariot to our wishes. The reminder: Hold loosely but hope for the best.

And then there is the magic: Just believe. Life is good. One never knows when a miracle is about to happen. They happen every single day.

The intangible exchange between giving and receiving is a living organism. Some days I am the giver and some days my hat blows clean off my head. And some days it is returned to me when I least expect it. The generosity of another has the power to resolve one of life’s dismaying losses, replacing it with what can only be described as a holy return: my sense of prodigal has returned to me.

I warm my heart's toesies in the glow of that flickering moment of grace.