This Close! | A Virtual Pilgrimage of Incarnation Reflections - Week 2

Dr. Terry tells a story of wonder, awe and discovery about his own daughter and draws parallels to the leap of faith Jesus took to enter humanity.

Receive each daily reflection by email: htoh.us/advent

Learn More
Heart to Heart, a Catholic Media Ministry: htoh.us
420 W County Line Rd, Suite 200
Barrington, IL 60010

Submit a prayer request: htoh.us/prayers

Support our ministry with a financial gift: htoh.us/donate

Transcript

This isn’t a traditional Christmas story — but consider the source. It is, however, one of my most precious Christmas stories, and I look forward to sharing it with you.

At the time of the story, my kids were about six and nine. My wife had wanted to go to India for about 18 years to take a yoga therapy program — about seven weeks in duration — taught by really, really high-end yoga folks in India. I kept encouraging her to go. She said, “No — it only happens every three years or so.” Now we were on the fifth round, and I said, “You have got to go. You want to do this. We can do this.” And she said, “What about the kids?” I assured her the kids and I would be fine.

It took a lot of convincing, but I got her to go. One of her hesitations was that I have pretty severe ADHD, and I think she was a little scared I'd be that dad who, when the 10:00 p.m. public service announcement comes on — Do you know where your children are? — would honestly say, “I have no idea.” But I convinced her: “No, we’ll be good.”

So she goes. It’s summertime. It’s very hot. We make it through the first five weeks, and honestly I think there should be some kind of public-service article about me: Man takes care of children by himself for five weeks. And then it hits me: women do this every day for years.

Anyway, we were doing fine — and then the air conditioning breaks. We have maybe ten days left, and it is extremely hot. I know nothing about air conditioning. My kids are going to the pool every day. So we start going to the pool.

My six-year-old daughter becomes very intrigued with the diving pool, and she takes my hand. We go over there and she says, “Daddy, I would like to go off the high dive.”
 I say, “Claire, no. I don’t think the high dive is appropriate. Have you even been off the low dive?”
 “No, I want to go off the high one.”

She is powerful even as a six-year-old — you do not want to get into a power struggle with Claire. I tell her no. She hammers away. Hammers, hammers. Now we’re on day three. And I’m wearing down.

So I say, “Okay, Claire, come with me.” We go to the diving pool. “Claire, if you go off the high dive, you can’t come out the short way — you’ll have to swim the long way. Can you swim that far?” She moves her head back and forth: “I think so.”

I sigh. “Okay, Claire… fine. Just… go.”

She walks toward the high dive, climbs the steps — each step like a mountain-climbing experience. She gets to the top and looks ridiculously small up there. Also, she is the whitest child I’ve ever seen, so this little glowing munchkin is now on the board, and she’s garnering attention from everyone. She walks extremely slowly to the edge. She stands there, paralyzed.

Parents around the pool are murmuring, “Where are her parents? Who let that albino kid go up there?” I take a towel, put it over my head: “Yes, where are her parents?”

Claire starts doing the one-two, one-two — and if you say “one-two” too many times, you know you’re about to do the walk of shame back down the ladder. She’s looking for me. I’m still hiding. Then under the towel I wave: “Here, Claire! Here!”

We make eye contact. You know how you can love someone enough that you don’t need words to communicate? My six-year-old daughter looks at me and, without speaking, asks: Should I jump, Daddy? And her dad says, with equal silence: Yeah, Claire. You should jump.

Then she becomes the six-year-old athlete she truly is. She takes two deep breaths — and she jumps. She comes down half-ballerina, half-panicked. I don’t think her upper body even got wet. Then she swims like a little water bug across the whole pool.

I throw the towel off: “I am her father! I am her father!”

She gets out of the pool. I’m expecting a Kodak moment — she’ll run into my arms, thank me, cling to me. Instead she veers left, gives me a high-five, and says over her shoulder, “I’m going again, Daddy.” And she does — like 9,000 more times until the pool closes.

I take her out of the pool. She’s asleep before she hits my shoulder. I get her in the car seat — asleep. I take her upstairs — asleep. I don’t even take the bathing suit off, hoping chlorine doesn’t eat little-girl skin. I’ve had it. I grab a beer, tiptoe out of the room.

She stirs. “Daddy… Daddy… will you snuggle with me?”
 “Sure, Claire. I’ll snuggle with you.”
 “Dad… we should call Mom and tell her what we did.”
 “Oh yes, Claire, maybe we should call Mom and tell her what we did.”

Then she says: “Dad, do you know how close I came to not jumping?”
 “How close, Claire?”
 She puts her fingers a quarter-inch apart. “This close. And that would have been really bad.”
“Why would that have been so bad, Claire?”
“Just think of everything I would have missed.”

And here’s the connection to Christmas and the Incarnation.

You ask my favorite image of Jesus returning to God after the Incarnation? Who knows what that will look like. But I imagine them on some couch talking, and Jesus saying, “Hey Dad… do you know how close I came to not jumping — into the Incarnation? Into the mess, into the beauty, into the terrible beauty of humanity.”

God says, “How close?”
 Jesus holds up his fingers: “This close.”
“And that would have been really bad.”
“Why?”
“Just think of everything I would have missed.”

So on Christmas Eve, I like to think of Jesus saying, “Do you know how close I came to not going?”
 “That would have been really bad, Jesus. Why?”
 And Jesus answering,
 “Just think of everything I would have missed.”

Blessed Advent, everyone. Thank you.