The Hand of God

Whenever Wyatt is asleep our apartment is filled with the subtle noise of a baby monitor. Through its crude acoustics we can always hear our fan running in our bedroom window – what I would equate to a microphone placed deep, deep in the sea. But instead of picking up the faint bellow of a blue whale or the happy chirp of dolphins, our monitor occasionally picks up the fusses of baby Wyatt. The monitor’s readings go up from one red dot to as many as five dots – depending on the severity of Wyatt’s complaint. Of course, when we first started using the monitor, any blip on the radar would send one of us rushing into our bedroom to check on Wyatt. Now, though, we are more lax, and sometimes our patience pays off as he coos himself back to sleep.

Still there are times when our intercession is necessary, like tonight when Wyatt needed four or five good rockings before he fell into rest. In those instances, Anna or I will enter our darkened bedroom and silently reach down into the crib – lifting Wyatt up in one quick swoop into our arms and into a steady motion of up and down or back and forth. In Wyatt’s young mind this must certainly be a strong providential act, as though the very hand of God were descending and cradling his tired bones. Our arms must seem like power and assurance all at once.

“The hand of God.” That’s an interesting phrase. I was drawn to it early Thursday while watching world cup soccer on KMEX 34 – a local Latino station in LA. I was reminded of an Argentinian soccer – um, excuse me, futbol – player named Diego Maradona. Unfortunately, my memories of him relate directly to his addiction to cocaine, but through the wonderful world of Wikipedia I discovered Diego Maradona is credited with two of the most famous goals in soccer history (in the same game mind you): “The hand of God” and “The Goal of the Century.” The second goal – as I saw with the aid of internet broadcasting – was truly a marvel; Maradona dribbled his way through and around and by five English defenders only to sidestep the goalie as well and punch the ball into the back of the net. In the world of futbol, it had the basic necessities that embody this beautiful game: skill and passion, talent and grit. Add that to the fact he completely embarrassed half an English futbol team, and it was nothing short of miraculous in the minds of most Argentinians. It had the touch of the divine.

But it was the other goal that won the name , “the hand of God.” Sadly, this second goal was a complete fluke. Actually, it’s probably better to just call it what it is: it was cheating. Diego Maradona managed to punch the ball into the back of the net – literally. He sprung all of his 5’ 6’’ body off the ground to head a descending ball into the goal. But as the English goalie came rushing at him with his 6’ 1’’ imposing figure, Maradona realized his chances of getting to the ball fairly were lost. So, he deftly lifted his left hand, jabbed his head as though punching a header, and instead jabbed the ball with his fist. For some unknown reason, which the British fans immediately took as lunacy and idiocy, the game’s referee failed to call a handball. Diego Maradona used his left hand like the great biblical judge Ehud – a swift left jab of trickery and deceit that dethroned a giant.

So, which is more like the hand of God? Is it the strong and secure image of a parent swooping a child up for soothing, or is it like Maradona’s slight of hand, which is mysterious and vexing? What does the hand of God look like in our lives? What has God’s hand looked like in our four years in Los Angeles? That is the question I am asking myself tonight as we close up boxes and prepare to leave the only place Anna and I have called home together.

As I reflect back upon our time here, there were many days when I felt the hand of God was more like Maradona’s than anything else, like the time Anna broke her collarbone or the time we seriously considered leaving Los Angeles after less than a year because it was clear the city was taking a toll on us physically and spiritually. Taken in small snapshots, I suppose there are limitless circumstances and situations where God can be accused of trickery, or worse, absence.

Yet, as I look at the whole tapestry of our stay, I am overwhelmed by the strong, secure image of God’s hand moving in our midst. When needed, when our red dots got up into the threes, fours and fives, there is always something benevolent and kind to remind us of God’s care. And the community that has surrounded us and befriended us here is only further proof of God’s hand.

Anna uses an image to describe how and when she knew God had prepared this place for us, and I think it’s an apt closure to our time here in Los Angeles. For the first eight months we lived here, Anna had a very hard time considering this place home. It was too crowded, too urban, too noisy, too unlike what we knew. She went through the late heat of summer missing the cool of fall in the Midwest. She lamented time without family during the holidays and started the New Year with low hopes of any change. After eight months, she had no tangible proof this was our home.

Then she did. In May, the Blue Jacaranda trees blossomed on Del Mar Avenue for the first time. They opened up their soft violet-blue flowers as if the trees had sprung floral leaves. Up and down the avenue, magnificently, royal clothed trees lined the busy street as a testament of nature rising above concrete and (noise) pollution. This was it for Anna. This was the hand of God – a benevolent touch in an alien world. She relaxed. She grew. She blossomed.

When we leave here on Tuesday we will drive on Del Mar Avenue, and those Blue Jacaranda trees will give a silent farewell to us – waving gently in the early morning breeze. Our hearts will be stirred into remembrance and gratitude. This place has been so very good to us. This place has been our home. In it we have seen the hand of God, and we leave trusting that God’s reach is far and wide and will go before us again to prepare yet another place. God will pick us up as though we were children in a crib and carry us along.

Wes